It’s just past 10:00 a.m. and Old Tom is standing in my backyard.

He has been a shoveling, bending, tugging figure out there for almost 20 years. Like me, Tom moves slower today than when he first agreed to help me. Today he is wearing a floppy hat, jacket, Bermudas and work boots, his usual costume for Spring. When he shows up at my house, he’s dressed for work.

I first met Tom at church, 40-plus years ago. He and MaryLou were regulars but I never knew them well.

Years passed. Tom retired and turned toward his hobby, gardening. Yet when church members needed help, Tom stepped up with his yard and handyman skills plus that coveted extra pair of hands. He assisted many of us by doing the heavy stuff. He edged, he planted trees, he laid patios, he mowed.

Dear Richard does mow, but he doesn’t know a weed from a daffodil. We both agreed he’d be happier not weeding. He does water though. When I’m not here, and the season is in full swing, Richard mans the hose. He has the protocol down pat. If it has flowers, he waters it.

But before all those perennial blooms reappear or the newbies find their summer homes, Old Tom is my man. Sadly, my garden is no longer a one-woman operation. I can handle things after his initial clearing, his cultivating, and the heavy-weed digging is done. That’s 96% Tom and almost 4% from me. My love is planting and creating the many big pots that have somehow migrated to my backyard. I feed, water, and ride herd on the aphids. And I’m a master of deadheading.

As winter winds down, I can count on Tom arriving at my back porch door, usually a sunny day in late March. Before I hear his tap on the glass, I spot his bobbing head moving slowly through the backyard. He carries a long-handled weed puller as he walks, prodding into the leaves. Since I never know when he’ll arrive, I’m always in my robe. I stopped apologizing for that in 2009.

On his first day, garden season is still around the corner. Tom took stock as he walked the pitiful weedy lawn and the big back garden. He decides how much leaf blowing and hauling he’ll do before he tackles the prickly berry bushes that have reappeared. Again. Later, at home, he assessed the workload and the hours ahead.

That afternoon I headed out, looking for the daffodil spikes, snowdrops, and pale green lily spears. Sure, I checked out the workload of leaves and weeds, but my walkabout is all about dreaming – for May, June and July.

The next morning, we talked about the hours and the workload – now more important than ever. Tom said, “This year, I think I can handle an hour a day.” He hounds the weather forecast and temperature when planning.

Occasionally we work together, but mostly I work when I can between household, deadlines, and my oxygen requirements. I finally admitted to myself that I’m also going to be about an hour a day. Whadda team we are.

Last week, sitting on the deck, Tom and I chatted about our age, and I learned he is actually more than a year older than me. “Do you think we’ll make it through the season,” I asked him. We both laughed. It’s all we can do. That and spread some mushroom mulch and feed the primroses.

On the mornings I spot Tom digging or tugging, we sit and chat. His work break often extends to 20 minutes as we share our latest plant explorations on the computer. We sit in the sun as he tells me about the special plants he wintered over. We occasionally lapse into what another year has dealt our waning bodies.

Today he told me he covered his little greenhouse because the projected high of a sunny 70+ degrees can burn his many seedings and the amaryllises he is nurturing. He grows enough tomatoes to stock an Italian ristorante.

Before he left, I handed him two plants of Sea Holly I’d just received. They require a somewhat sandy soil so Tom will create the mixture and start them in bigger pots for planting late May.

MaryLou passed almost five years ago. Although his customers have gradually moved or died, he has found solace in his plants, his seeds, his successful experiments. I may be his last regular.

Our years-long relationship is unique. We both share. I occasionally drop off a container of soup or cookies with his reasonable invoice and the check. And he brings me gifts – pots of homegrown zinnias. Cucumbers. Garlic. Tomatoes. Peppers. Specialty soil. We like each other.

Tom is not just a knowledgeable and resourceful right hand. He’s a friend. An old, trusted, caring, talented friend. Emphasis on the old.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren, Pennsylvania.