Actually, the “panorama” is more of a tiny suburban vista and the “lawn and gardens” are a mishmash of weed plots relieved by planting beds choked by last year’s drooping and dirty bloomers – er, flowering plants and shrubs. Did I say “small tasks?” This place would discourage a landscape architect with a $50,000 budget.

That was the view such a short time ago in early March when my wife came in from her duties as a home health nurse to announce: “It’s time to start on the yard.”

Her annual pronouncement is the signal for me to poke my head outside, report that everything looks fine and advise that it’s much too early to begin such drudgery. “We might even have another snowstorm,” I cry plaintively.

Snowstorms and ice as thick as Bill Gates’ glasses have never stopped her before, so my hope-filled comments land on infertile soil. We put on our complete Eskimo gear and plod toward the flowerbeds, the wind instantly freezing my ears to my oversized cap. “Too cold for me,” I report and head back indoors to snuggle up with a good book beside the warm glow of the television set.

My wife, the poster woman for the Protestant work ethic in America, continues to struggle against nature, chopping down dead chrysanthemums and gathering up leaves that the wind has deposited in great heaps in every cranny. Our yard has a lot of crannies.

After several hours, she returns to the house, chilled to the bone and dragging her weary body along on cold-numbed appendages. I know you feel sorry for her. I used to feel sorry for her, too. But then, about 20 years ago or so, I said: “Hey, you are doing this to yourself. No one forces you to perform labors that would cause a Siberian to foment revolution. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

Having grown up in a family who viewed work as an evil to be overcome with playful alternatives, I feel only a little guilty. Don’t get me wrong – we were not a lazy bunch. We just tried to make the little mundane jobs more fun. We used to polish the floors by skating on them with rags on our feet. That sort of thing.

On the other hand, my wife’s family tends to think that if it’s fun, it’s not really work and you must work all the time, except on Sunday, when you must go to church. Or, if you don’t go to church, you must work at least twice as hard so that you REALLY, REALLY want to go to church.

These different attitudes seem to reach their peak of contrast in the springtime. I like the idea of just letting nature pop out all over the place. “Look,” I say, “aren’t the dandelions beautiful this year?” My wife glowers. “They’re weeds,” she says.

After her valiant pre-spring assault, I must admit that the yard looked better. The dried up detritus was gone and you could actually see the glowing yellows and purples of the early crocuses without leaning down into the weeds.

The weather warms and more plants revive from their seasonal slumber. The forsythia screeches in sunny splendor and the grass greens. Not far behind are the daffodils and tulips, the redbud and dogwood, the delicate pear and peach and apple blossoms.

My wife continues to dig and tug, plant and trim, weed and seed. I admire her handiwork. If someone said: “My, what a wonderful natural display you and God have created,” she would probably respond, “Yes, but you should have seen it when God had it by himself!”

The saying is that in spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Well, an old man’s fancy turns, too. The love is just a more mature, sedentary sort. A meditation on beauty and an appreciation for those who help create it.