I remember a great old story about Ted Kennedy's first run for Senate. He was shaking hands outside a factory when a burly worker got in his face and said, "Is it true you never worked a real job in your life?"

Kennedy stepped back, expecting an attack, and said it was true.

To his surprise, the man stuck out his calloused hand and said, "Good for you. Hard work is definitely overrated."

That's how I feel about nature. I love the romantic image of the farmer lifting his cap to wipe perspiration from his forehead with the side of his muscled arm, looking proudly at his field of corn. But I bet that farmer would retire to his air conditioned home faster than it takes kudzu to cover an abandoned trailer during a Georgia summer if he could only afford the electricity bill. Thoreau, a true nature lover, said, "No man should live by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do." Remember, as proud as Thoreau was of his beans, he spent most of his day fishing, writing in his journal and reading.

I garden, but I've never felt at one with nature, even as my tomatoes grow blood red or the hydrangea in front of my house resemble giant blue snowballs. I garden for purely utilitarian reasons. Fresh tomatoes and corn and peppers taste better than store-bought. Flowers and ornamental grasses take up space that would otherwise have to be mowed.

That's not to say I don't enjoy the feeling of accomplishment or my neighbors' compliments. But on a sticky-hot July day, when I'm fighting the weeds for control over the garden, when my back feels like a train ran over it and I swat mosquitoes fat with my blood, it's the air conditioned house and a cold beer I'm fantasizing, not the romance of the land.