Now, I have always been attracted to plants, and especially to flowers. As a teenager, I worked at a commercial greenhouse and derived a great deal of pleasure from the work. When I grew up and married, planting gardens came more naturally to me than cooking or even, truth to tell, raising a child. Then there's my husband, a man of many interests and talents, but completely devoid of interest in gardening despite long association with his garden-loving mother. Although he has no more than a passing interest in my avocation, in the beginning he was willing to help, and once I was desperate.

I planned a magnificent garden one particular spring and ordered 200 expensive spring-flowering bulbs. I was unexpectedly busy through the summer, so the garden was only half-dug in September when the bulbs were delivered. My efforts to finish were further hampered by the arrival of autumn rain. My husband's offer to help was accepted with gratitude and palpable relief.

We trudged off harmoniously one afternoon to do the job. I explained my method, arrived at after many years and many gardens: using a garden spade and working in rows, I dig rectangles of sod the length, width and depth of the spade, turning them over to air dry as I go. When all the sod has been turned and dried, I shake off the good topsoil and discard the roots and leaves to decompose in an out-of-the-way spot. It is hard work and very time-consuming, but the result is delightfully loose and weed-free soil.

I apportioned to him a 6' x 10' area and I claimed the remainder. I set happily to the task. A few minutes later, I glanced over to check his progress. He was staring dumbly at the patch of unbroken sod. We conferred. Why, he asked, did I use a square-edged tool, and why did I want to lift all that heavy soil? I patiently repeated my reasons. He imperiously claimed that he could achieve the same result using the mattock - a few swings would easily peel back the sod and cost half the time and effort of using a spade. I was skeptical, but after all, I didn't write the book on gardening; besides, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in his muscles. He went to get the mattock, and I went back to work with my trusty spade.

The rhythmic "thunk" of hubby's mattock striking earth continued at a furious rate for fifteen minutes while I methodically dug, lifted, and turned. I was happily fantasizing about the glorious spring to come, when my reverie was brutally shattered by a stentorian bellow.

"This is FUN? You call this FUN??? Nobody in his RIGHT MIND could consider this fun!!!"

Shocked, I turned and stared. I was totally unprepared for the amazing spectacle of my husband on his knees amid ravaged clumps of sod and earth and bedraggled, broken roots. Rivulets of sweat raced down his reddened face, and his bare arms glistened with a coating of mud. His clothing, too, was covered with dirt. His eyes were wild as he swatted furiously at a cloud of gnats that enveloped him. He looked like a tormented creature newly sprung from the bowels of Hell.

As he dragged himself out of the pit he had unwittingly dug in his fervor, he raged on about lunatics who play in the dirt. The absurdity of the scene struck me as I began to recover from the initial shock. When I could no longer contain the choking mirth, he grabbed up his miracle mattock in utter disgust and stormed off into the garage. I stopped laughing as I surveyed the ruin of my of my would-be garden; with a sigh, I followed the trail of dirt-caked sweaty clothing into the house to thank him for his "help."

We reached an understanding that day: I'll never ask him to work in my garden, and he'll never volunteer to do so. He just doesn't have the genes for it.