I just made the mistake of asking my wife if she wanted me to get some of the Amish kids down here to help her stack the six cords of wood we have coming for next winter.

I know some people who do not love stacking wood, but I’m married to one who does. She is odd that way. As long as no one is telling her to do them,  chores are a passion, second only to work, donkeys, bugs and trees.

She loves plotting the corners, getting up early, working late, working out in the shed by herself with the deranged dog and partner in crime, Fate. It is calming for her, like meditation.

Some of the people reading this might think it was nice of me to consider that and make sure she is not wearing herself out. I like to think of myself as one of those caring and encouraging husbands. Some partners might appreciate that.

I thought it was thoughtful of me to ask since I can no longer stack firewood for more than a few minutes, and we have all these hard-working kids up the road who love to work and make some money.

Whatever else one can say about the woman I love so dearly, it is that she is not like most other people. I am married to a woman who is half Sicilian and half German, and that is like mixing gasoline with nitroglycerin and adding hot pepper.

For much of Maria’s life, she was bullied, pushed around, told what to do. She is most sensitive to being told what to do, even if she is not actually being told what to do, which would be a pointless exercise.

I can relate, I have some of the same issues.

And I love her for her independence and fierce determination to live her own life.

This suggestion ticked her off, prompting one of those phenomenally interesting, brief and lively spats we have in our marriage.  Two independent people with thin skin.

They are not like any other spats I have ever had. They flare up suddenly, rage intensely, and then are forgotten, like a leaf blown away in the wind. Maria cries in the same way, her emotions are right on the surface, and move like the wind.

I happen to be a fan of spats, they are cleansing like flushing a toilet.

No, she said, loudly and peevishly, clearly annoyed at the suggestion about getting help. “I love doing the firewood. Haven’t you read my blog and how I wrote about how much I love it?  No, I don’t want anybody to come and help me, and if I do decide I need help, then I’ll ask you about it….”

All this, while shouting at me into her Iphone.

She was in her studio, fuming and huffing. Her temper is sharp, but not deep, there is no cruelty or rage in it. And she’s only slugged me once in ten years, which is not bad.

I did have to smile at this spat, though; this is one reason I love her so much; this spat was so Maria (not the spider-saving and moth-saving Maria you might see on her blog),  but the one I live with.

Since I am not a moth but a male human, I do not get the A treatment that moths, spiders, trees, chicks, and dying plants get.

Maria is not an A to B to C person; she is a Y to G to D person. She is fiercely independent, loving and caring, and totally unpredictable. A slat can come out of nowhere, jump up into the sky, and zoom off like a howling wind.

The spats we have are like sparklers, they flare, his and go out in seconds.

There are some spouses (I told her this) that might respond to an offer like mine by saying something like, “why thanks, Jon, for thinking of me and offering to get me help. I’m all right for now, but if I change my mind or tire, I will let you know].”

She was puzzled, even speechless, at the suggestion.

So she started to flare up again briefly because I hadn’t read her blog story about how much she loved stacking wood, and I should have.(I actually did, I just forget it, which was worse).

I thanked her for speaking with me and got quickly off the phone.

A few minutes later, my phone rang, and a quieter Maria said, with little apparent sincerity and more than a hint of sarcasm, “oh, Jon, thanks so much for offering to get the Amish kids over to stack the firewood that I love doing. How sweet it was, and thank you so much. We’ll get back to you…”

And then she moved along and announced that she was hungry and demanded to know what I was cooking for lunch. The spat was over, she was excited about the new quilt she is working on.

Then I had a flash, an idea I loved instantly.

One of those grumpy young academic feminists who are angry with me for defending Amish women in my writing said this (only a small part) about me yesterday on my blog posts.

Her name was actually Mange:

“You won’t become a brilliant writer. Face it; You don’t have the deep sense of truth and awe true artists do or the flair for the vivid, gifted mold into words. You come from pettiness, narcissism, and ancient male entitlement, which blinds you… You ought to be ashamed.”

I told Mange that since no one has ever called me brilliant and it’s getting a bit late for a 73-year-old writer (to be 74 on August 8) to become brilliant suddenly, I was at a loss to reply.

I never heard anyone use “brilliant” in connection with anything I ever wrote, not a reviewer, and may one reader I can think of. I’ve never head it used as an insult before.

It was like someone telling me I was not as good looking as Brad Pitt, and would never be, as if that was a big discovery.

I know an angry anti-vac, conspiracy loving neighbor who loves to scream and shout about politics, and I thought I might try this as an insult: “hey dude, you will not ever be brilliant!” and see whether he hits me or kisses me.

Mange added that Maria has “an immediate sense of truth, beauty, and vivid detail, without claiming competence that isn’t hers. She’s an artist. You’re a neurotic showoff…”

This took me aback. If Maria had a sense of truth, beauty and vivid detail, how was it that she married me, who Mange says has none of those things? God help a neurotic showoff living with this woman.

I thought about it and decided to have some fun and send Mange – yes, that’s the name she uses – a message and tell her that since she is a great fan of Maria, she should know that Maria is exhausted after stacking cords of wood by herself, thanks to her dumb, petty, narcissistic, ancient male of a husband who can’t or won’t help her anymore.

I suggested in the note that since she admired Maria so much,  she might send Maria an e-mail along with a note: “Tell her,” I suggested, “that you’re worried about her stacking all that wood by herself. She is, after all, as skinny as a bean pole and short as well.”

“And Mange,” I added,  “perhaps suggest asking some of those hardy and hard-working Amish kids to come over and help. I know Maria would love to hear from you.”

“Love you, girl, do let me know how it goes.” I hope she bites.