Herk walked over to the flower plot I was weeding. I straightened up, not so much to eyeball him while we talked as to give my back some relief. "Some nice looking flowers," he remarked. "Thanks," I said. "The bearded iris would be my favorite flower if only the bloom lasted longer."
"Oh, yes," Herk responded, "beauty fades quickly, doesn't she?" I knew Herk was not talking about flowers, so I didn't make any comment. Now, it is well-known that his wife, Tildy, was a real beauty in her youth, and she has the pictures and the clippings to prove that that fact was recognized by the County Fair committee back in nineteen-something-or-other, for she was Queen that year. Herkimer doesn't realize it sometimes, or perhaps he is simply not as thoughtful as he might be, but Tildy has aged well, and she is, as is sometimes said of a lady of a certain age, "a fine figure of a woman." What I am saying is, Herkimer is darned lucky, and he doesn't even know how lucky he is. In all fairness, though, I should say I don't have to live with her, and Tildy does have a way with words.
We chatted a bit about the storms in Kansas and the flax crops in North Dakota, then Herkimer took his leave, and I bent again to the task.