"MY arm was bleeding and my sleeve in tatters, both caught in a hopelessly tangled roll of fencing wire. My husband’s glasses were dirt-caked and askew from a spectacular face plant after he tripped in a post hole. We were filthy, sweaty and loudly contentious. On that day 11 years ago, as we struggled to fence a vegetable plot on a sloping, overgrown former chicken run, we were able to agree only on what to call the sorry episode: Lucy and Ricky Make a Garden."