Jul 8, 2009 4 min read

I can’t keep her out of the dirt. Our home sits atop a bank. It’s a split entry with the garage nestled under the right side of the house. The driveway sits in front of it and on either side of the concrete pad are banks of English ivy. Landscape timbers held much of the ivy and embankments in place. Over the years, these wood beams deteriorated allowing the ivy to encroach on the driveway.

That set the stage for some reconstruction, which included several dozen new timbers being placed, and that resulted in regaining some width to the driveway.

It also created a big pile of old timbers, dirt, stone, etc., waiting to be hauled away.

My frugal wife, however, decided to rummage through the pile “because some of those timbers are still pretty good and I can use them,” she said.

On one recent evening, wearing her scruffy clothes and no makeup (I’m amazed she would even venture outside without her face paint) she was gleefully digging through the pile when our neighbors, a local attorney and his wife, walked by.

“Your husband should be doing that,” the attorney joked. “Or does he just write about it,” he added, referring to my weekly scribbles. They both teased her about it, chiding me in absentia for not being the one working in the dirt and debris.

I got this second-hand from my wife after she returned inside following her search for anything salvageable from the pile of stuff in front of the house.

“I should have come out and said gruffly, ‘Don’t you have that done yet? What have you been doing with all your time,”‘ joking, of course.

But the bottom line is, joking or not, my wife is not typical. She loves to dig in the dirt. She loves to plant things, flowers mostly, although right now we have what must be magic tomatoes growing skyward near our back door. At the rate they are reaching for the heavens, I’m sure in a week or two I’ll have to climb up to slay the giant and rescue the goose that lays the golden eggs.

Anyway, just to illustrate what I mean about my wife, returning to my desk at work one recent day, I noticed the blinking light on my telephone indicating someone had called.

I punched in my code and listened.

“Dear, if you don’t mind, I would consider it a really big favor if you could bring home two bags of cow manure. I really need it and would be ever so grateful if you could do that for me. Thanks.”

Now how many men have wives who call them up and ask them to bring home cow manure? A loaf of bread maybe. A gallon of milk or some butter. But manure?

I guarantee you that if my wife had a choice between being gifted with a pleasingly fragrant bouquet of posies or a pungently fragrant sack of manure, she would take the manure nearly every time. If I want to get her a gift, I don’t need to shop at the jewelry store. I need to go to the garden center.

I suppose in a way it’s good. We complement each other. I’m not into landscaping, just cutting the grass. I also lift and tote her supplies so she can get on with her work. Usually, I just leave her alone.

Now, however, people are starting to think I do nothing around the house. Hey, I do a lot. I encourage my wife and compliment her on her floral artistry. I keep out of her way when she’s working, too, so as not to distract her.

And, when she is bone weary and aching, I suggest she take a pill and go to bed.

Now I ask you, what more can a loving husband do?

Don’t answer that.

Have a good day.

James Pletcher Jr. is Herald-Standard business editor. He can be reached at 724-439-7571 or by e-mail at jpletcher@heraldstandard.com

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