Читать книгу Cottage Daze - James Ross - Страница 4

My wife will never understand the life of a writer.

Sure, she works hard. She heads off to her restaurant every day, where she slaves over the grill, settles staff issues, and deals with the demands of spoiled customers. She helps bring in the money necessary to support our family of six. I will give her that. But I work hard, too — she just doesn’t always see it that way.

She comes home early from work today to find me relaxing on the back deck, sprawled out in a lounger in the sunshine. A good book lies open on my lap. A frosty beer sits on a side table, along with a pen and an empty notebook. Dark shades hide my eyes, which are shut. Many would be convinced I am sleeping, but I am simply meditating, dreaming cottage thoughts, and thinking about the summer days at the lake that will soon come.

I have filled up the kiddie pool and have it placed just off the deck beyond my bare feet. In what I thought was an inspired touch, I have taken my wife’s beautiful carved wooden loon from its prestigious perch atop the fireplace mantel and have it bobbing around in the sparkling pool water.

“What are you doing?” my wife shouts, rudely awakening me from my slumbers. I try to spring to my feet, but instead, in my half-dazed state, I jump on the foot of the lounge chair. The lounger, in turn, tilts forward and springs me off the deck and into the pool with a splash. I pretend this graceful dip was my intention all along, sitting in the little wading pool splashing water over my upper torso.

If you have ever wondered what an incredulous expression looks like, all you have to do is witness the look my darling wife is giving me at this very instant. I must be a very funny sight, a big guy like me sitting in this little pool with sunglasses askew, but my spouse does not even smile. She does not even chuckle when I jump back with a little yelp, having seen a headless wooden loon swimming towards me.

“What are you doing?” she repeats, speaking very slowly and succinctly, making me for the first time realize the dangerous predicament I am now in.

“Why, I’m working,” I say. Her expression of incredulity sharpens.

“Research,” I try. “Writing is all about mindset.” (I’m not entirely sure she is buying it.) Her hands stay fixed on her hips. I can’t help but notice the colour rising, the fists clenching.

“I was suffering from a tiny bit of writer’s block — and I need to have a ‘Cottage Daze’ column in tomorrow. I needed to get into the mood.”

I sense I’m making some headway finally. I notice her head nodding slightly.

“Ah, yes, of course … then perhaps I can help,” she offers graciously.

My accommodating wife quickly fetches me a gallon of deck stain and a brush. “Pretend it is the cottage porch,” she says, pointing to our oversized cedar patio deck.

Later, while she has me chopping firewood, trimming trees, and raking well into the twilight hour, she bustles about in the rickety garden shed. I must admit, my wife has quite the imagination when she applies herself. With a little bit of a rustic touch, she soon has that clapboard shack looking much like an old cottage bunkhouse, complete with mice, spiders, and a thin little lumpy mattress and scratchy wool blanket for me.

“Good night,” she says. “Hope this helps get you in the mood.” She wanders off to our comfortable house. I light the oil lamp she has kindly provided, grab my notebook, and put pen to paper.

Yes, writing is all about mindset. Perhaps my wife understands the life of a writer, after all.