The Oughties are Over

A Rare Departure from Smallholding Doings to Ponder on Procrastination

We Freeze Like Statues on the Pages of History

‘We were born, born in the Fifties," sang Sting, in our long gone sixth form years, and some of us proudly sang along, since my school year comprised one third those who were indeed born in that decade, and two thirds those who showed up late and landed in the Sixties.

Photo by Emanuela Picone on Unsplash

The Swinging Sixties. How come some decades get a titular adjective, and some don’t?  Those of us old enough to have sung along with Sting recall much talk of the Roaring Twenties, but the current version is howling rather than roaring, I fancy.

The previous one was apparently known as the Tens, Tenties (shudder) or Teens, though I can’t say I have ever heard any of these actually uttered.  The one before that, the Noughties here in the UK was known as the Aughts in the USA, I am reliably informed.

I had my second  baby in the last century, by a whisker, so the dawn of the Millenium and the Noughties ushered in my glory years, and happiest days. With some obvious and moving exceptions, I suspect most of us cast a scented mist over the years of our early motherhood. It is a time of fellowship and friendship, nurture and passion, brazenly cohabiting. Those days are like years, but Oh!, the years are gone in a tender heartbeat. 

These are the decades of common experience. I, however, am currently becalmed in the more personalised Oughties, and I fear they must draw to a close.

Procrastination Can Wait

Another blessing of the years spent raising children is that it is reasonable, both to oneself and to others, to Have Plans.

“I will write a book,” you say to yourself, “when the children are off at University.”

Or, to a friend, “I really must get my act together and start the Flower Farm. Of course, I can’t spend the time I’d like to spend on it until the children are in Secondary School.’

“I would actually like to do a Masters, and go on to teach.” friends shared, over coffee and toddler play dates. 

All of this was acceptable, met with a knowing nod and affirmation that it was fine to place  your future in the future. Children come first.

My parents died when I was 25, and before I had children of my own, which is one of the great sadnesses of my life. For many, though, the next rung down on the stepladder of delay is the care of ageing parents.

It’s not quite so easy to say to a friend, “I’ll absolutely launch that website once Mum’s dead,” but they know, in their hearts, that nothing will happen until this painful phase has passed, and been pruned away, along with the twisted, now gnarled vine of their own sweet childhood years.

Then it is Now

But I am 64 (an unnecessary note for those who felt compelled to calculate the school year) and my younger daughter left home with a bang in 2020, the older following her via a white winter wedding at the end of 2022.  They have long, long since checked the necessary boxes, and while I will forever be here, should they need me, most of the time, to be brutal, they don’t.

I spent seven years in a new career, managing a care home, before having to re- apply for (and not get)  my own job the year after the pandemic, a year which broke me, physically and mentally, and for which unemployment was my reward. 

I spent two years rebuilding the market garden, with some success, and then lost my way, got sick, and found myself here, still looking at a pile of things I ought to have done by now. Mired in the Oughties. 

I ought to have written, or at least drafted and discarded my original memoir, which explored our escape West and our first footings into farming.  I ought to be writing my current project, which  documents my progress in reclaiming and regenerating the land we now steward. I ought to write my indwelling novel.

Photo by Zoe Schaeffer on Unsplash

I ought to be growing the smallholding’s following, and sharing the skills and knowledge we’ve acquired over the years.  I ought to be spinning,  knitting, sewing, baking, and gardening more, for these are the tools of my trade and the works of my wisdom, and without them, I don’t have a story to tell. I ought to be keeping a photographic record, and learning some videography skills, to further show my workings.

I ought to finish that bookkeeping course - a resilient bowstring for my later years.

That is a lot of oughts, should they come to aught.

The Dawn of the Semi-Crucial Age

Seamlessly slipping from decades to ages, which seems appropriate, I hereby declare the Semi-Crucial, during which, frankly, dear reader, if I don’t get some of this stuff done, I shall find myself with only regret to accompany me to the other side.

Like most people of faith, I hold the significance of this earthly journey as lightly as I possibly can, but even so, the sheer weight of all that self expectation has got to be spread somehow. 

This switch does not come naturally. I am wired, it would appear, for the foregoing Pre-Industrial (aka ‘I’ll do it later’) Age, but the brutal truth is that time is running short. I share my progress here, not quite as regularly as I should like, and these journal entries have a value to me of their own, but work remains to be done, and I ought to must do it.

I would encourage you, should you find yourself adrift in the same Doldrums of Destiny, to join me in the Semi-Crucial, at the very least begin to leave the “ought”  behind. We are now far from the shore, we must steer, and pray for a gust of capability. This precious era is ours for the making.

Which fanciful decade or age do you currently inhabit? Are you overwhelmed by the Oughties, or in full sail in the Semi-Crucial? Also, if you were ‘Born in the Fifties,’ do share your thoughts on the Late Middle Ages (ours) and any other era you fancy telling us about.