Finding something to do now that yard work is done

Right about a week before Thanksgiving, the yard work ends. Usually a few hard freezes and the first snow put a stop to it. If not, as is the case this year, we simply run out of things to do about the yard.

Oh sure, there's always something: oil the gate hinges, rake the few leaves that have flittered in from a neighbor's lawn, hang the Christmas lights early. But the main tasks of our outdoor work - mowing, raking, gardening - are over. Besides, the sun lets off too little warmth on a Saturday afternoon to make such puttering anything more than a chore.

Gradually we accept that the next few months will be spent inside, with only a few breaks for shoveling snow. Most of us pray there only will be a few breaks.

•••

Every once in a while I talk to someone who lives down South. Upon discovering that I reside in Iowa, he'll invariably say, "You must get a lot of work done, having to spend so much time inside."

Ruminating for a moment, I ask, "Why's that?"

"Exceptionally long winters - you can't go out in the cold, right?"

Now, I suppose we Mid-westerners do spend a little more time inside during winter than other seasons; cabin fever is a documented psychological condition. And many times I've seen my father on a cold winter day, staring out the picture window at the sky graying over the cornfield, hands behind his back.

Just as the snowflakes begin to swirl, a smile would swing across his face. He suddenly had something to do.

•••

"Old school," some would call me father and others like him: A man who believes activity alone is not enough. Instead, it must be productive, with a tangible, measurable result.

You can rake leaves be-cause leaving them on the ground encourages weeds. You might rake leaves be-cause a green lawn is a sign of middle class self-respect.

Yet the real, subconscious reason most men like my father rake leaves is because it requires planning with a clear beginning, middle and end.

Our efforts must begin with a strategy. From which corner of the yard will we start? How many piles will we make? How far apart will those piles be to minimize our labors?

Undermining our work, like a villainous story character, the wind blows leaves off our pile, forcing us to redouble our efforts, or to reorganize our piles in a way that minimizes our losses.

Realizing a short time later that our last pile has been bagged, we wipe sweat off the brow with the back of a wrist and as muscles ache lean against the rake handle then gaze at what we've accomplished. Our eyelids flutter. We've exhausted ourselves enough that a nap is in order.

•••

Call me "new school." Or more aptly "all school." I've come to believe that activity doesn't demand constant planning or work to be useful when the activity is seeking knowledge.

Of course, that's a difficult concept for many to accept. Poor reading rates, lowest common denominator television programming and the profusion of recreational options in our society imply that leisure for many does not equal learning. Further, if learning doesn't lead to dollars, then it's not worthwhile.

For me, though, stumbling across a Web site about the stars nearest our sun offers the chance for a tantalizing journey. I probably won't ever use this information, unless somehow finding myself at a cocktail party full of astronomers.

Frequently, though, I find myself leaning back in my executive chair and staring at the map of our stellar neighbors - Alpha Centauri, Barnard's Star, Wolf 359 - and thinking the strangest thoughts: From which corner of the map should I start clicking onstars to discover their location in constellations and potential planets? How many stars should I bother to visit, as most in our galaxy are unremarkable dim, red dwarves? How will I be able to keep track of "where I've been" if some stars are skipped?

Every once in a while as these thoughts cross my mind, especially on a brisk November day, I'll quick glance at the window.

Each time, a smile fills my face. I now have something to do.

(originally publisher Nov. 16, 2003)