The system - You give. I take.

Here's a sign of old age:

I had to be reminded that it's tomato season -- time to do my annual whining for freebies.

Holy schmoly! My brain's shrinking faster than I thought.

Last week, my wife squeezed out a few minutes to go by the farmer's market to check on this year's crop. She bought some good-looking tomatoes which, according to the vendor, were guaranteed to be home-grown and vine-ripened. They were better than most store-bought tomatoes, but they didn't quite have that garden-fresh zing to them.

Of course, when you layer sliced tomatoes, fried bacon, lettuce leaves and Miracle Whip between two slices of bread, you can be a little tolerant about the quality of the tomatoes.

As many of you already know, every July I manage to stoop to the level of your common beggar or panhandler and flat-out ask for free tomatoes.

You might think my conscience would bother me. But it doesn't. Here's why:

On the Killough Valley farm where I grew up, the garden next to the house was at least 10 acres.

OK. It just looked like 10 acres to a boy with a hoe in his hands.

But I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that we planted 30 or 40 tomato plants every spring. Like most real gardeners, we believed that planting too much was far more prudent than not planting enough. What if we had a drought? Or what if the tomato worms ate all the vines? Or what if a tornado hit that corner of the garden?

As it turns out -- and most of you already know this -- none of those things ever happened. Nor did they happen to any of the neighbors either. Which meant everyone had more than enough tomatoes to feed China, which was a place where starving children would have been tickled to get some of our tomatoes and probably even a big mess of okra -- or so youngsters in my youth were led to believe as they pushed the vegetables around their plate while their eyes were glued to the peach cobbler cooling over by the sink.

This is why I'm not the least bit self-conscious about asking for tomatoes. No beating around the bush. No hinting. No sad stories of why I have to eat tomatoes to ward off some strange disease.

No sirree.

Just gimme the tomatoes.

I happen to know that modern science has been busy improving seeds and plants. If a tomato plant 50 years ago produced a bushel of tomatoes, then a tomato plant today must turn out a pickup load. Or two.

And those of you who still plant gardens also still plant enough tomatoes to feed China -- and maybe some African countries as well. So I know you've got the tomatoes.

Don't think that just because I shamelessly beg for tomatoes that I'm not appreciative of those of you who grow them. I am. I truly am. But I need not remind you of the swell digs you'll have in the hereafter for being so generous. There is no sharing with your neighbors that counts more than giving away tomatoes. I think it's right there in the Bible. Somewhere.

Besides, most of you tomato growers are feeling a little guilty right now. You know you planted more tomato plants than you should have. Now you've got all those ripe tomatoes that are just going to rot if you don't find something to do with them.

You ought to be glad there's someone like me who will take them off your hands. Then you can go to bed and get a good night's rest knowing your tomatoes weren't wasted.

See how it all works out?

Some folks like to grow tomatoes, but they plant way too much.

Some folks like to eat tomatoes, and there's no such thing as too many.

Balance of nature, I call it. A divinely inspired plan. A harmonious blend of givers and takers.

You know where I am. The doors are open during regular business hours Monday through Friday.

And, finally, thank you. Very much.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.