Good old frost-bitten winter! Its arrival means that my husband and I are friends again. Not until next April will any sound harsher than the flutter of catalogue pages and mouse clicks disturb our domestic tranquility.

But, each spring, it happens again, Blithely I trill, “And what are you going to plant this season?” My husband gives me a withering glance which I am too canny to notice.

“Why don’t you consult our friends and neighbors?” His tone is bitter. “They get most of the stuff I raise.”

I can’t even scoff. It’s all too true.

Unfortunately, my husband is as willing to part with an ear of his head as an ear of corn. And he keeps it no secret.

Right through the summer our guests depart bearing the fruits of his labor. They take their cue from me and refuse to believe his laments are serious. It’s his droll sense of humor, they think.

I know better. But, when he groans aloud, I give him the indulgent smile accorded a fractious child and continue to play Lady Bountiful.

I don’t even help in the garden anymore. When I discovered myself in charge of fertilizing and weeding, while he leaned on his hoe and bantered across the hedge with the neighbors, I decided upon a more glamorous role.

In order to make my emancipation quite convincing, I developed an allergy. The hand I lent in the garden that morning broke out in a rash that evening. My husband could take his choice: garden alone or wash the dinner dishes while I wore bandages.

Allergies are wonderful. As soon as I had mine nicely established, it was obvious that I could no longer can our garden surplus. So, we shared our wealth.

My husband behaved like a miser. His complaints never ceased. “I dig, plant, weed, water and hoe and you hand out our tomatoes.”

“Look, angel,” I would point out patiently, “We’ve had boiled tomatoes, sliced tomatoes, broiled tomatoes, stuffed tomatoes. Soon we’ll have over-ripe tomatoes, and you know how tempting. they are!”

He’d give me a venomous look. If I hadn’t seen the twinkle lurking in one jaundiced eye, I would have feared we were heading straight for the divorce courts. “Judge,” I could hear myself saying tearfully, “Our marriage foundered on a sea of tomatoes!”

Luckily, I not only understand my husband, I see right through him. He is perfectly willing to concede that it is more blessed to give than to receive. He just draws the line at his garden boundaries. To part with corn, peaches or raspberries is anguish pure and vocal.

There is, however, his pride. I appeal to it. I never put a bag of tomatoes, say, in some one’s willing hand – not when my husband is around. Over the years, I’ve developed a technique. I spread the tomatoes on the table and hold them up for exhibition one by one. “Aren’t they beauties ?” I murmur, revolving one in the light as if it were a ruby. “No one but David could grow such tomatoes!”

My husband immediately becomes a Cellini. He preens himself as he feasts his eyes on his masterpiece and almost forgets they are being subtracted from him. Now it is the recipient’s turn to be rapturous. One note of fervor lacking, one short superlative and he is stricken from the list. There’s nothing for nothing in this world. That benighted soul who cannot sing praises of our tomatoes with true admiration – let him pay in sordid cash at the store.

Regardless of my husband’s accusations, I sincerely have his best interest at heart. And mine, too. That garden means a lot to him. It represents long afternoons and evenings of strenuous work. It wouldn’t do to impair his enthusiasm.

As for me, I glow with contentment as I watch him work. Attired in a battered hat, shapeless pants, frayed shirt, gloves in the last stages of decomposition, his face a study in dirt and perspiration – how divinely unprepossessing he looks! What designing siren would want to lure him?

Then, when his stint is done and the evening shadows fall and he has showered and shaved and is once more a handsome male, he is also a weary one. Helen of Troy, herself, could smile at him and never get a tumble. All summer long, his garden is his first love. I’m willing to trail a distant second to such a rival.

There’s a carry-over into the winter months, too. While other men may haunt the night spots, my man is deep in seed catalogues and learning at plant-care.com. Sometimes I feel that I don’t get much companionship in our marriage. But there’s great consolation in playing Lady Bountiful. And I can always reassure myself that our marriage is built on a solid foundation – the good earth!

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