Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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I’ve been thinking about the meaning of time. Not the meaning of life, let’s be clear about that. That would require lengthy contemplation on the front porch – with wine.
No, I only have a few moments for this reverie – a little diversion as I unload the dishwasher – so let’s stick to time.
Time was so easy to measure when I worked full-time. In the journalism world, there was not only a regular paycheque but also tangible evidence of time served in the form of a daily newspaper or bimonthly magazine. Here – right here for the world to see! – is where I invested my valuable time! And that’s not counting the battle scars from deadline stress and erratic schedules.
Time was a favourite talking point among friends. Actually, a lack of time was our talking point, a proclaimed grievance that doubled as a badge of honour, a coveted sign of career momentum.
But now? In a shrinking media world, occasional freelance gigs and personal writing projects have become unreliable markers in a hazy expanse of free time.
It’s not that I don’t value retirement, what my husband calls “a self-directed life.” But valuing a state of being and valuing “time” are two different things. The fact is, I get fidgety if I can’t pinpoint at least one accomplishment in a day. (Our four o’clock Scrabble game, a holdover from the pandemic lockdowns, only counts for so much: it’s more of an addiction than an accomplishment.)
Sometimes you find joy in the strangest places, like the grocery checkout line
I know it’s wrong to blame another woman for my angst, but let me introduce you to My Mom’s Ghost.
Like many others in the Depression, the teen who would become my mom left school after Grade 8 to help support her family. By the mid-1940s, she was the supervisor at the local Bell telephone exchange. After marrying my dad in 1946, she poured her boundless energy into managing their farm’s domestic side, complete with gardening, preserving, cleaning, cooking and baking – looking after the needs of a hungry husband and his hired help, who sometimes boarded with the family. My dad’s mother and her caregiver also shared the large farmhouse. On the side, Mom managed the farm’s record keeping. In time, two children joined the fray. (Luckily, we were perfect, so no extra work there. Hehe.)
Now, I fully appreciate and admire all of this, especially since Mom’s highly polished work ethic was balanced by a warm, kind heart. And her example taught me to draw satisfaction from working hard, no matter how mundane the task.
But that comes with a kicker, especially for the kid who often snuck off to ride her horse when she should have been helping with the dishes.
Whenever I plop into my favourite porch chair, revelling in the cool morning breeze as I crack open a fresh book from the library, I am taunted by a vision of my mom, shaking her head after a visit from my dad’s sister: “She spends her whole day reading!” my mother would say, incredulous that Aunt Barbara could so shamelessly flout society’s rule that “a woman’s work is never done.” Surely even without a farm to manage there were sinks to scour and silverware to polish. (Indeed, there are.)
So I’ve come to realize that relaxation can only be mine after some intense bartering between my subconscious and My Mom’s Ghost. I have to earn my down time. But what are my options?
Gardening should count and surely in the heat of summer 10 minutes of deadheading is enough. After all, I did weed vigorously early in the season and rebuilt part of the rock garden. Time in the bank, I would say. (Where’s my book?)
Does hosting friends for morning coffee on the patio count, even if I don’t pour hours into just-in-case fussing and dusting in the living room as my mom would? I’ve made muffins, surely that’s enough?
The appliances in my house won’t stop beeping
If I spend 15 minutes devoted to laundry – all those trips to the basement to sort the wash and fold the fresh clothes – does that equal Mom’s full day of battle with a cantankerous wringer washer and a squeaky clothesline? It’s not my fault the tools of the task have changed. Maybe I could remind My Mom’s Ghost that my childhood ironing duties included tea towels, hankies, bed sheets and cotton underpants – that bargaining chip should last a lifetime.
Thankfully, I don’t get twitchy when I read newspapers – my mom always made time for the daily paper so I know she would approve. And surely it’s okay to add social media as long as I offset my doom-scrolling with hilarious cat videos shared by a certain son. Family values and all of that.
No, it’s mainly books that stir up trouble.
Maybe I should join a book club? Or I could launch a book blog. After all, if I were on a mission, reading could become an arduous chore, not a pleasure. Very worthy of my time. Lots of time.
I will get right at it after I finish unloading the dishwasher.
Kathryn Storring lives in Kitchener, Ont.
