Puttering

Inspirational song: The Sea Refuses No River (Pete Townshend)

A few days ago, I said that my family and I tease each other like children in place of honest compliments, but I gave no examples. (I was provided with one in the first comment, but to say that we call each other "poopyheads" as both greeting and term of endearment is an understatement.) This morning, after I described to my man how much physical labor I had done yesterday, mulching and weeding and all, he said, "in old person terms, what you did is called 'puttering.'" I didn't think I had taken it personally when I teased back, but the longer I dwell on it, the more I think I have. I worked very hard, and I just wanted him to recognize it. I have been dismissed as incapable of hard work more times than I can count, and I always want to scream at the injustice. People know that I have had medical issues, and at times yes, I have not been able to lift heavy things or have had very little stamina. But these things pass, and when people think they are being kind by telling me I should stand back and let others do the work, they are really doing me no favors. The only way to get stronger is to work until the work is easy, not to let others dismiss you. When our children were very young, and we were very poor, we rented a basement apartment in a friend's house. When it was my turn to mow the back yard, I was presented with the friend's mower, the standard gas-powered, walk-behind variety. Growing up in Oklahoma, I had only used a riding lawn mower, since I was 10 or 11 years old. I asked how to start the one my friend had, since it had no key. Without knowing my history, she looked at me, and said, exasperated, "Boy, you really were raised to be decorative, weren't you?" I know she loves me, and we still consider her and her husband to be as close as family, but to hear something like that was and still is the worst insult anyone has ever said to me. I never got over it.

Today is a beautiful day. While it is sunny, it was not predicted to reach 80 degrees. I told myself last night I would spend all morning weeding and putting cedar mulch in the front beds. Yesterday I used all but two of the bags of mulch I already had, so I have to go buy more before I can start the project. I knew this before I got out of bed this morning. But I started looking around the house, imagining how I would react if today were the magic day when I ran into one of the television hosts that ambush people in big box home stores, and I brought a film crew into the house. I started cleaning, and couldn't stop. Even when I finally admitted to myself that I wasn't leaving the house soon enough to justify keeping the cats inside on a day like this, I just moved to sweeping the deck, cleaning the table, and stacking up bags of soil in one central location. As I cleaned, still imagining a house crasher crew is at MY local Lowes, I took stock of my house. I don't think I would want them to touch it. If there's anything to change, we are capable of it. I paid attention to how many things I have that are made by me, my friends, and family (all of my art, and much of my furniture). I like doing it myself. I'm proud of the things I've made, especially the furniture. Let someone else who needs the helping hand find the tv crew in THEIR store. I'll be here at the table I made, sketching out modifications to the adirondack chair I designed, or starting the painting I feel asleep dreaming of last night.

While I was going in and out of the house, alternating between cleaning the kitchen and deck, I came in to hear Tim Curry's I Do the Rock shuffle through the music I had playing. He's been on my mind lately, since he had a stroke a couple days ago. (I adore him, and hope he recovers completely.) Several years ago, I found an interview of his on YouTube. He was in that phase where he was distancing himself from his sex-symbol status of the 1970s, and was trying to insist he was just a boring, chubby guy who liked to garden. The interviewer was surprised, and he told her something like, "I'm British. At a certain age, a trowel just appears in our hands, and we start gardening." I identified with that more than I ever imagined I would. I still do. As the man said, in old person terms, what I am doing is called puttering. I guess I'm practicing for when I get old.