Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon woke up this morning intending to wait for a plumber.
You know where this is going.
First, she watered the plants. Then she swept the carport, dusted the porch railing and some window ledges. She even tried an outdoors rug she’d been saving for the carport.
The rug looked ridiculous.
Word Raccoon would like to thank the rug for its service and wishes it well in the next life.
After that, the tool rack caught her attention, and not in a good way.
One thing led to another.
She sorted tools and found a big mystery hammer that she has no idea the purpose of. She found two containers of windshield washer fluid and filed it under “Ask if it really, really needs to be kept here and why two?”
She found brake fluid, lighter fluid, and weed killer. She found enough items for Tox-Away Day to begin wondering if she was secretly operating a small industrial complex.
Then WR wandered into the garage and found the hose.
The hose had not seen daylight in approximately seventeen years. (This may not be technically accurate, but it feels emotionally true.)
Word Raccoon almost got it hooked up, but instead created an unexpected water feature and decided to wait for reinforcements.
The plumber eventually arrived. (He wasn’t coming for the hose. No, those weren’t the reinforcements she was waiting for. The hose is now working!)
Word Raccoon was excited because she thought said repairman might replace the kitchen faucet.
Instead, he tightened the toilet bolts.
Her huge earrings wilted.
However, he also informed her that tomorrow she will get a new kitchen faucet, and then he casually asked whether she wanted a cap where the old sprayer used to be or a built-in soap dispenser.
Reader.
Word Raccoon nearly hugged both him and his two interns who grinned at her excitement.
A built-in soap dispenser! One less bottle to keep on the kitchen counter.
Then, because WR was so excited about the faucet after the plumber and co. left (he named her dream style of faucet and thought it would be no problem to put it in! She had just been looking at one longingly that a cook was using on YouTube thinking alas, it surely would not fit her sink but yaas!), came the garage.
Reminder: WR has been more or less out of commission for a few years physically, only rousing herself for short periods of time to do all the things before finding herself down for the count again. She’s trying to pace herself now because the medicine makes her think she’s fine, fine but the next day…anywho…
The garage has long existed in a state perhaps best described as “vaguely threatening.”
Not dangerous. Just judgmental.
The sort of place where every object quietly asks, “Remember me?”
Word Raccoon sorted shelves.
She grouped like with like.
She established a formal Tox-Away station and swore the paint cans were multiplying.
She created a cardboard management plan.
She designated an old trash can as the official Cardboard Holding Department and promptly filled the can with…not cardboard. (The cardboard was later taken away, and there was a snafu about the other recyclables because the can is full, the trashcan is full, and the trash doesn’t run until tomorrow.) I am explaining to WR that this is not a crisis.
She found items she did not remember having, some quite useful, like a laser level. She wants to hang some shelves in the kitchen in the fall, and that will come in handy.
NBD, but she also found a roof leak in the garage.
Sigh.
That is not her purview.
While cleaning, she also uncovered a sentimental corner containing her children’s childhood treasures, souvenirs, trophies, mysterious objects, and enough emotional complexity to power an independent literary journal.
She left that corner for another day.
Meanwhile, she also discovered broken glass that requires future attention (Where did it even come from? It’s not a window), although she has wisely decided not to poke herself picking it up today.
This is called growth.
No writing was completed, unless we’re counting this because there were other family affairs to attend to.
And yet.
The garage floor is visible.
She also reclaimed a bookshelf from the garage, cleaned it up, and intends on recommissioning it tomorrow for those unhoused books in her writing room.
But she doesn’t even remember owning the shelf. She was thinking of painting it until Stanley sighed deeply and asked her hasn’t she done quite enough painting lately, that it might be nice to leave something with its original finish.
Bossy Stanley.
I’m going to press WR to write a poem tonight, because she seems at twilight’s edge, as if she’s eaten the peach Sarah was given in Labyrinth that made her forget what her mission was.
I’m all for House Gorgeous (still admiring those kitchen tiles, and ordered a smaller amount in a different color to detail part of the down bath today) or at least better, but WR needs to decorate her heart, too. Words (and gorgeous sights) do that.
And I would provide you with some lingering image of all of our efforts today, but if I do that, I will not have the energy to write a poem, and I’m afraid not to.
Here is what we came up with, a notebook poem:
Sarah’s Peach
When you’re starving,
even if you don’t like peaches,
they’re pretty damn good.
(Okay, they’re always good. But still.)
If someone offers you food,
you take it,
not knowing until later
just how much
you will
pay for it.
Fondly,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 