Our blog usually focuses on our reading experiences, and this story is about where and how I write, but since I write about reading, I think it counts.
I have been on a quest for a tiny writing desk to fit this little niche I have in my living room. The family computer is almost always in use by someone else when I'm ready to blog, so I've really been looking forward to the day when I had a space of my own.
At the end of last year, I find the perfect writing table. Fortified with some Christmas bonus money, I order the piece. I'm told that I'll have it in 6-8 weeks. I finally receive the call that the piece is available for me to pick up on Mother's Day (22 weeks, but who's counting, right?).
So after a lovely Mother's Day brunch, my husband and I drive to a Maryland warehouse where we're met by two Russian guys who have the desk. The whole thing seemed like a scene out of a movie, but I didn't care. There, on the loading dock, was MY desk, in all its inspirational loveliness. I checked it all over, the guys loaded it into its box, they put it into the back of my husband's truck, we lash it down behind the cab, and we drive off.
After a week of steady rain, we enjoy cruising along in the beautiful sunshine. We chat about how easy this all has been and how great the desk is going to look in its spot. As we approach Virginia, we drive on to the Wilson Bridge going about 65 mph, and my husband starts yelling, "No! No! No!"
The wind catches the truck from the side and whips the box out of the truck, it lifts a few feet in the air and blows down the road, lands on the bridge, and proceeds to roll several feet before landing half on the shoulder, half on the road. Somehow the box doesn't hit any cars nor is it hit by anything--everyone just swerves around it.
In no time my husband pulls over and is running down the shoulder to get the box. I sit there horrified by the possibility that he'll be hit by a car and by the certainty that the desk is now a pile of matchsticks inside the box. I see him struggling to carry this clumsy box, so I jump out and help him get it into the truck.
We lash it down again and drive away. We pass the rest of the ride in silence, the only sound my occasional sniffle. I wipe away furtive tears each time I think of what has happened.
When we get home, I head for the house, call my son, and tell him that he needs to help his father. I cannot bear to even look at the damage. A few minutes later I peek out the window and see the battered empty box at the curb. Then I hear them coming up the stairs.
They are carrying my desk, and it's in perfect condition! There isn't a scratch on it--there isn't a wobbly leg--there isn't a cracked drawer--there isn't any loose hardware. It's perfect--even lovelier than when I fell for it in the store.
Despite its very treacherous journey to our home, here it is in its rightful place, where I hope it will live for many, many years. And see, it has inspired my writing already.