Thursday, January 18, 2007

Mine, Hers, Ours -- Whose?

While listening to Camille read her latest Lincoln Street blog, while feeling guilty for not writing more, I fell into a little reflection on the language of ownership. I will expand.

I admit to this: Camille is the brains behind the large number of the activities we do together (trips, weekend projects, going on hikes). The gardening is no different. I'm certain that we both extract the same closer-to-earth, further-from-the-grocery-store goodness from gardening, but the fact remains that Camille is the reason that we end up in the dirt.

Now, Camille is quick to point out that we are equal partners in hard labor--and we are. We both do early morning waterings, we both pick the suckers off the tomatoes, and we both suffer through early evening mosquito bites. We are a united gardening front. It's Team Bernstein or bust.

We are also a united front with housewarming gifts we buy people, and with birthday greetings, and with thank you notes sent. It's an us thing. But...

But every once and a while, she slips. She'll say, as she did last night, my garlic, or some similar and pointed variation of ownership. It's her homemade jam or fudge brownies.

Now, Camille will most often catch herself and correct herself in the same breath, circling back to the subject and using a crowd-pleaser of a collective pronoun, but that my is always lurking.

The thing is, I'm okay with that. It isn't because I have to be, or because I want to be. That big old bottom line is that without Camille, there wouldn't be any our garlic.


John said...

You help out with the garden, David? I don't recall Camille mentioning that. You know how it is, once she get into these long lectures about her garden you kinda start tuning out. I'm sure she mentioned something and I am sure it was about what a good helper you are. "Helping is very important." I tell Georgia and Lucy all the time.

You know, I do recall a conversation a few years ago with Camille. She was laughing about the fact that she was using the internet to prospect gardening recruits. "Farm Hand", I think, is one of the terms she threw out along with 'good humored', knows how to weld a camera, can write.

All you need now is a sign reading 'the Berstien's Grand Garden'.

david said...

Shoot, now this whole "arrangement" (as Camille keeps calling it) makes a lot more sense. I'd been wondering why she'd shove quarters in my pocket when we'd finish a row of weeding. Nuts.