Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter

     Spence says, “I retired so I could hammer wood.” Currently he's hammering maple flooring in the bedroom.

     I only helped clear the room. In multiple trips, I lugged books, closet-floor accumulations, and knickknacks to the loft. He balanced our full size mattress and box springs on top of the twin bed in the guest room. Together we moved the dresser beside the beds. That left a small walkway–no room for the tall desk with cabinet shelves. We moved them to the great room.

     Spence's craft of laying a floor reminds me of sewing a quilt. He sorts through the stack of 2 ¼ inch tongue and groove boards to match colors, patterns, and lengths. Trimming and fitting, he arranges then attaches rows. Louder than the hum of a sewing machine, his work sounds like an exuberant drum solo: clank, tap, bang of boards slipping into place; buzz, zing of the chop saw cutting; rumble of the air compressor warming; and cracks louder than overhead thunder of the nailer hammering boards to the subfloor.

     Little by little through the month of January, he's hammered all but the closet floor and the last board in the threshold.

     I thought the changes would bother the cats, but I was wrong. George checks the rooms from the hallway, yawns, and ambles away to watch birds through the sliding glass door. Emma marches through the guest room clutter and jumps onto “her” antique chair for a nap.