Whiskey Barrel A Go-Go

The infamous barrel

Last night was the final scene in the well-documented Whiskey Barrel War in our house. Last year, I blogged not once but twice about my husband’s decision to drop a used whiskey barrel into our otherwise tastefully landscaped yard. At the time he planted said whiskey barrel, I told him he was doing so against my will and at the risk of placing us one wagon-wheel away from becoming white trash. Sure enough, a couple months after he installed the barrel, we were playing mini-golf on a kitschy course among a load of wagon wheels and when I spied a whiskey barrel planter. I thought that mini-golf whiskey barrel planter would finally bring him to his senses. It did not however. The barrel received mums in the fall, which then withered and died, and remained in place all through the long winter. I would look out my kitchen window and shake my head at the stupid thing each day, resigned to the fact that it was here to stay, like it or not. I decided to consider it a small concession in my marriage to a guy who has been nothing but wonderful to me. After all he’s given me, he earned the right to keep that tacky whiskey barrel.

Yesterday I was cleaning up in the house and Steve went out to work in the yard. I’m always thrilled when he works in the yard because I hate gardening. The more he does out there, the less I have to be out there. After a little while I went out to see what he was up to and I found the whiskey barrel out of its spot, sitting on the grass. He had removed it. I pulled my camera out and took a photo of the empty spot for posterity.

GONE!

“I decided it didn’t look right there,” he announced somewhat sadly.

A million sarcastic thoughts ran through my head. Really? You think? But, I decided to be kind in his sadness.

“Well, maybe we can put it somewhere else, hon. Maybe on the front porch in that corner?”

He perked up a bit.

“That might work,” he said. “Or over at the corner of the house on the rocks.” His wheels were already turning trying to figure out a spot for his much-maligned purchase, the one he had been so proud of less than a year ago. And, I can give him that. I can give him another place to put that barrel that isn’t the location I originally told him he could shove it.

Marriage is compromise. It’s not about right or wrong or winner or loser. It’s about finding a way to work through differences of opinion and living with each other’s likes and dislikes. It’s about making concessions. Marriage is all about occupying common ground…provided that common ground does not have a half-buried, used whiskey barrel in it. πŸ˜‰

 

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