When Are You Going back to Work?

Fixing ponds during funemployment

Gentle Reader, the following is a little story about how I fixed a leaking pond during a period of recent unemployment. It helped me to realise all the fun little projects that can be carried out when we have time on our hands, which are either impossible or very rushed when we are fully employed. I hope you enjoy it, and please click to subscribe for more.

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It was day 17 of unemployment and the weather was beautiful. I was at home and, with the sun shining in the sky and a free summer ahead of me, it felt as if everything was just right in the world. 

My time between jobs had been very relaxed. Having quit my previous job and accepted another which wouldn’t start for a couple of months, I decided to pass the time relatively idly, carrying out the little rituals of reading and writing without the pressure of shoehorning them in around a workday.

However, there was a project on the horizon. A few months earlier, in the spring when the soil was soft and easily lifted, I had dug a pond, but it had been leaking ever since. 

At first, I was in denial about the leak. I pretended that the low water level was simply due to evaporation, a theory which seemed half plausible when the pond filled up again after heavy rainfall. But when a rare dry spell came in, and the level dropped to little more than that of a glorified puddle, I knew the jig was up.

As a working man, however, I had at that time neither time nor inclination to deal with it. I was busy staring goggle-eyed at my laptop and the thought of having to sort out my little wildlife pond seemed like a real chore. Now, though, with the sun shining and not a meeting or an email in sight, it seemed like a real pleasure and a challenge.

Excitedly, I donned my gardening gloves and the old boots which were caked in seasons-old mud, and off I went into the field beside my parents’ house.

It felt good to be outside but it was hard labour too. Emptying the pond was a full day’s work – I had to drain all the water (without a pump), as well as remove all the gravel (easily a couple of hundred kilos), the soil and plants, the overlay and finally, the pond liner itself had to come out for inspection.

I had a suspicion of where the leak was because, in times of drought, the pond always gravitated to about the same level, which was just below where the leak would presumably be. After spreading the liner out on the gras in the sun, I quickly found the hole right in this area. 

A seemingly trivial hole which was the bane of my pond’s (and my) existence

I was feeling both smug and relieved – it seemed that powers of deductive reasoning were still useful after all. As a bonus, my secret biggest fear had not materialised – that of digging up a leaking pond without finding a leak or explanation, a result which would have left me feeling useless and floundering in my unemployment.

The next problem was figuring out how to fix it. This was my time to shine – I scuttled indoors, relieved to get in front of the laptop again, and to enter into a period of drinking tea and eating chocolate while reading articles and watching youtube videos about pond repair.

An evening of research yielded some results – it seemed waterproof heavy duty tape was the only show in town. 

Excited by the prospect of finally solving my watery dilemma, I could barely sleep that night – I tossed and turned, fantasising about healthy, repaired ponds with thriving wildlife and lovely marshy marginal plants.

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The next day, I awoke bright and early like a child on Christmas morning, and scooted off to the big home improvement store in my rented car, and scooted back as fast as my little wheels could carry me. It was a fine day again, I slapped the suncream on, and strode out into the field to fix the little problem once and for all.

And fix it I did. I took out the liner again, cleaned the area of the hole very thoroughly, dried it, and patched it up with my fancy tape. The end result was as follows:

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

It didn’t look like a million bucks, but it made me feel like a million bucks. I was even happier when, after the arduous task of refilling the pond with both its liquid and solid contents, it appeared to hold water, in stark contrast to most of my crackpot theories.

Returning indoors triumphantly after two majestic days of fruitful labour, I threw myself down on the couch and contentedly reflected on what I had achieved.

There had been something quite satisfying about the whole affair – it smacked slightly of the hero’s journey. First, there was the initial victory of digging the godforsaken thing, followed by a horrifying moment of realisation that there might be something terribly wrong. I then entered into a period of healthy and necessary denial, before encroaching upon my investigative task which yielded the problem, if not the solution, which came to hand after a bit more research. Then, after jumping once more into the breach, all calloused hands and muddy trousers, dehydration and fatigue, I had emerged, triumphant and victorious from the quagmire.

Maybe I wasn’t so useless, after all, I thought, lying on the couch.

Then, my father came in and, eyeing me suspiciously, asked me:

“When are you going back to work?”

I was shocked, or at least I would have been, if I hadn’t known the man better. I had spent two extremely satisfying days and also the weeks prior to that following my curiosity. I had read lots, improved my German, hung out with friends, exercised, meditated, slept eight hours, fixed a pond…

…and it occurred to me: how could I possibly work AND do all of the above? 

I wouldn’t have time. And what did my father mean by work, anyway? He meant modern-day office work, bonded work, sick-day work, deadline-work, the kind of work where there is a hierarchy and a tone required, a persona, a modus operandi. 

Did he not know that fixing that pond was as good a day’s work as I ever did in my life?

“I don’t know,”  I lied, in order to annoy him. 

He passed quietly out of the room again. After my anger subsided, I realised he had a point. Following my curiosity and whims never paid the bills, even if it nourished my soul and brightened my eyes. Besides, a man needs an economic engine, especially if he plans to find a bonnie lass and bring bairns into the world, and so my dream of funemployment began, once again, to melt away, as softly, slowly and mysteriously as the water once did, in my pond.

But all was not not lost. I had repaired my pond by stitching it back together again, and I fancied that by continuing to shore up my finances I could probably buy myself some time again in the future.

In a way, I have been preparing all my life for this kind of existence – a life where I can go and fix the pond any day I want, or read a book or, or go for a walk, or enjoy a movie in the evening without checking emails. 

It occurred to me that my portfolio of work, investments, and my non-yielding labours of love might one day be stitched together too, and in unison prove strong enough to support my idle life of ponding and writing.

As for the pond itself, she’s still holding water, but instinct tells me that it won’t be my first or last patch-up job, in the pond or in my working life. If I want to stay afloat, there will be a few more running repairs required in the future, a few more episodes of getting the hands dirty, of digging, mending and patching, of chopping wood and carrying water, until we are all watertight again.

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