Because I have closed my office and now use it as a guestroom, I’ve moved my desk, printer, and stuff into a corner of my bedroom. These items take up a little more room than expected, but I’m not back there much. I’ve given up on the “great American novel… written by a woman over seventy.” So, I’m only back there to pay bills, send emails, check my Facebook page, and write this column. It’s different.
I’m used to looking out a window when I’m working, so I had to adjust to looking at the backyard. There are no children on bicycles. There is no postman. There is no sunrise and no one coming to the door. At this time, that Ring Doorbell really comes in handy. My “Alexa” says, “There is someone at the door.” Of course, if I can find my cell phone, I can look at it and see who is out there. However, in my aged condition, it is quicker to go to the front door.
Life is different in my little tuckedaway office. There are shoes everywhere. When I worked up-front, I didn’t leave my shoes scattered around. If I do have to get up and run to the door, I have to tiptoe through the Clarks and the Sketchers and the “looked like Sketchers in the Goodwill store.”
The other day, a nice couple came by with a letter from the IRS about their missing refund. I wasn’t sure what they had done wrong, but during the summer, I have told them to expect a letter explaining what they had done wrong. This time, I quickly looked over the new letter. The wording seemed to indicate that the preparer had made a mistake… WONDER OF WONDERS.
After I made them promise never to tell anyone how many pair of shoes were on the floor, how messy the bed was, and the number of coffee cups which had mysteriously found their way to that room, I took them back to the office to make the corrections to their tax return. He perched on the foot of the bed. She sat in the rocker and held the three blankets. With corrections made and the sad news that they were not getting a refund after all, I made sure they had their Covid shots and led them blindfolded back to the front door.
Maybe moving the “little office” to my bedroom wasn’t a good idea, but it will probably scare the people who go back there, and I’ll be bothered by fewer intruders.
Last week, I took inventory of what I was seeing out the bedroom window. My computer monitor blocks out the trash bins. So, my view of the world is basically the top of several trees. That night, the pine tree looked like it had tiny Christmas lights strung in each cluster of needles. The tiny amber lights twinkled in the setting sun. As the sun set, the lower limbs shut off their glitter. One by one, each limb fell victim to sunset. It took a long time to write that column. By the time I got around to proofreading, the sky was black, and the flickering lights had faded.
Who cared if the column was misspelled, or the clients went home shocked by my messy room. I had my quiet place and my twinkles to look forward to.
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