Sunday Story for Gordon

A fictionalized account of actual events. (Any part that makes me look bad must be fiction.)

Cheryl calls us, “The City Slicker & The Farm Girl.” I guess there’s some truth there. She wouldn’t have known a farm from a doorknob a couple years ago, but now she’s out there every week on the tractor, cutting a couple acres of lawn.

It takes her most of the day. I watch for a moment from my office window as she goes back and forth. Occasionally, responsibility nags. I really should get her a bigger tractor. Next spring, for sure.

We have 7 acres in Monticello (Jefferson County), FL, about 10 miles south of the Georgia line. Jefferson is the only FL county that spans from GA to the Gulf of Mexico, and it’s the only FL county without a stoplight. Population of the whole county is less than we had in Homestead, the little town south of Miami where we lived for 22 years and raised our family.

Cheryl takes care of the property, mostly by herself. She often talks about how much work it is. (Do I tell her how hard I had to write today? Never!)

Here in the office, I work on important stuff. But I feel her pain. It’s hot out there. So I take her a glass of water now and then.

Sometimes it seems she doesn’t understand or appreciate me. Every minute of the time I spend on the computer, I do for her. Sometimes – like today – she even gets a little moody. She says the problem with computers is, they don’t help with physical work.

Which is ridiculous, of course. I asked if she had any idea how time-consuming and arduous my work would be without the computer? Sometimes, she’s just oblivious.

Anyway, this morning I took a break for a few minutes and went out to watch while she weeded & tilled the vegetable garden for the fall planting.

Soon as she saw me, she got going on the blasted computer again.

For whatever reason, that machine seems to be a real issue for her. The longer we spoke, the testier she got.

I’m the first to admit, even with a wife & 3 grown daughters, I’ve never been that great at understanding women. Remember in “My Fair Lady,” when Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering sing “Why Can’t A Woman Be More Like a Man?” There is a LOT of truth in that song.

The sun was relentless. It’ll probably hit 100° again today. I got up and got a drink and sat in the rocker on the porch for a few minutes to cool off. I thought more about Cheryl’s bad humor.

It was disappointing. Here I was in my normal good spirits, but her attitude was coming dangerously close to ruining my writer’s frame of mind. She’s not usually so insensitive.

But she has her moments. It seems half the time when I come in from the office, I have to get my OWN drink. She’s busy or something. Do I complain? Never.

After one of her barbs this morning, I tell her, “Any woman in the country would give her eye teeth to have me.”

She says, “The women who would have you don’t HAVE any teeth.”

Like I said. Moody.

But I know that what’s important is our relationship. And there are times a woman, no matter how poorly she may be acting, just needs a pure demonstration of love and support. So I left the rocker on the porch and dragged one of our old uncomfortable plastic chairs down next to the garden and plopped down in it again to watch.

If you’re expecting some visible display of gratitude from my wife here, then I’m sorely disappointed for you.

“Everything OK?” I finally ask.

“Everything’s FINE!”

Allrighty, then.

I watch some more.

“Bring me a garbage bag.”

I considered … but then decided not to ask if she knows the magic word.

So back on up to the house again. Inside, I noticed my hands were pretty dirty somehow, so I grabbed the soap and washed and dried. Being clean, I figured I may as well get a piece of last night’s leftover pizza. Mabe two. I was hungry.

I walked back down to the garden. She looked at me like she’d never seen a man eat pizza before.

“Forget something?”

Back up to the house again to get her precious garbage bag.

And get this. I finally give up trying to please her. I go into the house and watch a baseball game for awhile. Couple hours later, she finally comes in, happy as a lark.

No rhyme or reason. I haven’t a clue what I did that perked her up. But apparently, if I just keep setting the right example, she finally picks up on it.

Women aren’t so tough to figure after all.