The Adirondack chair by Gillian Telfer Zylka (latest novels to read txt) 📖

Gillian Telfer Zylka Word count 672
gzylka@shaw.ca


The Adirondack Chair


I’m seeking a place for a nice sit. My front lawn is inviting; I’ve never taken a seat here before. The back yard is ripped up, a project on the go, torn silvered planks stacked from the ancient deck, plans materializing in our heads, dollars elusive.
There are many distractions on the street, semi constant traffic, it’s still early rush hour. Lots of green though; grass, trees, bushes. Here comes the bus, not green but blue, all these years on a bus route, handy for the kids. but never knew how busy until now. The sky is a watercolour blue; chirping tiny birds are perched in the silver green leaves threatening to poop. Not on the laptop. Where are all these people going on our little street? It’s a bit breezy out here today, the leaves rustle above my head, and a screw is boring into my back.
Giving up my paycheque to write, I merely observe rush hour traffic now, thinking of trips I have forgone, shopping expeditions I do with trepidation, new vehicles only a dream, knowing a job will provide these things, but will I give up my hours of deliberation? Nah.
I wrote this morning first one of many projects, realizing as I went how much revision I need to do. The little snippets here and the threads there, going through my head, never a single thought, always the abstract, which is the challenge, the excitement and the worry, altogether, it’s what I do
* * *
My project today; looking at Adirondack chairs at Canadian Tire, my only intent was to look, honest. The authentic versions that you would hope to find by a lakeside in Muskoka are expensive, but a sign thoughtfully guides me down to aisle thirty nine where the imitation wood chairs are. Nowhere in sight are these chairs, but what I do find are a couple of dandy cedar knock offs for $55.00 each. What I don’t count on when I get them home, and out of the box, is that there is some assembly required. Okay, my husband has three drills, if I can locate one that has a charge, I am in business. I pull all the pieces out of the box, carefully unwrap them of their ubiquitous bubble wrap and fit them together in a semblance of order, minus the screws mind you.
The mighty Ron mobile pulls up, the 1978 camper ho, and here is Dad, from Victoria unannounced, unexpected. At first I am irritated, annoyed, there goes the afternoon over to tea and biscuits and nonstop one sided conversation (his). The sucking of orange sections in the morning, and meticulous neatening of my otherwise flustered home, are two of the things he likes to do while visiting, but after the hugs and the formalities, well, there’s nothing my eighty year old Dad likes better than to put something together. From out of the camper come all the manual tools he uses on his boat. We figure out the pieces, the drilled holes, the long bolts, versus the medium bolts, the bolts with no screws, the bolts that fit, the bolts that don’t, the screws, the power cord that plugs into the dead power drill. He works like he is figuring out a puzzle, taking joy in each mystery solved of what goes where, and with minutes to spare from his evening dinner arrangement, he has that puppy put together. Minus three screws and without counter sinking the screw that now sticks in my back, I have my made in China, imitation Adirondack/Muskoka chair that I position on the front lawn, right by the shrubbery. Other than looking a little forlorn by itself, missing it’s partner, (still in the box), it adds a touch of je ne sais quoi to the curb appeal of my otherwise green cottagey house. Rick the husband will have to put the next one together. I could attempt it myself. Or Dad might show up again provident and timely as only he can be.

Publication Date: 07-02-2010

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