War in the Garden
Men and women really are different. I don't just mean
the obvious sexual dimorphism, or even the ostensibly discrete
mating rituals, but the fact that homosocial humanity is
fundamentally and essentially divided into different
warring camps ... in the ways they think, problem solve,
rationalize, even perceive.
Humorists and feminists (excuse the redundancy) make a great deal
about these differences, by emphasis and deemphasis, isolation
and exaggeration, but buried beneath that reeking heap of pig
swill and offal is a precious pearl of truth. Or, as my husband
would say: "Where there's smoke, there's usually some jerk trying
to burn something down!".
A case in point is sensibilities ... even liberated
nymphomaniacal women are credited with sensitivity and
discrimination, no matter how promiscuous; but men are
agglomerated as a gross genotype of indiscriminate and
insensitive priapic satyrs! Or, as my husband would express it:
"Sexual sensibility for women is all about sensibility, and for
men is all about sex!". As a daughter, sister, wife, and mother
of males, I can attest that men are not subtle ... and
when they try to be, they become devious or
treacherous. I've heard the psychobabble about
conditioning boys to become more sensitive men, but my experience
is that when you give a doll to a little boy, he punches the
stuffing out of it! And if, as loving and concerned parents, you
don't buy your little boy a toy gun or play sword, then he'll
make a slingshot or a spear ... real ones that injure playmates
... and will gleefully terrorize the neighborhood!
It's not about logic or ethics ... it's about genetic coding.
It's not about acculturation, but predestination.
Not long ago I returned home after visiting my sisters and our
nieces ... something we call a tea party, and my adoring
husband characterizes as a hen party ... and I
discovered him busily multitasking ... watching two
sports broadcasts (something he calls picture in
picture, and I call confusion) while reloading ammo
and drinking a beer. I asked him if he'd watered my garden as I'd
asked him to do while I was gone, and he assured me that he'd
done it everyday. I politely protested that he hadn't needed to
water daily, but that it was very considerate of him to give so
much care and attention to my plants. After carrying my suitcases
upstairs (as he would've said: "They're your suitcases, and I am
really busy.") and changing out of my traveling clothes into some
comfortable working togs, I ventured forth into my backyard
garden ... and encountered the remnants of a battle! ... all my
beautiful green babies were tattered and the soil was scored and
gouged! It was heartbreaking.
A closer look revealed that some plants had been uprooted and
were wilted while others had been exfoliated and might regenerate
from their stems. Not only were branches broken throughout the
once serene garden but nearby shrubs and trees showed vacancies
where there had formerly been twigs and leaves. Trellises were
either denuded or splintered. All of this damage could not
possibly be due to simple watering! ... there must've
been a cyclone or an airstrike.
With the wrath of Artemis avenging the desecration of her sacred
offspring, I confronted the boorish oaf who'd waged war on these
innocents over which I'd labored so long and hard! ... tilling
and spading, weeding and pruning by hand ... doing stoop labor,
that no peasant will abide in the modern era, until I was bent
and blistered and burned. And he had blithely watered my
garden into another war zone!
With a deadly calm voice that would've incised titanium, I
inquired of my doting darling, "Just how much time did you
actually spend watering each day?" To which thrust he
parried, "Umm, not much." "Obviously," I countered. "Huh?" he
blocked. At least I had his attention ... well, some of it. I'd
have to be naked to attract his complete attention, and so I
briefly imagined the many ways to slay him in such a distracted
state as retribution for his heinous ministrations.
Using a dulcet voice to slip past his defenses and drive the
point home, like a left-hand stiletto plunged into the heart of
one's foe while at sword lock, I amiably asked, "What did you
use? ... a fire hose?! What part of sprinkle
don't you understand?!" He actually turned away from the twinned
sports broadcast (but without relinquishing his death-grip on his
cherished beer!) to reply, "Yeh, sort of ... it's a nozzle
intensifier called H2O-Blaster that
was on sale at the hardware store ... 'twas a really great
bargain ... you can even chip old paint with it!" I knew I'd made
a tactical error by asking him two questions, because it left him
free to answer the one he preferred, and ignore the other.
Detecting my pincer movement, he intuitively foiled encirclement
by assailing my weakest flank ... so by evading my major sally,
which was naturally the significant one, he would compel me to
parry his unimportant defensive swordplay until I could thrust
again with the real issue.
