Nothing happening

There's nothing to do. It's a common refrain I've heard from children to young co-workers to old people like me. But a couple of Saturdays ago, I indeed had nothing to do. It seemed that no one around me really had anything to do, either. And I'd forgotten how nice that can be.

I cut half my grass with my dying lawnmower before paying the young man across the street to finish the job. I cleaned the house while my wife met up with some girls from back home to do a little shopping in the big city of Columbus. My son played with our highly active dog until a couple of his friends happened by. And then another. And a couple more. Before long, there were seven kids jumping on the trampoline. Half of them I'd never seen (yes, that would be three and a half kids for you technical people).

We had supper at home, and then I parked my rear end in the recliner and watched every snap of the Bulldogs' game, as all self-respecting Georgia boys should.

At the end of the day, it struck me how I'd really done a whole lot of nothing. How I hadn't even left my property except for a quick Chick-Fil-A run. And I wouldn't have done that had a cow not parachuted into my backyard and suggested it.

It seems that week after week we've got someplace to be and something to do or we're expected somewhere. We're always on the go. But with gas prices out of control (assuming you can find gas) and the economy in shambles, maybe it's not such a bad idea to park our behinds at home every now and then.

When I was growing up in a small town, there was an awful lot of nothing to do. Climbing the tree in the backyard. A game of Nerf football with the boys next door. Splashing around Oakley's Pond and Town Creek. A game of dodge ball on the trampoline (I wouldn't advise that for the injury prone.) Riding the bike around the neighborhood and doing my best Evel Knievel impersonation. Tromping through that old, falling-down house I wasn't allowed to go in. Peeking through the bushes and praying in vain that the legendary Lula Wigglesworth would work on her tan some more. Watching the sunset and waiting for falling stars through the night. And, all the while, wishing there were something to do.

Because all that nothing to do could wear a boy out.

My 8-year-old son Saylor was perfectly happy with nothing to do. Nothing to do but spend hours with a friend playing board games (not video games), playing with cars (not real ones -- he didn't get that gene, either) and just goofing off outside in the sunshine.

Of course, he's growing up a city boy. He thinks having nothing to do is unusual and is great. I grew up a country boy in a small town and thought nothing to do was such a travesty.

I wonder if he'll still realize the joys of having nothing to do 30 years from now. I wonder if he'll be able to sit in his recliner and enjoy a ballgame (though he's an Auburn fan, so perhaps not). And I wonder if Lula will still be worth a peek.

BLAWG WILD

For more down-home commentary, see Chris Johnson's blog at http://blawgwild.blogspot.com

Contact Chris Johnson at 706-320-4403 or cjohnson@ledger-enquirer.com