Another Day in the Country
Trading places
© Another Day in the Country
Humor me. Don’t just read this column. Answer the questions, for yourself, that I am asking, as you read this column. Maybe get a piece of paper and a pencil and write the answers down. Or you could just scribble in the margins of the newspaper.
First question: What word describes how you are, right now?
Many possible answers came floating through my mind, and I grabbed the first word that fit: Discontent. That’s how I was feeling at the moment. It’s an itchy restlessness.
Immediately, I began wondering why it was there and how I could assuage (a great word) that feeling.
I reached under my desk and picked up my big old Webster’s unabridged dictionary. (That thing has gotten heavier as we age.)
Discontent: a lack of contentment, uneasiness, dissatisfaction at the current state of things, a restless desire for something more or different, dissatisfied or rebellious.
Now, here’s a thought. Why would discontent need to be fixed? Couldn’t I just notice the feeling and wait for it to go away?
Or would I begin to look at ways to ease my discontentment — for instance, in bringing to mind all the wonderful things I enjoy, all the ways that I have a great life, all the things I could be doing — like answer another conversation starter?
Next question: What is a skill you’d like to have?
My answer: I would like to know how to fix more things — for instance, my lawn mower.
Something is wrong with it. It just stopped working. The repairman thought he had it fixed. It ran briefly, then quit.
We thought we had the answer, but then it wasn’t, and now it sits languishing under the cyprus tree in the front yard, waiting for the repairman’s return.
I wish I could look at the machine, diagnose the problem — fix the spark plug, reconnect some wire, unblock that fuel line — whatever the problem, and have it running.
To be able to do that would give me at least as much satisfaction as mowing a lawn — which is a lot of pleasure. It’s a sure-fire fix for discontentment.
The problem is, I’ve never been good at waiting. It seems, at this time in my life, that I need to be honing the skill of waiting for things to happen since I no longer always am able to pull them off on my own timetable.
Last question: If you could trade places with someone for a day, who would it be?
Would it be LeeRoy starting a new job, Kristina moving into a brand new house, my daughter, working at this lovely posh spa with wisteria framing the windows?
Or perhaps I’d trade places with my grandson diddling around that house in California that I love more than any other, or just messing with dogs, and tending baby chicks?
Would I trade with my friends, Gary and Norma, who went on a biking holiday in Slovakia, or my high school chum, Phyllis, who’s on safari with her family in Africa.
Or maybe I’d trade with Michaela, who’s just retired and contemplating her kids’ visiting?
The list went on and on — and I couldn’t think a single soul that I was interested in trading places with. And I really tried.
I reviewed all my friends and then relatives and went on to acquaintances and even celebrities — most everyone much younger than myself.
I couldn’t come up with anyone I was willing to trade places with for a day.
I don’t really know that many famous people whose lives I imagine as idyllic. And then I remembered this guy on a gardening show I enjoy watching on the BBC.
I watch him working in his wonderful gardens at a place called Long Meadow and I find myself coveting his raised garden beds, his trimmed hedges, his garden paths. I wish I had those.
He has not one but two greenhouses. I’d love to have a greenhouse. It’s a fantasy like having a gazebo or a tipi in the backyard again — nice to think about, but unrealistic in Kansas weather.
I watch this guy and his dog moving effortlessly through his gardens. Everything is in bloom. I even wish that I had a compost pile as big as his and that I had access to the “grit” and the “boxes” and the “tools” he’s using.
Then again, maybe who I really want to trade places with for a day is the guy with the camera. He’s so good. I love the close-ups, the way he frames the shot.
Why do I think it’s a he? It could be a she — a she like me, who loves taking pictures, who would like to be creating shows for television.
Then I realized that while I was envious of the gardens and the work, I didn’t even know this gardener guy’s name
I looked it up: Monty Jon. I wonder whether that’s his real name.
Would I really consent to trading 12 hours with him?
I read on Google that he has “seasonal affective disorder” and gets depressed in winter. Well, it’s summer, Monty. You’ll be fine in Kansas. But does trading places mean we also trade disorders?
Not to fret, I can take rainy days in summer — even in Britain, I think.
What would he expect of me? Oh, dear, expectations! Would I plant stuff for him? Would he think I’d done it correctly? Or maybe I’d say, “Monty, feel free to do some of your projects in my back yard — a path, drifts of daffodils would be nice. Just do anything you can dream up on another day in the country.