Columnists
Nice work
Our family has a little “joke” about my mother. As Mom got older, she’d occasionally forget where she was going with something. For example, one day when I was visiting she told me she was going to bake a raisin pie. My favourite pie is raisin. I didn’t know if she’d remembered the connection between me and a slice of raisin pie. Later, as the evening tea was being poured and the pie sliced, I asked her where the raisins were. Clearly I was dealing with a custard pie of some kind, which wasn’t a problem— but it wasn’t raisin. She said she didn’t think I’d notice and besides, she didn’t have any raisins. As it turned out, there were raisins in the corner cupboard, but I suppose she’d forgotten the point of the pie-mission. Today, I’m changing the filling on the pie. In other words, what I set out to write about, indeed had almost finished writing, has been scuttled and this is what it is. However, it’s not the raisin pie.
This morning as I walked along the Trail, once in a while checking my “artificially intelligent watch”, I realized I sorta kinda liked AI, especially this watch, which rewards me at the end of my hike with a “Nice Work”. “Nice Work” is almost like a parent saying “good job” every time a kid does something a kid should do. “Good job, you took your plate and cutlery to the sink.” “Good job, you hung your soggy jacket up and put your boots on the boot tray.” “Good job, you brushed your teeth, for real.” I used to wonder why we, as adults, had adopted such a pithy phrase for our young charges, and then it happened. I bought a sorta, kinda intelligent watch. I know as soon as I finish my walk or my hike or my run or my workout and I press the little checkered flag I’m going to be rewarded with “Nice Work”. It’s not as if the words make my day complete, but I do get a little bit excited when I see them on the screen of my watch. “Nice Work”. Why the H E double hockey sticks would I need those words and why would I believe a watch would give a rat’s nipple about my daily workout routine? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, I suppose I didn’t get any of that when I was kid. I didn’t major in psychology, kid-cology or otherwise. And I don’t remember either of my parents telling me I’d done a “good job” when it was clearly a job I was expected to do. Ask any of my siblings and they might agree with me on this point. When the dinner dishes were done, the kitchen floor swept and the table wiped, neither of our parents rushed into the kitchen to pronounce the completion of our chores as a job well done. Nope. No way. No how. On the other hand, if the outcome of our toils didn’t pass muster, there certainly would have been a lecture about how the job should have been done and then they’d wait while we rectified the situation to their entire satisfaction. I suppose the reward was in the job done well. At least Mom and Dad often said as much.
“Nice Work”, my watch told me, today, as I finished six point eight kilometres on the Trail and around Picton (at that point I’d decided to rewrite this column). Had my parents been here when I finished, they would have asked why I hadn’t gone a few extra steps to hit seven kilometre mark or, for that matter, why not do ten kilometres? I did smile when I thought about my parents this morning, though. They were good parents, but didn’t believe in laying down a load of sugar for a job-well-done. As far as they were concerned, if you’d proven yourself capable of doing a task and were then charged with the task, you’d better be doing it properly. I don’t think I suffered from a lack of hearing “well done” or “good job” or “Nice Work”. I was a good student. I was a competent athlete. I was a pretty good daughter and a half-decent sister. I could be wrong, but I’m not a terrible life-partner and, perhaps it could be said, a reasonably good parent. Except for the Mother’s Day cards, which were always a little bit bull-pucky for me, I managed to feel good about myself without the pithy verbal reassurances. And, then?
Well, and then one day I had enough Air Miles to indulge in a watch that not only counts my steps, but translates those steps into kilometres while displaying my heart rate. Additionally, it connects to my phone, lets me know when I’ve got email, shows me how many calories I’ve burned, lets me play a “relax” game (which I never win) and best of all, short of giving me a hug, tells me “Nice Work”. And then?
And then, I’m back to raisin pie. The first iteration of this column was about how my parents would probably have been okay dealing with the pandemic because of all they’d dealt with in their lives—immigration, cultural shock, the depression, a world war, building a family home, having children, working around the clock, keeping all of us fed, clean and clothed, made sure we were educated, taught us how to be resourceful, how to take care of ourselves while making sure we had respect for others and self-respect. And, then I write about my watch telling me “Nice Work”. The thing is, my parents knew how to deal with stuff. My parents (and likely your parents) knew how to make things work. As far as the pie filing goes, Mom would have said, “It’s pie. You like pie.”
“Nice Work”, Mom and Dad. I do like pie. I know how to cope with a pandemic because of you. Oh, and I like my watch.
Comments (0)