Yeah, who am I kidding? The sort of things I described a post earlier is still in phase 1, the little city plot. The hubbie and I worked all day long together, stopping only for a bite at Champp's down the hill (which, by the way has 16 TVs in a 30 x 20 space around the bar; it's like lunching in the middle of the electronics department at Sears). Hubbie had agreed to come to a party with me, one in which invitees were asked to bring foul manuscripts or misguided rejection letters to burn in the backyard fire pit. I even had my contribution on the dining room table: a recent angry letter that begins like this: "I probably should wait a few hours or even days before responding . . . but there isn't even ONE ELEMENT that I like. . . ."
When we finally closed down for the evening and tucked our 13-year-old into the couch with a blanket, some cough drops, and free reign of the remote control (he's nursing a cold; I should say we're nursing his cold), we built our own pit fire out back and stared at the flames. Our neighbor shouted out, "That looks cozy!" We didn't move and only barely called back, "Good night for a fire." When she came through the side path again she said, "You two look comatose." And so we were. Hubbie said, "Tomorrow I'll build the frame for the broken storm window." I said, "Tomorrow I'll sand and stain the sitting bench." He said, "Tomorrow I should get new bulbs for the floodlights." I said, "Tomorrow I'll cut down the rest of the perennials." He had washed all the outside windows and hung storms on the second floor. And cleaned out the garage, which is a lot like Sanford and Son's because our house is so damn small we tend to keep everything out there. I had cleaned out all the flower pots and beds, repotted the geraniums to store over winter, torn down the vegetable garden, and turned the compost pile for more winter brewing.
He got up and brought back a small shot glass of chilled raspberry vodka for us to share. We had some old birch logs on the fire from the woodpile up at the lake.
He said, "Tomorrow. . . . "
"Stop," I say. "No more chores. My head takes all those lists and sticks them in these file folders in my brain and then my brain clings to them like there is no tomorrow."
"Yeah, see, my brain doesn't do that," he says.
I know he knows how much lately I crave time for wandering. There is SO much to do at work. SO much to do at home. Even my conversations at work have exhausted me. Nothing seems easy lately. That's why I really like having a day like yesterday, despite the sore muscles and stiff neck and inability to stay up past eight. I could wander around our little city plot and pick at a number of things that make up our seasonal ritual. I could turn the layers of compost for awhile, then transplant some clematis. I could wash off all the plant markers and clay pots or I could cut down the old day lilies. It is good just to putz. The two of us seem never to have much time together so there was joy in just putzing side by side. I could brush by him with my hands full of sticks and peck him on the cold cheek. He could ask me what I thought of another firewood shelter and whether he could build it on this side of the fence. We are both grateful for the time this extra sliver of fall has given us.
So as we watched the fire we both knew we didn't have much left in us. He went in to take his shower and came down in some plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a fleece pullover. I took my shower and came down in my red ski pajamas and an old black cardigan. He put up his knobbled knee on a pile of pillows; I drank the chocolate milk from the fridge right out of the bottle. The kid said to me, "I take it you're not going to the party," looking at our get-ups. And then hubbie and I both fell asleep before the teen kid, who watched us from the corner of his eye and was probably thinking, "My parents, man, they really don't know how to have fun."
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