"There's no paint in my
garden!" I asserted. And interrupting his
mumbled retort I continued, "There's no paint on our house
either ... it's brick!" "Yeh, I know, honey," he mitigated, "but
did you see how clean the brick looks? ... of course I had to
replace a couple of basement windows that got broken before I got
the pressure properly adjusted, but you've been nagging me for
years to clean the basement anyway, so ...." "And I supposed that
everything down there is as water damaged as my garden?" I
countered. "No, not at all, precious ... I got a new wet-dry shop
vac and sucked up all the dirt and debris and broken stuff ...."
"BROKEN STUFF?" I flailed. "Honestly, it wasn't
too bad, and you said that you wanted to get rid of that old
stuff anyway." he uttered while dancing out of range.
Something vicious and vile must have shone in my countenance as
warning, for he extenuated further, "And besides, that new
H2O-Blaster kills varmints too ... I
got two rabbits, a stray cat, a squirrel, and positively crippled
a groundhog and a raccoon! ... the 'coon was the real challenge,
waiting in low light with a high pressure hose leaking all over
me ... did I tell you that I bought a new heavy-duty
steel-reinforced hose? ... yeh, works great, and it's not much
heavier than the old one that burst on the first night of
stalking." This assault momentarily distracted me with memories,
and I almost quit the field of combat. Years before, in my wifely
naïveté, I had appealed, like the proverbial
damsel in distress, for the big strong man of the
house to rescue me from the depredations of cute little
bunnies gorging themselves on the produce of my garden. I don't
know what miracle I had expected, perhaps a magic spell that
prevented predation like an invisible fence, but what happened
was carnage! Given license, he took his .410 pistol, firing shot
pellets, and blew those little fuzzy creatures into bloody fur
globs! ... there were bunny parts under bushes and on the lawn
for days. The bird feeder, stocked with expensive sunflower
seeds, was ignored while the trilling passerines glutted
themselves on freshly slaughtered bunny scraps. I was stunned as
he explained that "Rabbits are just rats with good PR!" He later
said the same thing about squirrels, car salesmen, lawyers and
politicians; but I don't think that he's been given license to
begin actively hunting the latter ... at least he hasn't brought
home any trophies yet.
"Cat?" I asked. "Yup," he opined, "took him clean, right behind
his front leg with a crushing chest shot. I know how sensitive
you are, and he didn't suffer at all. That'll really teach him
not to wander into your garden." "Squirrel?" I asked. "Yup," he
mused, "got him on the jump and smashed him into the tree on the
far side of your bean patch ... although I think he had a broken
leg by the time I drove him into the clear." "Raccoon?" I asked.
"Yup," he commented, "either broke his back or both his hind legs
... that sucker could really drag himself along on those front
legs ... really impressive." "Ground hog?" I asked. "Yup," he
said sententiously, "you know how they like to lay down to eat,
and look like they're wearing pajamas? ... damned lazy buggers
... well, I was trying for a head shot and got him quartering
away, and then he went down his damned hole like a VC escaping
into a tunnel complex!" I groaned. An enemy tunnel
complex in my garden. No wonder it looked like it had been
strafed.
Recalling a time early in our marriage, when I had invited my
untarnished mate to visit my garden where I would proudly display
my artistically fructifying nature in a dazzling arrangement of
blossoms and leaves in a myriad of colors and textures. My garden
looked and smelled wonderful, and I wanted to share it with my
soul mate. Taking longer than I'd expected, he finally strode
forth garbed in battle regalia! He wore a bush hat with a mesh
head net, a neck scarf and gloves, fatigue blouse and trousers,
combat boots and web gear. He'd encircled both ankles and wrists
with flea/tick collars, and he reeked of insect repellent ... a
squeeze bottle of which was tucked into his shoulder harness. He
had pesticide and insecticide tucked into his side pockets, and a
herbicide pump hanging from his pistol belt. He had a pistol
loaded with snake-shot holstered on the opposite hip. He had a
gas mask strapped to his harness. He held the nozzle of a
backpacked propane tank in one hand and the spark igniter in the
other hand. He walked like he was the point man on a recon patrol
into hell! ... I would've laughed at his preparations but I was
afraid that he'd use some or most of those things on me! ...
after all, I was standing in the garden that seemed to threaten
him so much.
