Small slivers of our existence
Yesterday we hosted a woman and her husband for whom our house and property are very meaningful. She grew up here, and he's been accompanying her back to her hometown for over fifty years.
Two years ago they visited, finding a water tank on the southern edge of the forest from where water used to flow to the house. The outbuilding isn't large; the wooden roof was rotten, mosquitoes finding it a haven. It was her quest to locate the structure, merely to satisfy her curiosity. Yet my husband took it as a challenge, fashioning a new roof which he has turned into what he calls The Lookout. He included the railing, making it safe for all ages, and to their delight, it provides a marvelous vantage point to admire the house and woods.
Afterwards we went out for lunch, thoroughly enjoying the camaraderie. She asked what I had been up to, and I noted that in addition to quilting, I was busy with revisions, hoping to publish a third novel later in the year. Both she and her husband were silenced. "You mean, like books?" she said.
I smiled. "Yeah, I like to write."
"What kind of books, like non-fiction?" she asked.
"Fiction," I grinned. "Women's fiction, a little fantasy, sci-fi...."
She sat back in her chair. "Oh my goodness! I had no idea you, I mean, I guess I never asked what you did with your time."
Inwardly I chuckled. While my quilts are pretty, and obviously taking up space on the sofas, her focus was more on the trails and improvements my hubby has made to her childhood stomping grounds. Yet both she and her husband found my authorial exploits fascinating. While she Googled my writing sites, he asked how I thought up my titles, did I experience writer's block. We chatted about it for a good while, then she inquired if I had audio books. I said no and she frowned, then she smiled. "Well, I'm going to tell my daughter about this. She loves to read and...."
It was a lovely manner to conclude our visit. Hugs were shared, then we made our ways from the restaurant. She admonished me to consider audio books, as even reading on a Kindle is too straining for her eyes. I smiled, then we wished each other well. Once in our car, my husband chuckled, noting his joy that my craft had garnered their attention. Rare are the times I talk about my writing, what I had said to them, for it is a solitary pastime, though well complimented by sewing, an obvious endeavor.
I didn't think about it much until this morning, watching the fog drift into our neck of the literal woods. What I do as an author is mostly for myself, for as I told them, I always wanted to write, and woo boy once I got started.... What is an author supposed to look like, act like? We're just like everyone else, except our efforts largely live under the radar. That goes for both traditionally published and indie authors alike, in that there are MANY of us, lol, and a mere handful are well known.
Yet my stories are available in a twenty-first century manner that writers of decades and centuries previous couldn't imagine. What that means in the grand scheme is kind of like what that water tank meant to those who made it. At the time it was vital infrastructure. Now it's a testament to one woman's memory and determination to find it as well as my husband's eagerness to transform it into his interpretation of our property. Just little specks of who we are and why we're here really, pouring love, and at times sweat, as well as the occasional tear or three onto the canvas of our corporeal lives. I made it clear to them my hubby had built that lookout all on his own, then he regaled hauling the wooden joists and marine-grade plywood up to what had once been a necessary, then forgotten, element of the homestead. Yet I can't help but wonder if his amazing effort will now be buffered by a less obvious but perhaps equally fascinating detail when they consider this place. That in the house in which she spent all her childhood and adolescence, other realms are created, some with forests, some on distant planets, and some including the Pacific Ocean. Just small slivers of who we are, and what we'll leave behind.
