Green Thumb ...
I do like gardening, but I don't take as much an active part in it as my husband Bob does. He has his books and seed catalogs -- the arrival of which brightens up his otherwise bleak and dreary February like nobody's business. He marks the pages with sticky notes and highlights his choices in green. (The pink highlighter is reserved for our 5-year-old daughter Neva's selections.)
He has his garden plotted out shortly after and knows what crops should be rotated where. He starts the seedlings in March and has them in the cold frame before we've even doffed our winter coats. He turns the soil by hand -- how else? -- and surveys the bricked pathways to see how it faired through the cold weather.
It's much more than a hobby for him. It's a passion, if a bit obsessive. And it's hard not to get caught up in it. But I must say, even I was surprised when, while scolding Neva for tracking dirt all through the apartment when she brought me fresh carrots she just pulled from the garden, I couldn't help but think as I shook her pants out in the tub:
"Wow! That's really nice soil!"