I moved some furniture today – oh, a loveseat and a couple of chairs. And then I toted boxes too, boxes in which I am collecting the tools I find around the house. I transported afghans from the porch to the living room . . . I steam cleaned as well. Almost forgot, I moved the little fire stove out of the corner and about two to three feet south against the east wall. So now we have a speakeasy alcove in our cafe and roadhouse, our little Foo Bar. It is the place where we are refined, where we think of poetry and poetic prose, where decisions are made, where we frown inwardly when we fall into being our second-rate selves and . . . well, that is yet to be seen.
But wait a moment, speakeasy seems not the right word for these sentiments, yet it came right to me and I like it just fine. It’s okay . . . we tend to pull odds and ends together because we like them and because they usually work out. At least for us.