The Chair That Made My Day

Sometimes circumstances converge to make a perfect storm of creativity. Today was one of those days. Remember Laurie The Queen of The Baked Goods? The other day she brought me an old chair, asking me, "Do you think you can do anything with this?" Lots of people think of me when they have castoffs to get rid of...I choose to take it as a compliment. This chair (again I've neglected to take a before picture) was full of promise: it had orangey red paint chipping off the wood and the seat cushion was upholstered in tan naugahyde...it looked like a giant Nilla wafer. Can't really go wrong with the Nilla Wafer.

Repainted in a richer shade of claret red, the chair was already beginning to show its goodness. There was just the matter of the Nilla Wafer. I thought I had some remnant fabric to redo the chair and was frustrated not to be able to find my stash. I thought I'd have to cave in and go buy a remnant from Calico Corners ...not exactly a sad thing—I LOVE going to the fabric store to see what's new in the rich world of textiles.

Against my will, I was cleaning my bedroom this morning when I happened upon one of my secret baskets. I keep baskets around the house where I store treasures...almost like I have an ongoing scavenger hunt with myself. Often I don't remember what I've put in the baskets. Today's hunt revealed an old Peruvian sweater that I have been holding on to for the past nine years. It is the first sweater my husband ever brought back from Perú to my Mom at the beginning of our engagement, nineteen years ago. For nostalgia's sake, I took it from her closet when she died, though I knew I wouldn't wear it because it didn't fit me well. Did I mention my love of all things Peru? Did I mention how I miss my mom? I just couldn't bear to let it go. I knew it would find a way to be redeemed from it's frumpy oblivion.

Epiphany! I pulled it out and ran upstairs, grabbed the staple gun and began stretching it over that Nilla wafer. The pieces all fell into place, like it had been planned from the beginning of time (a wild exaggeration perhaps for a small scale chair refurbishment but that's how it felt)

It made my day. Redemption. Did I mention we needed extra seating for Thanksgiving?

Pride Before The Fall

I was feeling pretty good about myself yesterday...just before “The Fall".

The weather has gotten chilly, and to a girl who has gone soft in the milder climes of the Bay Area, that means I want to snuggle down and read a good book. Inspired by rain on Friday, I bought a new book, solely on the strength of its jacket art, called “Her Fearful Symmetry”, by Audrey Niffenegger the author of Time Traveler’s Wife (didn't read it, saw the movie- don't get Eric Bana). This weekend, I had a chance to sneak a peek at the opening pages and, as usual, my ability to judge a book by its cover is unerring. At first I thought that Ms. Niffenegger was British because her story begins in London and she writes phrases like “hooliganish glamour “ and spells the word ”marvellous” rather than “marvelous.” But she hales from Michigan. She is just a sneaky genius.

All my life, raised on the words of CS Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, I wanted to spell the words colour, armour, and honour with their British spelling. (see I just did it) I wanted to be able to say indolent instead of lazy without feeling self-conscious. There is something about the cadence of a British writer that is lyrical and nearly over the top without trying to be something it isn't. P. D. James and John LeCarré are allowed to use words like “ingénue” complete with accent aigu and feminine agreement without feeling pretentious—after all, France is just a Chunnel away. Sigh, I’ve always wanted the tool belt of the British writer. Somehow, even when I use these implements in what seems like a natural, offhand sort of way, under the critical eye of my read back I think, “affectation much?” and viciously edit the brit out of my writing. You see, I dare not be associated, even loosely, even in my own mind, with that class of nincompoop American soccer commentator that says words like “pitch” and “boot” and “nil”, making me yell at the telly on a Sunday afternoon, “For the love of honey Phil Schoen, have some self-respect, you’re American. That’s what Ray Hudson is for.” My husband and his compatriots call this particular affliction “huachafa” and I would like to avoid that nasty little indictment if possible.

