I went outside to get the paper as is usual the other morning. The air at 6 ayem is fresh and I take six deep breaths, pick up one of my driftwood sticks, slender, about 7 feet long, polished by countless days adrift, pleasurable to my hands and use it to steady my gait to the quiet street. Then I hold it across my shoulders and make a dozen fake golf swings, stretching my corpulent body till it cries out stop. So I do. Exercise is over.

Then I peruse the cucumber plants - they are doing nicely - the hanging baskets of flowers need watering, the raspberries are about done for the year, nice crop but the seeds now stick in my new bridge. I love to grow them but now give them away.

I spotted some ripe tomatoes. First time I have grown organics so I pick all four, walk over and bend down to get the paper using my stick as a support for my no longer gymnast body but can't hold all my tomatoes so I put one in my pocket. A baby one about like a Titleist golf ball but bright red.

I get in the house and put the tomatoes on the counter, spread out the morning paper and peruse the usual bad news headlines and make the coffee.

After breakfast I call Elsbeth at the hospital, tell her I love her and will come see her after stopping at the office. Putting my digital camera in my shirt pocket, my cell phone in my pants pocket I grab my car keys and go out to get in the car.

I slide into the seat and put my seat belt on. Big mistake. Suddenly I feel wet around the right thigh. I forgot I still had the tomato in my pocket. One of my gorgeous organics is now a sticky mess of red goop.

Click it or ticket? How about mush it and crush it.

Jerry has cleaned up the pants, preferring to do it before Elsbeth finds out about the gooshy mess. Jerry can be reached at publisher@robinsonnews.com