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Him
& Her:
He's All Thumbs but
None Are Green
by Nancy and Dan Sapir
HE
SAYS: I really am not crazy about spring. If there is one thing I hate
it’s yard work. I’m not a handy guy. I was better at it when I was a
young man, but now it just takes too much out of me. Being a few years
younger, she has more energy then I do.
I help out by getting the gas for the lawn mower and making sure it will
start. I even arranged to pick up my youngest son’s broadcast spreader.
And if that wasn’t enough I made a trip to the store to pick up grass
seed, lime pellets and some Scott’s something or other. She makes out
the list of stuff she needs and I oblige by making the trip. I know guys
who even make their wives pay for the stuff. I would be ashamed to do
that.
The other day I saw her bagging leaves in large green trash bags. I was
surprised to still see leaves. Other people had them gone months ago. We
had some really warm days back in February, I would have thought she would
have raked them up then. I felt badly that she is obviously behind this
year so I pulled out the wheelbarrow and made four loads to the back yard
where she has started a compost pile. I don’t get this compost business.
She stores up leftovers, peelings, cores, cobs and other scraps and says
it will be great for the compost pile. How can anything that vile be good
for anything but the trash? She says I have no sense of vision. But I do
have a sense of smell and I can’t imagine that anything good is
happening at that compost pile.
I actually did some mowing at the far end of our yard and she starts
yelling at me that every year I mow down some plants that are supposed to
come up in the spring. I must have been mowing them down for years because
I have never seen them. I couldn’t tell you what they look like anyway.
In my mind everything is a weed. I like bare ground, it needs little or no
attention.
Every year she has me rent a rototiller and prepare a place for her
garden. Now there is an exercise in futility. I have never seen anything
grow from the alleged garden. I look for the telltale signs of growth. I
search for anything. Maybe a tomato plant, peppers, cucumbers or even a
zucchini which will grow anywhere under any conditions. Nothing. But,
being the good sport that I am, I till the same spot every year thinking
it just makes her feel hopeful, that just maybe, this will be the year
that something has the guts to pop up.
Each year she complains bitterly about the "critters" who are
eating the tops off the plants. She sets up an observation post to catch
them in the act. Over the past few years she has determined that the
complete destruction of the garden is the wanton act of a singular
hedgehog, which she claims suns itself on a rock in complete mockery of
her efforts. She sends me out for hedgehog repellant but refuses to set
the bait because it’s "cute". So, year after year, she
benevolently plants food for an ever-grateful "critter".
I should also mention that we have two dogs. A 92-pound Doberman and a 14
pound Italian Greyhound. They are both very primal and dig holes and bury
bones. The little one is the more aggressive of the two. The back yard
bears the resemblance of an archeological dig. I have never found a grass
blend that can survive the canine challenge. I’m thinking that
artificial turf is a distinct possibility since I could never part with
the dogs. I actually think that grass would interfere with their sense of
contentment, and besides, dirt requires little upkeep.
My feeling is that I work seven days a week. How is anybody supposed to
juggle work and landscaping. It’s a physical impossibility so I gave up
on the guilt trip years ago. And besides, she is beginning to take an even
greater role in the yard work. As I see it women love this kind of work.
It represents a good project. They get a chance to step out of the kitchen
and into the sunlight. They get some fresh air, have a good workout and
maybe even get something accomplished. If she can get just one vegetable
to harvest this summer I will feel that my role as a good husband will
have been met.
 SHE
SAYS: He really does sell himself
short. You should see him with his weed whacker which is the only tool he
uses. He belongs in the Guinness Book of World Records for whacking the
most perennials of a sighted person on all seven continents. If I had the
money back for all the plants he’s struck down I’d have a summer home
on the Vineyard with a private beach. He sees a stalk and it’s gone.
Dandelions, on the other hand, are proliferating like ants. When I shop
for plants and I see the word "hardy", I buy them because
they’re going to have to be to survive him. He gives new meaning to the
words "Victory Garden."
When spring arrives and I see the tender green buds on the trees getting
ready to unfurl their leaves, I have a sense of happy anticipation because
it’s time to garden and enjoy the beauty of nature. He sees the same
thing and says, "So how much is this going to cost me, now?"
Once again, I’m going to plant vegetables and hope that my ground hog
has perhaps passed on to the great bean patch in heaven or at least slowed
down. He’s the cutest damn thing you ever saw. He’s got this overbite
and he’s big and fuzzy.
I’ve done everything possible to keep him from ripping the heads off my
plants. One year a friend got me bags and bags of hair from her beauty
salon because she said critters don’t like the human scent. Well, there
were so many different hair colors, most of them artificial, that I think
that hair lost its human scent long ago. The DEP would be horrified if
they measured the chemical content of our soil. Then I put out moth balls.
It looked like we had a hail storm, and that bugger paid no mind. Kate
Rushton told me they don’t like noise, so I think I’ll record my
husband on tape while he’s complaining about me and set it out at night.
One of two things will happen. That ground hog will be lulled into a
stupor, or if he understands English, he will feel sorry enough for me to
eat the plants next door.
Often I hear my friends oohing and ahhing over some attractive film star.
Not me. I get weak thinking about Bob Villa and the guy with the long
beard and unruly hair who does the gardening show on public television.
I just put down some lime, grass seed, and turf builder on the great dust
bowl which is our backyard. It’s a shame to waste water on it because
the dogs will tunnel through that yard all summer hiding things and
digging things up. My neighbors look at me with pity, but I am undaunted.
I have hope.
I pray for my grass to grow, and if you drive by and see anything out
there that’s green, and if you have any doubt that God exists, you can
doubt no more. If there’s grass in my yard, there is a God, and He is my
only helper.
by Nancy and Dan Sapir
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