The light has gone quiet since the golden bursts that wedged their way into my room, past heavy chocolate-colored drapes meant to block the east rising. Reluctantly awaking, 8AM seemed terribly early when you don’t fall into a dream until 2AM.
Another day of decadence, a staycation that allows me to ride the waves of time.
A day trip keeps calling me, yet, I worry of wasting fuel and precious writing time. I do envision chasing windmills; technologically advanced ones that dot this state from West to East. They are poetry in motion, a white tower with wings. If you watch them from afar, it becomes a mechanical symphony.
Today, however, I ended up at one of those stores that could outfit your entire house from inside out; it was here I found love. I dislike clothes/shoe/accessory shopping unless it is a secondhand place, or an artist’s store; but give me a place with aisles of paint chips and faucet taps of brushed silver to dark pewter; heaven.**
Confession; I also found thrill in observing the men. Their frayed ball caps, slung low over hair curling up with sweat and sawdust. Those once tan lug boots covered in four different shades of paint splatter. Carpenters, I grew up around their dusty lot.
I remember my grandfather, his sleek Italian frame always clad in knee worn chinos, and a white v-neck tee. His arms corded from wrist to shoulder with lean muscle; a man who relished a hard day’s work. He was a coal miner turned carpenter, after he dutifully served in the war. A man of no formal education past eighth grade; he learned his trade, then made a name for himself in two growing towns. Even at his funeral, I heard words of his talent as a builder.
As I looked around, there was a feeling of home; of comfort, watching the skill as they measured, figuring what was needed for the next project. In the lot, they swung truck gate’s open, loading two by fours, and random bits of plumbing. How I wished I could jump in back; ride with them; visit the site to recollect stray nails off the floor. A duty of great pride when I was a girl.
As I left, I spied a man pull up in a shiny black Mercedes. The car seemed out-of-place, pretentious, in a sea of beat-up Fords, and dirty Dodges. His presence made me realize, I prefer the smell of sawdust; a man’s callused hands. I guess I am a blue-collar girl.
**This wasn’t a trip of fun, however, just to seek a replacement for a microwave that decided to host a lightning storm.