Posted on Sat, Jan. 05, 2008

December’s freezing rain and glare ice were followed by a blanket of snow. Then, after a brief spell of sunshine, there came another onslaught. And at the turn of the new year, still another.

Finally now, the snow is almost gone. The forecast is for fair weather. And in this little reprieve between winter storms, I expect she’ll be out in the yard again, shaming me in full view of the neighbors.

Raking leaves.

Let me be clear, however. Scorn does not affect me. What those neighbors fail to understand is that a man of sense and serious purpose does not spend weekends doing yard work.

He marries a sturdy, industrious woman, and thus is able to devote himself to matters of greater consequence — such as watching an inferior football team perform on autumn Sundays.

The leaves are my wife’s. That issue was settled to the satisfaction of both of us years ago.

She does not fish. She will cook fish, and she will eat fish with enthusiasm. But she will not catch them. She regards fishing as a tedious and unsatisfying activity. Therefore the burden of fishing falls entirely on me.

I do not complain. A sound relationship is built on a foundation of shared responsibilities. Her happiness is my chief concern.

At this time of year, of course, fishing is out of the question. And when frost has burned the meadows brown, I’m also obliged to relieve her of the necessity to hunt.

In a much earlier time, when we were courting, she professed a moderate desire to learn to use a shotgun. The bruises to her cheek, though noticeable, were not too severe.

Then there was a ceremony in a church, and immediately afterward her interest in blood sports turned to revulsion.

If ever we were to eat quail or venison again, the duty of providing it became exclusively mine. This sometimes has required me to absent myself for several days, even as much as a week.

I can tell you that the time spent in a hunting camp, in the exclusive company of men, is a coarsening experience. Among other things, the diet is unhealthy, as are the beverages consumed there.

But I manage to steel myself to it, content in knowing the duty is mine, not hers.

Meantime, for recreation, she spends time at the grocery store so that upon my return from the hunt, as testimony to her devotion, she may greet me with a feast of great elegance and complexity — provided, that is, that the yard work is finished.

Sometimes, though, because the seasons do not always proceed evenly, late leaves have fallen. Or, as this year, weather has prevented the last of them from being collected and bagged.

In such cases, though I’d looked forward to that homecoming meal, it would be unkind to complain. Trying not to show my disappointment, I leave her to the pleasure of her raking and go off alone to consult the TV schedule and see if there are any sporting events I’m obliged to watch.

What else? Oh, yes, she dresses me.

By that I mean she chooses my clothing. I despise shopping, but she regards the time spent prowling department stores one of life’s great joys.

Whatever she selects for me, however ill-fitting or otherwise grotesque it might be, I have the decency to wear without complaint.

As I write this I am fully aware there may be some persons of a polemical and quarrelsome nature who, for doctrinaire reasons — perhaps having to do with issues of gender politics — find our arrangement objectionable.

To that, I have but one reply: We’ve been together for going on 43 years. So it seems that this affair of ours, based as it is on mutual consideration, is destined to last.