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Resembling a laser-focused aircraft marshal on a busy tarmac, I know my ears will be protected by the sound.  The nail gun is heavy in my hands, and it certainly takes both of them to hold firm as I tentatively climb the ladder.  We’re putting up storage shelves in the southeast corner of the basement, a long-awaited first step in finally, finally providing some semblance of order to the disorganized mess in the foundational underpinning of our home that’s been neglected for far too long.

To be sure, husband is doing most of the work—measuring room dimensions, researching materials and tools, installing outlets, running wires, picking through the meager selection of straight-as-an-arrow two by fours in the racks at Menards, loading (and unloading) the lumber and shelving, all those weighty pieces of bracketing—indeed, all of the heavy lifting.  My home-enhancing contributions tend toward providing assistance whenever Bill needs a second pair of hands but mostly, I’m our home’s interior designer.  Bill does the grunt work.  I just make it all look pretty.  Or presentable, at least.  Homey and cozy and welcoming, that’s always what I’m aiming for.

But today, I’ll make my own mark—literally.  My five-foot-one frame will absorb the kickback.  Warily, I’ll stand within inches of that impossible-to-anticipate deafening crack, the pum of compressed-air as the nail explodes from the chamber and embeds itself into the stud.  Once the deed is done, when my body is no longer reverberating from the impact, I’ll circle the nail head with a red Sharpie marker, date and initial it.  A talisman for future home dwellers, proof of my physical contribution to the accoutrements of our new and improved storage space.

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We purchased our house, a three-bedroom ranch, in 2005.  It was—and remains—our dream house.  Situated along the fourth fairway of The Legacy golf course, it has a spectacular view of the second hole and adjacent pond, nice woodwork throughout, a modern kitchen and is nicely landscaped.  The basement, however, was unfinished.  Oh, but did we have plans for rectifying that situation!  Enthusiastic brain dumps on how we might best use the space and a multitude of ideas for floor plans morphed into one configuration after another time and again over the first several years.

Other pursuits, however, soon consumed our time, our energies and our resources until now, nearly fifteen years since I drove a nail into that two by four.  My husband and I are both retired and, like many Americans, covid quickly and thoroughly put the kibosh on any immediate plans to travel overseas or even throughout the United States.  We still talk about ‘maybe someday’ but I think we both know the deeper truth.  We don’t have any compelling need or desire to finish off the basement.  Currently, it serves to provide a number of satisfactory purposes. 

The exercise space houses an elliptical and my husband’s old Nordic Track, both strategically placed in view of a big screen TV.  Bill has a work space for his computer, with two large monitors.  There are several book cases and a place for him to play his guitars.  There’s the aforementioned storage room, with shelving running floor to ceiling that spans the length of the room.  A section of the basement is my sewing room.  I have a large daylight window overlooking my work space and shelving for all the fabric I’ve accumulated in the three short years since I began quilting.   

We have what we need and then some.  It works for us and no regrets.  Entertaining has never been high on our priority list and besides, how many times would we really make use of a pool table or the shuffleboard table we thought we’d love to have?  No.  A finished basement just isn’t something we spend much time thinking about anymore.  We, however, made an alternate decision and started to look outside ourselves.  I mean, really outside….

Instead of finishing the basement—fireplace, wet bar, billiards table, huge screen TV, exercise room—all those amazing features we once drooled over—we’ve directed our salivary glands to contemplate the new boat we’re getting this spring.  Certainly, fresh air and sunshine have to be healthier for the body—and the soul—than the dim confines of a basement, no matter how lavishly appointed!

More importantly, we’ve come to realize we enjoy our own company and what better way than out on the water, just my husband, our puppy and me.

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We woke up to a brisk sixty-five degrees this morning. That was the temperature inside the house. Outside: a mere twenty-nine…

Apparently, our furnace has expired, or very nearly so. We’ll find out for sure this afternoon after the heating technician looks it over and, hopefully, is able to repair it. ”Nothing major. You’re good to go!”

More likely, however, he’ll tell us we need to replace the thing. Most of the houses in our neighborhood were built roughly at the same time, the early 2000’s and we’ve noticed a surge of HVAC repair trucks in driveways up and down the street in the past year or so. Talk about your planned obsolescence!

Anyway, while it’s pretty chill in here – at 10:17 AM – it could have been colder yet. Just a few weeks ago, we were in the throes of minus degree temps. Per my journal, one day we hit a ‘high’ of eight below! So, a little perspective is in order. 

In the meantime, a cup of hot tea is just the ticket!

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Daily writing prompt
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
View all responses

Oh, my. I wish I was more at ease with myself and around others. Anxiety, I’ve come to realize of late, has weighed on me my entire life. Rooted in self-doubt – no doubt! – I’m always overthinking, overanalyzing and my body always pays the price. Psyche too, I am certain.

I picked up a book at Barnes & Noble recently called The Anxiety Handbook, and I’m trying to use deep breathing, stretching & excercise – movement (!) – to relax my body, undo the knots, and make myself whole. An ongoing process, to be sure.

We recently bought a boat and I am very much looking forward to next summer, being on the water, relaxing to the soothing sound of the waves and the beauty of nature all around us. In the meantime, lots of self-care, enjoying my passions & pursuits while appreciating the many good things in my life!

