Weekend Update

        Tom was a little peeved when I told him I had bought new patio furniture.

       "You did it without discussing it with me. Just like you brought home that giant tree," he said, in an accusing tone. 

       That was the first he had mentioned the 12-foot ficus in several days. His initial thoughts about the tree (for those who missed his comments to my May 6 posting) were, "I hate plants. Always have. And this one is the biggest indoor plants I have ever seen! It dominates the space and makes the place look like some kind of arboretum." As I had asked though, he had agreed to give it some time to see if it would grow on him, and he had said almost nothing about in the days since then. I had kind of hoped that he had forgotten about it somehow.

       But suddenly, with the new patio furniture basking in the sunshine on our deck, I realized the tree might be in some danger.  Or at least that Tom and I were in danger of having a fight over it. I had, I admit, grown rather fond of the green monstrosity.

       Tom said nothing more when he came home from work that day.

       But on Saturday morning, he finally said, "I don't like that tree."

       By coincidence, my ability to hear had disappeared, so I didn't feel the need to respond.

       But Tom persisted. "Can't it be moved somewhere else?"

       What was that? My hearing was back, and it sounded like a compromise was possible, and without even having an argument first! 

       The previous owner had cleverly placed the tree on a small wheeled stand, so I started to move it to different places in our home, and sought Tom's opinion on every placement. Every place was better, it seemed, than where it had been -- even right in the middle of the living room.  What Tom didn't want, I realized, was a tree invading the library. 

       When I finally wheeled the tree to a place beside our television, Tom said, "That's it. That's much better!"  And just like that, the tree, it seems, had found a permanent home.

       But there was still the new patio furniture to deal with.

       So for dinner on Sunday, I decided we would dine al fresco. It had been a beautifully hot day, and the evening was still magnificently warm. I grilled some buffalo burgers and made Tom come outside to eat them.

       By the time we finished, the sun had set, coloring the sky red and orange in its wake and turning the mountains into lavender and purple majesties.

       I asked Tom if the new chairs were comfortable, and he agreed that they were.

       Perhaps 15 more minutes passed. And then Tom said, "That's a million dollar view."

       I agreed. I also pointed out that it was nice to be able to enjoy it outside for one of the first times in six years of living here.

       Tom looked at me sideways and didn't respond.

       But I refused to give up. After a few minutes, I said, "You can say that the patio furniture was a good idea, you know."

       Again, Tom didn't respond. And again I didn't give up.  "Come on," I said, "You can admit it."

       He still was silent. And although a little voice was telling me to stop, I just couldn't help myself. "Come on, admit it," I said. 

       I recalled my older brothers torturing each other when I was growing up, one ordering the other to surrender by saying "Uncle." I was sure Tom had similar memories from his own childhood.

       Even so, I repeated, "Admit it." 

       And looking out at the magnificent view, Tom finally mumbled, "Admit."