Took a little time off from the yardwork on a beautiful afternoon recently to chat with my backyard Buddha.

I was raised Catholic and was always chosen in parochial school to carry the enormous crucifix around town in the May procession. Now I attend the Quaker meeting at their beautiful site on Bath Pike just above Rt. 22 and Dunkin’ Doughnuts.

But I have a backyard Buddha. I have always made it my business to cover all bases, to keep all options open in so serious a business as personal relations with deities.

I have lived multi-godded, as it were. Among my favorites, for instance, is the flute-playing fertility manager Kokopelli of the Hopi. He blessed Betty and me six times. I lost respect for Zeus, though, when I learned what he did to Prometheus in the giving fire to mankind business. Some nasty omnipotence there.

So, while my neighbors have birdbaths and tomato patches, I have a backyard Buddha. I fancy I can sometimes hear “Om” over the roar of traffic on Elizabeth Avenue. It’s reassuring.

I felt I needed to talk the other day. But the best I could do to open conversation was a clumsy mixture of The Great Gatsby and Dionne “Alfie” Warwick: “Buddha, Old Sport, what’s it all about?”

I got no answer. But at age 85 I guess I don’t have long to find out.