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you have to start with the egg, the same egg, the very same egg fertilized at the same exact moment, fathered by the same exact man, impregnating the exact same woman, at the same, identical moment in time  

then, after that, anything goes

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Sixty-six years young and it’s only just now beginning to dawn on me that my family’s way of thinking – subtly and not so subtly drilled into me as the only way of seeing the world – well, it just ain’t so.

Such liberation! My poetry, literature and photography peeps, those good friends & new acquaintances I encounter in other circles, all tend to speak in gentler tones, they convey a positivity and sense of gratitude for the good things – and people – in their lives. There’s an openness in their demeanors and an appreciation for beauty, for poetry, for literature, for nature, for love and for music!

No one is perfect. No one person embodies all that is necessary to fulfill the role of ‘model citizen’. But expanding my world beyond the petty jealousies and harsh rhetoric, the gossiping and backstabbing, the disdain and envy that surrounded me for so long – too long! – has helped to bring things into better focus.

I want to close each day knowing I tried my best to be a better person. For me, it’s the only way forward. And in that – such freedom!

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Earlier this month, I participated in the River Heron Review poetry retreat at The Barn at Boyds Mills in eastern Pennsylvania. It was, in a word, amazing.

The grounds were spectacular, and I met some beautiful, wonderful and incredibly kind and talented writers and poets. In addition to those of us who were part of the River Heron Review poetry retreat, I met other writers who were staying there on individual, personal retreats, some of them having come to Boyds Mills five, six, seven times before. Such is the draw of this fabulous place!

This was the first time I’d allowed myself the luxury of flying halfway across the country simply to explore and invest in solitude, camaraderie, and the pursuit of craft. I’d read about retreats such as this before and now I understand why they are so popular and, dare I say, necessary for the development, expansion, and exploration of one’s literary pursuits.

Although I did not “poetize”, as my husband calls it, as much as I’d hoped I would – I did write but, on those days, when the weather was glorious, my other love, photography, drew me outdoors, imprinting ideas of passion and nature, quiet, peace and serenity deep inside my brain and within my soul – I was truly inspired during my stay.

Robbin and Dawn, our intrepid hosts and poetry gurus, provided us with a variety of tools, readings, activities – and encouragement! – which will continue to serve this writer well. A terrific balance of “structured” events and personal “down time” was both welcome and effective. I am grateful.

Next year’s retreat is scheduled, again, for mid-October 2024. I’m hoping to return for another relaxing, exhilarating poetry getaway with these same new friends – and others I’m sure to meet along the way – kindred spirits, all, who enjoy reading and writing, people who ‘get’ me and share in my love of poetry. Until this retreat, I hadn’t realized how much this poetic body of mine craved, how much it needed, to be enveloped in the embrace of others who understand and respect the balm writing affords those of us driven to express ourselves in not just language but via the power of images as well. I cannot explain it any other way.

I’m so grateful to have had this opportunity. One of the things I loved about The Barn at Boyds Mills was the availability of so many little nooks and crannies, places to write in quiet and solitude as well as the soul-nourishing sights and sounds of Mother Nature, all around us.

This poetry retreat was such a fantastic experience. Once more, with gusto!, I am so very, very grateful!

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We’re sitting in the living room after supper.

I’m reading – Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret – can’t believe I’ve never read this before! Bill’s on his cell phone, checking the stats for The Open (they don’t like you calling it the British Open!), when suddenly my husband breaks the comfortable silence.

“Let’s go ride our bikes.”

After an eager and enthusiastic start a few years ago – all tricked out with the latest gadgets and gear – bicycling was relegated to the west wall of the garage where Bill’s Trek and my Townie Electra have hung upright the past three years.

Bill checked the bikes over, making sure the tires were all properly inflated and then, per my hesitation, we simply rode around the cul-de-sac / loop where we live.

And it was GLORIOUS.

I was transported to sensations of freedom and youth and experience and wondered why in the heck I’d let this joyous act of riding my bike pass me by.

Well, no more. The batteries on our odometers need to be replaced and Bill will have to install the bike rack so we can transport our wonder machines to any number of delightful trailheads in the area and then – then! – the splendid exhilaration of new vistas, the heady rush of wind in our faces, tunneled bike trails, glimpses of nature and wildflowers, deer sightings, blue birds, etc., etc., etc.! Even those tired muscles, sure to resurface after such an extended absence, won’t be without some small measure of satisfaction.

More to come, my friends. More. To. Come. 🙂

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quarter-inch is all we got overnight. it must have been a heavy downpour, regardless, as roses lie prostrate below our bedroom window.

I adhered to paved surfaces on my walk this morning, avoiding drenched grass, small puddles, and congregations of mud and street debris.

in other news, four children were discovered alive after more than a month alone in the Amazon rainforest.

my husband and son and I camped during a thunderstorm once. cozy between the two of them, I stayed warm and dry while holes in the corners of the tent made for a miserable night for my two bestest guys.

after far too much of a good thing, I’ve witnessed street after street of wet carpet, furniture, and other ephemera of people’s lives unceremoniously chucked to the curb.

victims of Katrina and other mighty gales have their own stories to tell, gargantuan tragedies unimaginable to endure.