Solidly into winter here—mind, body, dark and twisty mood, and freeze-your-nose-hair cold outside—I’m trying to keep myself entertained. I’ve been puttering in the room that cannot be named.
It’s weird.
For most of the time we’ve lived here, that room was Cassidy’s room. After she moved out, her bed stayed but the room turned into a catch-all disaster of a room. Early June 2020, I ripped out the carpet, intending to build a Murphy bed and turn the room into my long-desired craft room. In the middle of that project, our world tilted. This Weeble wobbled and eventually fell down. Cooper came home from his terrifying 10 days in a national forest and within a day was hospitalized. What was going to be a craft room hastily became a new, better room for Cooper.
It was his room for almost two months, but it was never really his room. My Cooper didn’t return from the forest. Even so, his “new” dresser and his bed are still in there. Some of his clothes hide in the back of the closet, holding the faintest scent of my boy. He’s still there.
A couple months after he died, I decided to scoot a small table into that room—give the craft room idea a try. A few weeks ago, I added a nomadic dresser—a rescue from an abandoned farm house 25 years ago—to my craft corner. Last spring, I framed pegboard that I intended to use in that room. Last weekend, I finally hung it on the wall. Ridiculous. I know. Gumption is an issue.
Anyway.
That room is a soft grey conundrum. Logan and Cass only recently started using that perfectly fine bed (not at the same time) when they visit, but I love the room. I love my little corner of the room where I can create to my heart and mind’s content and I love that I can curl up on that bed and take a nap, subtly surrounded by Cooper’s few things and my crafty mess.
But winter. Ugh. I’ve been fighting a nasty, belligerent cough for over two weeks, and my stamina is a joke. Unable to lie down or recline for long without a coughing fit, I alternate between resting and doing. That aforementioned rescued dresser needs an update, so I’ve emptied it of supplies and am gradually painting it a soft, calm blue. A comfort color.
That dresser spent years in a house-turned-barn before I claimed it. Paint can’t fix everything; the dresser has issues. Years ago, I removed the veneer from the top of the dresser, but the top is warped. So tonight I was sitting there on my yoga ball with wheels, thinking I should really try to fix the top of the dresser before I finish painting it.
How?
Remove the top and beg my dad to help me make a new one? Try to make a new one on my own, then ask Dad to fix it? Somehow “build up” the low spots to the level of the warp? That seems dumb. Eventually I remembered that I own a hand plane. I can’t remember why I bought it and I’ve never used it, but I own one.
So, I found the plane and started scraping.
The process was fascinating. Ribbons of damage peeled free, shaved from the boards one curl at a time. Layers of paint stripped away to reveal lovely old grain that grew lighter, truer, less damaged with each pass. In a few minutes, I could see the warped area begin to diminish; the change was noticeable but not immediate. Eventually, most of the top was level.
The problem areas are near the edges, and I’ll have to keep working on those places. It’s hard to get a good run at it if I start on the outside, and if I start from the inside, it’s tricky to keep the plane level as it slides past the edge. I’ll figure it out, but not tonight. I have no idea what I’m doing, so I’ll probably screw up in the process, but I’ll figure it out.
That’s kind of my life right now. Some parts are easier to level, but the warped, ridged split doesn’t magically go away. I’d love to be able to plane away the rough spots, smooth the damage into something more appealing, catch a glimpse of the wood grain before I slap on some paint, but I’m no salvaged dresser.
Yes, time is a plane of sorts. Some of the rough edges of this grief—of this unrequested life—are slightly less jagged after 500 days of wear and tear and tears and trying. The pain is still such a dominant force that I don’t always recognize the change, but it’s there. Just before Christmas, after our church’s Blue Christmas service, a friend who’s known great sorrow told me she’s proud of me, that I’m doing better. Through tears, I told her it doesn’t really feel like I’m doing better, but she insisted she can see it. And, she said, it takes time. Lots of time.
And paint.
If the wood is so pretty, you may wonder why I don’t strip the whole dresser instead of painting it. Well, I’ll tell you. The front of the dresser is curvy and stripping those curvy drawers would be a tremendous pain in my ass. I’m sticking with paint. I know what’s under the paint and I know how much work it’d take to remove all the years of damage and neglect before the lovely wood could show. Plus, there’s wood filler in a couple obsolete handle holes. Not pretty. Maybe there will be some beautiful summer day when I decide to unpaint the dresser, to invest the time and toil required to uncover what’s hidden, but for now? Plane and paint, baby. Plane. And. Paint.
I know what’s hidden.
Woods Writes 