Envy, my name is Meghan. Ms Niffenegger has managed where I failed. By setting her book around High Gate Cemetery in London (where it seems, according to her biography, she once worked though she now lives in Chicago) the author has come up with a device by which she is allowed to use all those coveted Limey tools. Absolutely brilliant! And with my not- so-thorough background check on the author in hand, I am anxious to read more of her book. What to do? Should I draw (see how I did that?) a nice hot bath and settle in for a chapter or two? But what about the $1000 overuse penalty on my water bill that came last month as a result of the Incident of the Leaky Toilet? At our home, we need to prove to the Water Co. that we are not profligate water wasters, so until that matter is settled, no long baths. How about a cozy fire, some hot tea and my book? No tea. No matter how I try, I can’t get used to the feeling of drinking potpourri. I’d like to be a tea drinker but there goes another Anglicism thrown into the Boston Harbor. Also, no luck on the fire—I think it’s a “Spare the Air” day, so no profligate wood burning either.

All this naysaying decides me: Forget the book, I should go ahead and tackle that chore list I had already prepared for today. Blecccch. So, I don my blue coverall (this was a genius purchase) and begin to finish the very last parts of my deck renovation. Although the entire project has taken a ridiculous amount of time, I finish up the last bits rather quickly. Spit spot as Mary Poppins would say. So I tackle the sanding and refinishing of the deck furniture. This takes a surprisingly short amount of time and now I’m on a roll. During the application of rosewood oil, I get to phone chat with my sister Wendy. We successfully solve many of the world’s problems. At one point she reminds me, “It’s interesting, even when we are doing charitable or selfless things for others, how easily we can become focused on our own awesomeness in doing those things.” I nod wisely, feeling sorry for those poor oafs who can't get out of their own way.

I should have known things were going to take a turn for the worse when the garbage man did not pick up my garbage. I love to have my garbage hauled away. It is so refreshing: like starting all over. I call the Waste Management Company and leave a message. Then I confront the next item on my chore list. My roof tiles, on the southern exposure of the house, are starting to lose color in spots. Readying for this task, I have already bought two different colored concrete stain samples for testing. So I climb up the ladder to the roof. The phone comes with me, just in case the garbage man comes a-calling: would not want to miss him. A little way into stain swabbing, the phone rings. Caller id tells me it's my sister Jessica. Having enjoyed keeping company with my other sister on the last job, I decide to keep up the trend.

Jessica: “Hey what’s up?”

Meghan: “I am” (witty)

Jessica: “What?”

Meghan: “I’m up here on the roof, staining my roof tiles.” In conjunction with being on the phone, this very sentence should have given me pause. Sadly, it didn't.

Jessica: “Boy you are really handy”

Meghan: “Pshaw....shucks I’m bashful.”(eedjit)

Jessica : “No really that’s pretty impressive.”

At this point I start to think she might be right. After all, I could have been lying in the bath, in front of the fire, enjoying my brand new book. Instead, I’ve saved water, spared the air, gotten beaucoup work done and now I’m on the roof. Booya! I’m awesome. Should have known better. Should have hung up the phone right there.

Meghan: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I fell?”

Jessica: “Chuckle” (she actually says the word)

Meghan: “Gasp!” (ditto)

Jessica: “Oh no! Did you fall?”

No such luck. Instead of me falling off the roof, the entire container of Terra Cotta concrete stain falls everywhere, I mean ev-ree- way-r: all over the driveway, deck and the arbor that separates the two. Horror bull. If I were a true blogger I would have the quick wit to take a picture so people can know what a catastrophe this is. At this juncture, I can go one of three ways:

• Emotional Outburst- nix
• Stain the Entire Driveway- tempting...very, very, tempting but the stain is the wrongest color you ever did see: less like Terra Cotta and more like Terra Loompa (land of the Oompa Loompa just in case you didn’t figure that out) In an unprecedented act of self-restraint I move on to door number three.
• Haul out the Pressure Washer- I hesitate for just a moment, “What about the the water police?” But I really have no other choice. And so, I spend the rest of the afternoon pressure washing the remnants of my pride off of....ev-ree-thing.

Editor's Note: The yellow paint splatter picture came from: http://ooyes.net/blog/how-to-mold-paint-splatter-to-a-face-in-photoshop. A very cool tutorial on how to make this image with photo shop

Redemption

I’m so psyched about my deck. I have finished refurbishing the front portion and, before I move on to the other 200+ square feet of stairs and back deck, I thought I would take a moment to reflect and celebrate before the thrill wears off. I made a bet with my son about how long the new deck could keep me happy, he estimated until Friday (last Friday) and I am pleased to announce that when I walked across it this Monday morning I still got a little shiver of satisfaction and accomplishment.

