When we first moved to 黑马磁力, my practical husband noticed that the wheelbarrow had replaced the blender, espresso machine and dishwasher in importance and frequency of use.
So, because I already had all the aforementioned kitchen aids, he decided to get me a new wheelbarrow for Christmas. To his credit, it was a Hummer of barrows, in stark contrast to the tiny, wobbly model I struggled with. Our arguments over whether to replace or patch its perpetually flat tire were getting a little heated.
So, to his way of thinking, a new wheelbarrow would restore peace to the homestead and earn him marital Brownie points he might need to spend in the future.
I, on the other hand, after a year spent knee deep in muck and manure, nursing stiff arms and aching back, was looking forward to a little bling for Christmas. Something shiny, sparkly or fuzzy that had absolutely nothing to do with horses.
Visions of diamond studs or sheepskin slippers danced in my head.
So when on Christmas morning there was nothing under the tree, I thought maybe there was an envelope somewhere with airline tickets to someplace warm.
I was distracted from my treasure hunt by the sight of my beloved, grinning, pushing a wheelbarrow into the living room. There was a bow on one handle.
鈥淢erry Christmas,鈥� he said. My lower lip began to quiver, my eyes filled with tears. My Santa thought I was truly moved by his wonderful present, overcome by emotion. The latter was true.
After Christmas, whenever male friends asked him what he bought me for Christmas, they were thrilled to hear about the wheelbarrow. I became a model wife, the epitome of low maintenance. They told their wives, who called to ask if I had lost my mind.
At New Year鈥檚, over copious amounts of wine, I blurted out what I had bravely tried to keep to myself: I hated my Christmas present.
Last Christmas, when my beloved asked what I wanted under the tree, I told him I wanted a wheelbarrow. The deluxe model that had reduced me to tears was leaning to the left, got stuck in the snow, and was too heavy to push when it was full.
My skeptical mate, still living down the squeaky wheelbarrow jokes, was not going to make the same mistake twice. His mama didn鈥檛 raise no fool.
Under the tree on Christmas morning was an exquisitely wrapped present. Sincerely wishing it were a wheelbarrow, I nevertheless professed great joy to unwrap a cashmere sweater, the kind they don鈥檛 sell at Country Feeds.
鈥淪ee, it even has a V neck, which is in fashion, I hear,鈥� said Santa.
Sometimes I wear it with a string of pearls when I head outside to push my broken old wheelbarrow uphill in the mud.
Anne Patterson is a 黑马磁力 writer and horse owner .Contact her at accidentalrider@yahoo.com.