Ignoring the igniter, I took my spouse by the hand and led him
through my garden, following all the safe paths and identifying
all the growing things. His interest was divided, sometimes on
the foliage, sometimes on the ground, sometimes scanning the air
around us and beyond ... as if watching for an ambush. He let a
few bees bumble around the flowers, escorting them with his eyes,
and I became very nervous when a hummingbird darted in like a
missile to drink nectar, but he didn't attack. His trepidation
had communicated itself to me, and I was now nervous in my own
garden of delights ... I'd caught his combat
itch. Surely, I amused myself, the reason that he didn't
react to the hummer was because it was just too fast for him. As
I directed his attention to some roses, he espied a complacent
bug feasting on a petal, and whipping out his applicator, had
dosed it before I could speak or restrain him ... slow he was
not. Some tree peonies lined one edge of the garden and I gave
their habitat little thought as we moved to that end. He spotted
the ants on the peonies, and for all I know, he may have also
noticed the aphids that the ants farm, but he quickly
scanned the row of plants, making a combat decision ... the
quick or the dead. His improvised flamethrower was lit in a
heartbeat and the entire row of showy shrubs, together with their
parasites, were crisp toast in a few moments!
I asked him why he'd destroyed my pretty flowers and he replied
that "Nature is a jungle ... kill or be killed. It's the survival
of the fittest!" He was convinced that he was doing me a good
service, and he did not understand my disappointment. Years
later, he hadn't changed, and neither had I. That truism, in a
nutshell, is the story of civilization.
I really should've learned my lesson a long time ago. This man
had captured my heart with his fervent and steadfast beliefs ...
he'd nearly died for his convictions and dedication. He was
generous and thoughtful to a fault, and it was not his fault that
such often obtruded upon my faults. He was a warrior,
and I was acting like someone who wanted him to respond to
commands, like a trained guard dog. He tolerated my home, making
concessions to share it with me, because he wanted to share my
life, not my possessions, not my indulgences, not my
preoccupations. He was a good and loyal person. And if he'd let
me turn him into a hen-pecked wimp, then I would no longer admire
him ... even though he would've become exactly what I, an heir of
Delilah, had wanted him to become: a malleable drone. Hasn't
civilization learned anything from the past? ... isn't the epic
of Samson's destruction of the Philistines [Judges 13-16] a
precaution for the modern era? I looked at him, a very large boy
who played a little too rough and unintentionally hurt me ...
whose enthusiasm had ruined my mud pie party and wrecked my
sandcastle dollhouse ... and I forgave him for being so
quintessentially different. He was so much a whole man, and so
very much unlike me. I sheathed my verbal dagger and hung up my
mental sword. He, like the other proud beasts of the wilderness,
might realize he'd been wounded in a few days, and then we'd have
a chance to console one another. I'd kiss his boo-boo
and make it go away, and he would help me in the garden
that he considered a free fire zone.
"Sweetheart, would you mind going to the hardware store and
buying me some composted manure and potting soil?" I queried.
"Not at all!" he volunteered ... abandoning his reloading and
sports broadcast, as if he hadn't been busily
multitasking. I could get started on the replanting
while he was out, and as soon as he returned, he'd labor beside
me like a navvy till dark ... because he loves me and wants to
help me, no matter how ridiculous it seems to him.
He once told me that a dog will be incredibly forbearant,
indulging all of our human foibles, none of which he understands
or appreciates, for the occasional consideration rendered him as
an indulgence of his nature. That dog will endure hours of
loneliness and boredom and inactivity for the few moments of
affection shown by petting or feeding, walking or playing
together. Most of us consider dogs to be lesser species
obligating our care, but it was not long ago when all dogs
worked for a living, earning their place in our
homesteads by their competent performance of necessary deeds. It
is only in these modern times that dogs are primarily pets, and
the analogical comparison to emasculated males in a pacified
society is apt. I don't have to understand my husband, nor he me;
but we took vows to honor and cherish one another ... not to
remake each other in the other's image. This simply means that we
should have the courage to reach out across the chasm to hold
hands as we walk our separate but parallel paths toward our
destiny.
And it does take courage. The edge is
frightening, the abyss is terrifying, and the way is uncertain.
Our handclasp is a comfort in this travail.
by Maggie Duncan
... who is a nurserywoman and freelance writer, married to a
combat disabled veteran; her writing has previously appeared in
this periodical.
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