PitchforkSaturday was my birthday. My “me” day. I got a bacon sandwich for breakfast, my choice of jobs decorating at church (I LIKE lighting the tree, maybe this wasn’t about my birthday), lovely gifts from my family and a fabulous dinner out. Oh, and I squeezed in a little writing time. A good day.
But my favorite part was a gift from my husband. What could it be? Jewelry? Writing accoutrement? Books? He’s a notoriously good gift-giver, so I never worry. And it was . . . a pitchfork. A really, good one, too. Now, before you groan and think he flubbed things this year, let me tell you I loved my gift.
And here’s why: I have a compost pile. Jim does NOT like the compost pile. I think to him it’s just an ugly pile of organic trash. He wishes it were further away from the house. He wishes I actually disposed of grass clippings, leaves and kitchen leavings rather than adding them to the pile.
But I defend my compost pile and not too long ago mentioned I wished I had a pitchfork to turn it. I knew there was good, fully formed compost under there, but it was going to take a lot of work to get to it. So my darling man bought me a pitchfork.
Except it’s not really a pitchfork.
It’s a man who listens. It’s a man who embraces things he doesn’t like just because I do. He fries me eggs (he can’t stand runny yolks). He watches Downton Abbey once in a while. He cleans toilets. He buys me a pitchfork for my compost pile and puts a big, red bow on it.
Nope, it’s not a garden implement at all. It’s love.