In the spring, I load up a garden cart with well-composted manure and set out to start working the soil in the garden, getting it ready for the first planting of the year. After forking compost into the winter-hardened ground for an hour and enjoying just the first 15 minutes (the last 45 minutes create fireworks of shooting pains in my lower back from my sedentary winter in front of the fireplace), I realize that I am a woman in need of a tiller. . . .