What is it about refurbishing my deck that makes me so happy? I will let you in on a little secret. I am a sucker for a redemption story: from Les Miserables to A Tale of Two Cities to Crime and Punishment ( the list goes endlessly), I love when somebody spins a yarn about a character who has been deemed useless, rotten or broken and somehow that bread-stealing, vain and selfish, murderer finds a way to be made useful, changed, whole again.

My love of this theme has translated into the everyday corners of my life. I compost, not because I am a tree-hugging environmental-case. Although I do have hippie hair, drive a Eurovan and make my own jewelry, I really compost because I love the idea of taking what is widely viewed as garbage: eggshells, coffee grinds, orange rinds, horse-manure, rescuing these items from their uselessness and helping them make a new life. As I turn the compost heap I witness this garbage mature and transform into something life-giving, full of purpose and rich in nutrients...in my own backyard. Fabulous. In my little world this chore had been upgraded from composting to The Redemption Of The Kitchen Scraps. Love.

I also like to rescue treasure on garbage day or from the dark dusty corners of the Salvation Army Store to repurpose someone’s discards into something new and fabulous. For example, I am already plotting a mosaic for another face of the huge cement cubes that are the footings that hold up my deck. Over the years I collected enough broken shards of pottery, thank you children and minor earthquakes, to cover three of the twelve footings beneath my newly refurbished deck. I learned early, as a young mother of a six, four, two and zero year old that crying over broken pottery is useless. I learned to ask myself the question, “What can I do with this ruined item instead of scolding my children for their cruelly destructive tendencies?” (in the earlier years instead of was almost always after) Once I changed my perspective, my creative outlets have benefitted enormously from my kids’ flailing arms and legs and the occasional projectile let loose in the ongoing casual warfare of siblings. Sigh, the kids have really slowed their production as they’ve grown and with the dearth of earthquakes I’ve had to branch out to the thrift stores. I grumble not, smashing second hand pottery is extremely satisfying and the redemptive process continues.

How does the thrill of refurbishing the deck figure into this story? I would think it obvious but if not, let me spell it out. I wish I had a “before” picture of the deck to help you understand. My father told me this morning that Napoleon Bonaparte was the initiator of the phrase “A picture is worth a thousand words”. Sorry, Mon Petit Général, I have no picture so my words will have to suffice. Because it is less than a thousand words you won’t be getting your money’s worth though. It looked like crap. After power washing it, sanding it down, power washing it again, sanding it down some more....it looked less crappy. Then I ripped out some rotting pieces, cut them down to size and replaced them with good redwood. I stained the whole with a mahogany stain to hide some of the unevenness and then applied a rosewood oil to it (this stuff is magic and I highly recommend it) The deck looks rich and, with its chocolate sheen, kind of delicious. I find it deeply satisfying, not only on a physical level but in that place where redemption took up its dwelling in me, that I was able to participate to redeem that ugly old deck and turn it into something beautiful.

I suppose it could be argued that I lend these simple tasks a certain grandeur to make the dreadful monotony of the mundane seem more exciting. I am willing to accept that if it’s true. Somehow that does not steal any of the thunder of walking across my lovely new deck, laying black compost on my new bed of ornamental grasses, admiring the beautiful deck footing that was once an ugly block of concrete. Furthermore the thrill is not reduced but multiplied by the fact that many of the ingredients that mixed together to create this excitement were destined to doom if they had not been rescued and used for a new purpose. The kitchen scraps, the broken pottery, the rotting wood reflect the parts of me that seemed ruined, ugly and destined for failure and were changed into something useful, healthy, life-giving and destined for good-purpose. Bowled over by the redemptive process, I am grateful to participate in it, on even the smallest level.

So maybe I’m crazy. I’ll accept that too. My particular brand of crazy allows me to walk with sheer joy across my front porch to the door of my house. I’ll take that crazy every day of the week, especially Monday.