Where's my wife? Where in blazes has that little lady gotten herself to now?
There are tomato seedlings to plant, an acre-plus of lawn to mow, downed trees from spring storms to cut up into firewood, garden paths to mulch with sawdust, grubs to contemplate the demise of, asparagus to pick, and a manuscript to proofread.
It is this last task that makes me long for a wife and makes me long to be Mr. Berry. If only for a season.
To whit, a quote from his 1987 essay, Why I'm NOT Going to Buy a Computer:
"My wife types my work on a Royal standard typewriter bought new in 1956 and as good now as it was then. As she types, she sees things that are wrong and marks them with small checks in the margins. She is my best critic because she is the one most familiar with my habitual errors and weaknesses. She also understands, sometimes better than I do, what ought to be said. We have, I think, a literary cottage industry that works well and pleasantly. I do not see anything wrong with it."
I aspire to live an approximation of Mr. Berry's seasonal life. Gardening in the spring and summer, writing in the fall and winter.
Obviously, I have no wife; my handsome husband, for all his many charms, is a poor typist. Mine is a literary cottage industry of one. One plus a damn fine iMac. It works well and pleasantly. I do not see anything wrong with it.
