A vague sense of impending doom has been hovering over and within me for a while now and no, it’s not about kicking the bucket. At the risk of catastrophizing, an activity I have foresworn, I recognize that at 65, I am one misstep away from any number of possible calamities that could change my immediate future, rendering me incapable of doing basic chores.
I have been fortunate, and though I am not one to prattle on about gratitude, preferring to place either blame or credit for success in life, on my own shoulders, I recognize that what I have going could end in a nanosecond.
What do I have going, besides being the primary care-giver for Gluten-Free Mama?
* I am three-fourths of the way through prepping the soil for my tomato plants. I have turned the ground over for six of the eight rows, including extending each enough to accommodate two extra plants.
* I am three-fourths of the way through through the process of moving my mountain of compost, just to the left, so as to redistribute all of the goodness. Specifically, I am mixing and blending the decomposed vegetative matter, together with the manure provided by the chickens and rabbits, and the wheelbarrows of decomposed soil/straw/compost/manure removed from the chickens’ yard.
* I am about one-third of the way through the weed-eating of my two-acre enclosed yard. As anyone knows who has ever tackled this chore, I must be able to overlook the discomfort that weed-eating imposes on my back, or I am doomed from the beginning. I therefore refuse to acknowledge that there is any discomfort, helped immensely by the judicious use of the CBD of my choice, AC/DC. A little rip will do you.
* I need only two sheets of ACX-quarter-inch plywood, to complete the renovation of my bathroom. This will require temporarily relocating my claw bathtub, heavy enough to be gainfully employed as a boat anchor in its next life, after being used as a horse trough in one of its past lives.
* At this precise moment in time, and for at least the next fifteen minutes, I have whipped this house into shape; by mountain standards it is immaculate.
* I am 90 % of the way through completely emptying out our mammoth [dead] kitchen refrigerator, providing for the chickens a spread that makes Babette’s Feast look more like a bad trip to Micky D’s.
* I exercise Ellie Mae every morning by walking her up to the top of the driveway and back and I care for our flock of fifteen chickens.
I fell again yesterday morning, the result of a completely unnecessary clamber over treacherous terrain, recently dug up by the excavator, to obtain a chunk of plywood. This was after two other recent tumbles, certainly an indication that I either need to go even slower than I already am, or I need to reexamine my “judicious use” of cannabis.
The only way I can go any slower than I already am, is to walk backwards, and as for “judicious use,” I only used that phrase because it sounds so, I don’t know, sophisticated, I guess. Truthfully, I hit the bong whenever the situation calls for it.
I don’t make the rules, you know.
But that’s not what I want to prattle on about this morning. I am after bigger fish. What if my surgically-repaired knee suddenly decides to flake out on me? Or my similarly repaired shoulder? What if any of a number of old dude issues reaches out and pulls the rug out from under me, rendering me incapable of doing the basic work of a farmer?
On the one hand I know I am already getting more bang for my buck, at 65, than many; on the other hand, why should now, be it? I do not care to ponder an immediate future in which I cannot do the rudimentary tasks I now perform on a daily basis, even if I creak a bit.
What then is the right age? 68? 70? If I am still up and at ‘em every day, it’s hard to imagine I’d feel any differently. And I guess that’s the answer to when is the right age to call it quits: when I feel differently than I do now.
If that’s sidestepping the whole issue, then I better not-moving sideways is the worst possible thing I can do to my knees. And I would refer to the manual, as I am wont to do in these times, but when I went to check it out and explained why, the librarian laughed uproariously, and said,
“You’re 65? And you want to know what your physical shelf-life is? lol. You’re so old you predate the “shelf-life” date requirement.”
Oh. Now I wish I hadn’t asked.
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