A thorn in Brad's side

I am NOT known for my love of manual labor. But when a small construction project threatened the life of my soon-to-be blazoning blackberry bushes, I naturally sprang into action. Step One was to enlist the advice and expertise of my chief groundskeeper. "We'll have to transplant them," he said, matter-of-factly. I looked around, delighted to learn that the household budget now afforded us the luxury of Brad being able to hire on laborers. My husband handed me a heavy shovel. 

Oh. 

Well. 

This was disappointing. 

It was a dismal day. Made more dismal, of course, by what I was being forced to do. "YOU came to ME, remember?" Brad reminded me as he gazed appreciatively around him. "This cool, damp weather is actually going to help us," he told me, wrestling me into a pair of gardening gloves.

Wait.

Did this mean that I was going to have to actually TOUCH dirt and/or vegetation? In the cold? Although, to be honest, the temperature had very little to do with anything in regards to my interest in planting. Extreme (or even moderate) temperatures did, however, tend to impact my usual level of complaining. 

"They're YOUR blackberry bushes," Brad pointed out, "I'm sure you didn't expect that I would move them by myself."

QUE DEAFENING SILENCE

He sighed.

"Here, I'll show you what to do."

Like a soldier crawling beneath a dense netting of barbed wire, my husband valiantly made his way under the dormant bushes to the base of the plant. So brave. So strong.

"You COULD maybe hold some of the branches back for me," he suggested (somewhat harshly, I felt) as he wiped specks of blood from  his neck and forehead. "Be careful," I warned helpfully, "you don't want to scratch your eye."

My job, besides wrestling barbed wire with my bare hands ("I gave you gloves," Brad snapped. "I can't work my phone wearing gloves," I spit back at him), was to carefully place each plant in a bucket for "easy" transporting. Apparently, I kept knocking too much dirt off each root clump so Brad took over that position. Somehow, as I attempted to carry my assigned bucket to the new location, I became hopelessly ensnared in the branches. After Brad rescued me, he decided to take over that task as well. 

"Should I get you a band-aid?" I asked, observing what now resembled a blackberry blood bath in my backyard.  Red war paint adorned my husband's handsome face.  "Might as well wait until this is all over," he assured me. I wasn't sure if he meant the transplanting or the marriage.

"Do you want to dig the hole?" he asked. "How deep?" I said, thinking it prudent to pose a clarifying question. Apparently, I wasn't eager enough for my husband because, like the aggrieved Little Red Hen, he just did it himself. "Can you place the plant in?" Brad entreated. Always willing to help, I unceremoniously plopped one in. 

It's NEVER good enough.

"We're not burying someone who ratted on the mob, Amy," my husband said through gritted teeth, "Can you PLEASE hold the plant with just the top of the root system parallel to the ground?" I ignored the mild twinge in my back as I happily did as instructed. Relationships are all about sacrifice, you know.

Finally, the job was done! I'm not going to lie. It was a LOT of hard work. I know...because I watched. It was a task that required a lot of patience, determination, and open communication. Fortunately, these were all traits that Brad has had over thirty years of practice implementing by being married to me. He must be so grateful.

You're welcome, honey.