Sometimes I ramble

When I was so much younger I read so much more than I do now.  I was often drawn to books about young women who secreted themselves away in a garret to write.  I wished I had one of those garrets, whatever they were, so I, too, could hide myself away and write as I looked out the tiny, yellowed garret-ish window.  I dreamed of filling composition books that I bought for a penny and sharpening my thick, lead pencil with a knife, or dipping my quill in a bottle of ink, and writing feverishly about all those things a garret inspires.  

As of today I have never lived in a house with an attic, so my garret-writing days are nil.  Maybe one day.  Not to change the subject, but once I did go into an attic beyond my wildest dreams.  It was in house on Bay Street owned by the family of my favorite person in history.  There was stuff in there.  I mean s-t-u-f-f!! Things like furniture, books (oh the books!), and everything in between ranging in age from the end of the 19^th century to the end of the 20^th  were piled high, forming a maze through the space.  The new owners turned it into a modern den/home theater.  They did not seek the treasure.

So I have no attic, but due to my oldest son’s decision to remodel his upstairs space I now have a desk in my bedroom.  When my husband and I first married we had no furniture.  The essential things we did have he built right before and during our engagement so that at least we would have a table at which to eat, a place for our books, and a bed.  The other few pieces we had were toss-away items from our parents’ houses.  This desk was one of those things.  It was painted a ghastly antiqued-green, but that really didn’t matter at the time because nothing we had matched anyway.  He decided to refinish it and spent hours melting and scraping off the paint and sanding and sealing the wood underneath until the finish was as smooth as satin.  He added some accent paint, because that is what you did back in the 1990s, and voilà, a piece of furniture worthy of use and display.

This desk has been with us through three moves and has been passed around the family for different purposes.  My son decided it was no longer needed upstairs and wanted it gone.  I told him to give me time to think about where to put it, so one day I came home from work and found it in my bedroom situated in front of my mock-bay window.  I really didn’t want any more furniture in my bedroom, but I make a really good lemonade and this was one of the occasions.

Usually when I write I either sit at the table on my front porch or propped up in my recliner balancing my laptop between my knees.  Today I thought I would give the desk a tryout, to see if it is garret-worthy.  Allow me to describe this experience.

I am sitting on a wooden chair we found in someone's trash.  It was broken, but my handy husband repaired it and painted it a bright blue for our son’s childhood bedroom.  The inner curved piece of the chairback is broken again so I have to sit on the edge so as not to stab myself with the protruding wooden stake.  This desk must have been made for genetically small people because my legs do not fit under it, nor did they even in my skinny years.  Therefore, I am sitting at a slight angle to the right. 

 

The view from my window is pleasant.  The sun is bright, and the sky is cornflower blue; the clouds are billowy and moving at a good pace.  The breeze is making the verdant trees dance a graceful ballet.  However, I have a slight problem with the view.  If I look through the upper windows everything is clear, at least as clear as it gets when the windows haven’t been cleaned all winter.  But when I look through the bottom window I can’t focus my vision past the screen.  All I can see are tiny black squares against a green backdrop.  Even if I try to focus on the background I can still see the screen.  If this desk is going to be my writing desk the screens have to go.  I’m pretty sure garret windows do not have screens.

Instead of tucked up in a cozy dark garret with my paper and pencil, I’m sitting in a bright room on an uncomfortable chair punching letters on a keyboard.  If I look to the right I can see through the kitchen door and see my son eating his lunch.  I’m pretty sure you can’t do that in a dark musty garret.  

All in all I have found enjoyment writing on this old desk that was made to look new but is now looking old again.  Even though my legs are numb from sitting at this odd angle I think I’ll write here again.  A padded stool may be better than a broken chair.  I’ll keep an eye out for one when I’m on the road.  Like this desk, and my writing experiences, one man’s trash is another’s treasure.  It’s all in the way it’s finished in the end.