Perspective

I’ve become a putterer. I putter. I don’t know exactly when it happened. Or how. I’ve joined the cohort with large Ns on their sneakers who spend hours tending the garden, sweeping the driveway or watering the lawn with the Neptune 15-degree variable fan arc spray nozzle. Choosing which blades of grass will be favoured this week. I putter.

I’ve found myself drawn lately toward tasks that are devoid of urgency. It is more than that—I have come to appreciate tasks without beginning or end.

With my trusty hoe in hand, I start at one end a long narrow garden and make my way methodically northward. Silently. Carefully observing which are plants and which are weeds that must be extracted and banished. Then back again. Hours may be consumed in this way.

My foe is the bindweed. It is pervasive in my lawn and garden. Thin winding stems emerge from a deep and hardy root, weaving around the favoured plants and shrubs. They literally climb up and over the stalks and branches of more sturdy plants, pushing themselves skyward in a race to the light. Eventually, these parasitic plants will choke their host and may kill the plants I have chosen to flourish.

According to Google, the only remedy is to pull the bindweed out. Even this doesn’t work the first, second or third time. The roots are so deep and the stems so thin the first half dozen times I pull them and untangle them from their host, the bindweed views it as a challenge and grows even faster, wider.

So I pull bindweed. Over and over again. If I can, I will reach below the soil to gain a good purchase of the root between my thumb and forefinger, snagging two or three inches of root. But even this feels futile. It will be back tomorrow. But so will I. Putterer vs. weed.

A strange thing has happened along the way. I have come to look fondly upon my battle with bindweed. So far, I am winning. That may be part of it. I have the time and, most surprisingly, the patience to seek and destroy these silent marauders.

When I’ve reached the length of the garden— I turn around and go back over the same territory. A fresh perspective. The light is different. Weeds overlooked in the first pass—stand out on the return lap. This happens pretty much everyday. Up and down. Hunting and pulling.

It is all a bit unsettling. I have never been a patient sort. I prefer my tasks critical and time dependant. Like every ticking time bomb movie. Red wire or blue wire? Just five seconds…

In a previous career, I persuaded myself that my job was a matter of life or death. Or very close to it. It wasn’t. We provided a range of services that enabled companies to transform from private firms to publicly listed stockholder companies—typically in the form of an Initial Public Offering or IPO.

We worked at a break-neck speed or not at all. Nights, weekends, whatever was needed to meet the deadline. XYZ Corp was going to be standing before investors a week from today, delay was death. We made plans to restore order to our chaos when the project ended—but never did. We disappeared into our rabbit holes and reappeared only when the urgency fuse was lit again.

Early on in my tenure at the Times, I remember one Wednesday a confluence of errors meant the newspaper was late. A couple of hours late. With the bundles, at last, in my truck, I remember a cold rage still a frozen block in my gut as I crossed the Norris Whitney Bridge. The words I shared with the printer.

As I landed on the Rossmore side of the bridge, it occurred to me that it mattered not at all. No one cared. Not that much anyway. It wasn’t life or death.

All this to say, I don’t recognize my putterer-self. I know it is a function of my vintage. There are other signals pointing to this inevitability. But I also think COVID is playing a part.

I can be idle with the best. I enjoy a variety of streaming services—Netflix, Crave, Apple, Britbox and Gem. We have a lot of television, movies and documentaries from which to choose. And I have consumed an unspeakable amount over this past 14 months. But I may have reached my limit. I would not have thought this possible before COVID.

So now, when I look back upon the garden I have just tended, I think about what else I might do. After a moment, I start again. There is a metaphor in this. I just haven’t nailed it down yet. It’ll come to me.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca