Slim Randles

I always wondered what it would be like to putter. I don’t mean golf. I haven’t done that kind of puttering since I played miniature golf in high school. That wagon wheel always messed me up, so I decided to leave my golf career right there and participate in more active pursuits.

But now here I am puttering. This came about naturally because my doctor told me to slow down, and I plan to enjoy every snail-like minute of this advice. Part of it is my age (I’m in double figures now. And they ain’t small double figures.) and part is my doctor giving me advice I’ve been wanting to hear for a long time now.

This morning I was puttering around the ol’ back yard doing a few chores, but I did them slowly. Oh yes. Scoop some dog stuff and then rest. Water some baby trees, then take a time out, just like I’d done something wrong. Then there’s putting bird food in the feeders we have all over the yard.

I didn’t putter while feeding, either. No, I slowed it down even more and moseyed. Later, after the buzzards and finches had dined, I celebrated by meandering. Meandering simply means moseying, but without any destination in mind.

Getting on in years can mean being celebrated for sedentary pursuits, like contemplating stuff. I usually do my contemplations from a chair. It helps. What am I contemplating? Well, when I’m asked, I just get a look on my face that says I’m helping Stephen Hawking out by figuring out the Grand Imperial Theory of Dang Near Everything. But I don’t actually say that, because that would leave me open to some nosey person asking me a question about it. And the truth was, I was thinking about what to have for lunch, but it isn’t as cerebral as Hawking’s theory. It isn’t even as cerebral as a hemorrhage. Now there’s something worth a good contemplation. The spelling of hemorrhage, of course. One m and two r’s? Have to think on that a while. Might even reflect on it while I deliberate. No one said getting older was for amateurs.

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