When I am working in the garden, I tend to go into a meditative state. All kinds of memories and thoughts rush through my head like water in a colander and I try very hard not to ruminate about why these things are presenting themselves today.

As I was on my knees pulling at a gnarled root, I suddenly recalled from many years ago, an older gentleman who was always working in his garden as we drove by at 7:30 am on our way to work. One morning he was toting a kettle, still steaming in the morning chill and carefully doused all the tough, roots-of-iron weeds that lurked between the sidewalk cracks.

“God, what a loser. Talk about having no life,” my Starter-Husband commented, shaking his sleek head still damp from the shower. “Take me, I’m done.”

I’m sure that I laughed in agreement, probably applying lipstick in the pull down mirror of our Subaru as I watched the little man in his tweeds disappearing slowly from view as we sped away. Starter Husband and myself were both in our twenties at the time: we attended designer gym classes with a personal trainer; we were well acquainted with Clinique’s 3-Step cleansing program and apparently, smugly incapable of reading that man’s situation in any other, more complex way. I am deeply ashamed and tearful when I think of that old man now.

We did not even know him. Perhaps he was a widower and rose early every day in order to escape those terrible demons that usually appear around 3 am - demons I am now on a first name basis with, myself.

Or maybe he just wanted to still feel that he was doing something useful. Was he being tormented by scenes from a war he may have participated in? Was he just lonely and hoping for small talk with passersbys? Could he be recalling that he had only a certain amount of time left in his life and wrestling with all the whirling thoughts that accompany that realization? Maybe there was an ailing wife inside for whom he was the sole caregiver and thus only allowing an early morning date for outdoor chores? Or - did he just really enjoy gardening - and what damn business was it of ours to even have an opinion?

The point is, it was very wrong. Now, at my relatively advanced age, I feel embarrassed at making fun at his expense; and of course, I know that this is all my own stuff and the old man would never ever have even known he was being slighted by two idiots in a car with the windows down blasting Pet Shop Boys. (NOT my own choice of music, incidentally.) But as an aside (and perhaps in his honour) I treated the cracks in my own pavement with boiling water (and a vinegar chaser, my own stealthy addition) and it worked brilliantly!

I have not seen this man for years and feel sure that he has passed away.

But he’s made me think about important things this week as well as providing a wonderful gardening tip that truly works.