THOUGHTS WHILE FIXING A SCREEN DOOR
It was an old door, probably not worth fixing. It would have been easier, if not cheaper, just to buy one at the discount lumber center for $17.95 and be done with it. But I promised to fix the door. That was last year.
The door stood on the porch, always in the way, ever reminding me of my procrastination. The day was always too busy, or I didn't want to get paint on my clothes, or I was tired. The lumberyard was closed, or I had something more important to do. But the door waited, just as patiently as did its owners, the sweet elderly couple to whom the door belonged. They reminded me ever so gently from time to time that I still had their door. Never chiding, never impatient, just gently reminding just to let me know.
Their world, I would think to myself, has more time and less to worry about it in than mine does. Then I would tell myself that certainly wasn't true on either count, and then I would just feel guilty about the door. When I have some time off, I would say to myself, I will fix that door. Yes, that is just what I will do. I will fix that door. So I did some of it. I painted the frame, and put the screen on, and set it back up against the wall.
Fall came, and Christmas, then Easter and Spring Break. School was out, and I went away for a couple of weeks. I painted rooms, and sewed, and mowed grass, and even had the grandchildren out for a visit or two. The door stood mute and waited.
Today I just could not wait any more. It was beginning to bug me even in my sleep. That door had become a symbol of any and all of my shortcomings. I couldn't even remind my husband, the workers in my office, or my kids or grandkids of any promises not kept, because, after all, there was the door. The ones that knew about the door reminded me of it, and the ones that didn't know didn't have to. I took care of that myself.
The door is finished. All that is left now is to take it by and hang it up. It probably took all of an hour. My mind is at peace.
The door stood on the porch, always in the way, ever reminding me of my procrastination. The day was always too busy, or I didn't want to get paint on my clothes, or I was tired. The lumberyard was closed, or I had something more important to do. But the door waited, just as patiently as did its owners, the sweet elderly couple to whom the door belonged. They reminded me ever so gently from time to time that I still had their door. Never chiding, never impatient, just gently reminding just to let me know.
Their world, I would think to myself, has more time and less to worry about it in than mine does. Then I would tell myself that certainly wasn't true on either count, and then I would just feel guilty about the door. When I have some time off, I would say to myself, I will fix that door. Yes, that is just what I will do. I will fix that door. So I did some of it. I painted the frame, and put the screen on, and set it back up against the wall.
Fall came, and Christmas, then Easter and Spring Break. School was out, and I went away for a couple of weeks. I painted rooms, and sewed, and mowed grass, and even had the grandchildren out for a visit or two. The door stood mute and waited.
Today I just could not wait any more. It was beginning to bug me even in my sleep. That door had become a symbol of any and all of my shortcomings. I couldn't even remind my husband, the workers in my office, or my kids or grandkids of any promises not kept, because, after all, there was the door. The ones that knew about the door reminded me of it, and the ones that didn't know didn't have to. I took care of that myself.
The door is finished. All that is left now is to take it by and hang it up. It probably took all of an hour. My mind is at peace.
posted by David R. Snow at
Friday, December 02, 2005
2 Comments:
This was written long ago when we lived in the house on East Austin Street in Marshall. It was a filler for Dave's paper; the door came from an apartment occupied by one of our offspring, and was damaged in some unintentional sort of mishap.
Susie, this is not only very interesting, but it's also definitely worth a wider publicaion! It belongs in an anthology of essays. Love, Betty
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