The Dandelion Delusion
A Quick Weeding
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Listen to Anna’s story as you read it (below).
The rogue dandelions stood out like insolent yellow flags against the rich, dark soil of Anna’s meticulously tended flower garden. A wave of nostalgic efficiency washed over her.
Just a quick weeding, she thought, the phrase echoing the countless times in her younger years when she had dispatched such floral insurgents with barely a pause in her gardening rhythm.
In her mind’s eye, she was 60 again, lithe and limber, her hands moving with the practiced speed of a seasoned surgeon, plucking the offending weeds before they could set seed.
“Right, then,” she muttered to the empty garden, a determined glint in her 83-year-old eyes.
She retrieved her gardening gloves from the shed, the familiar scent of earth and old leather triggering another cascade of youthful gardening memories. She could practically feel the supple bend in her spine, the easy give in her knees as she would kneel among the rows of burgeoning gardenias.
Stepping out onto the soft earth, Anna surveyed the small patch of yellow with a confident nod. This would be a mere five-minute affair. No need for the cumbersome kneeling pad Mildred had gifted her last year or those peculiar long-handled grabber tools that looked more like instruments of torture than gardening aids.
The memory of her lithe form kneeling easily was vivid, almost tactile. She could feel the cool earth beneath her knees, the satisfying tug as a stubborn taproot surrendered.
Taking a deep breath of the summer air, she bent … slowly. Deliberately. It wasn’t quite the fluid motion she remembered. More of a controlled descent. It was like a grand old oak creaking in a gentle breeze.
A low groan escaped her lips, a sound that surprised her. Her knees, those once-reliable hinges for an active life, protested the unaccustomed angle with a chorus of pops and clicks. The cool earth felt surprisingly far away. And the image of her youthful self kneeling effortlessly began to flicker at the edges, like an old film reel losing its focus.
“Good heavens,” she huffed, her hands finally reaching the dandelion patch.
Instead of the quick, decisive pluck she had envisioned, her fingers fumbled slightly with the thick stems. Her grip wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and the taproots, far from surrendering easily, seemed to have anchored themselves with a defiant stubbornness.
After what felt like an eternity, she managed to wrestle free a single dandelion, its cheerful yellow head now looking rather smug in her gloved hand.
Straightening up – another slow, deliberate process involving a hand pressed firmly against her lower back – Anna surveyed the remaining yellow invaders. The “quick weeding” now looked less like a five-minute task and more like an afternoon-long project requiring the strategic deployment of reinforcements.
She considered her options. There was the kneeling pad, a thick slab of memory foam that promised comfort but also hinted at the extended duration of the task. Then there were the long-handled grabbers, which allowed weeding from a standing position but felt clumsy and imprecise in her hands.
Anna decided on a tactical retreat.
She shuffled back towards the shed, her knees singing a quiet song of protest with each step. The kneeling pad, she conceded, might be a necessary evil. And perhaps, just perhaps, those peculiar grabbers deserved a second chance.
Later, armed with the kneeling pad (which, admittedly, was quite comfortable) and the long-handled grabbers (which, after a few awkward attempts, proved surprisingly effective), Anna slowly but surely began to make progress.
The afternoon sun warmed her back, and the rhythmic motion of grabbing and pulling, though slower than her youthful recollections, had a certain meditative quality.
She even found a small measure of amusement in the absurdity of the situation. Here she was, a woman who had once effortlessly conquered entire flowerbeds, now engaged in a slow-motion battle with a few tenacious weeds, armed with contraptions she had once ignored.
The memory of her younger self, the “well-oiled machine,” now seemed almost comical in its stark contrast to her present reality.
Later that afternoon, the last dandelion lay vanquished. A smile of satisfaction graced her lips. It hadn’t been quick. It hadn’t been effortless. But it was done. And as she slowly, deliberately, levered herself back to a standing position, she realized that, while her body might have aged, her determination – and her love for her garden – remained as vibrant as ever.
Perhaps, she mused, the “quick weeding” of her memory was just another delusion of her younger days, a reminder that even the simplest tasks take on a new dimension with the passage of time. And maybe that was perfectly alright.
Also hear and read Anna’s “parent story” from 2024
Go to “Barb’s Dabble with Delusion”
Age: Our Greatest Asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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Wow. Anna sure was a hard-headed woman. Reluctant even to use a kneeling pad? Myself, I readily embrace many of these clever gadgets and tools that facilitate the sundry challenges of daily life. I don't think of them as shameful concessions to Wicked Father Time, but as additions to a well-considered arsenal of clever tactical weapons for beating the old S.O.B. "Take THAT old man. What else ya got?"
At 82, I’m surprised how long it takes me to get in gear each morning – to the point where breakfast and lunch often merge into a late brunch.
50 years ago, I found it was no big deal to get up at 5.30 a.m. to get to work by 7:00 so I could catch some of the inconsequential chat over coffee in the senior executive section of our office.
Now I have the privilege of sleeping until 9:00 a.m. if I have the “day off” from my “encore” work as Substack.com writer-publisher. That also gives me the freedom to watch late-night TV shows.
* What task continues to give you satisfaction as you complete it, even though it consumes more time than it did in the past?