THE CHICKEN COOP AND THE MATTRESS FACTORY

This came to me today in an email from Tut:

"Most don't stop to think, Lynne, but both having money and not having money make fantastic adventures possible that would not otherwise be possible.
Same for having, and not having, anything else.
Everyone's a winner in time and space - The Universe"

I was driving home from my critique group the other day and took a little side road, getting lost in the process, but look what I found!

A chicken coop almost exactly like the one that used to be on the back property where I grew up, except ours was longer. In one side of our chicken coop my birth dad built what has been called for sixty-five years, a mattress factory. In the mattress factory he built...well, mattresses. That is, until he crashed in a private airplane in a snow storm and died. Then the mattress factory ceased to function.

This is what I wrote this week in my manuscript about the mattress factory. You realize, of course, that I don't have "rotten sisters." This manuscript is a work of fiction, worked from scenes plucked from my real life. I have always felt cheated that my dad died before I was old enough to know him and this chapter is heavy with that regret. Here's a bit of it:

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"I whirled around and left her standing in the strawberry patch. I went where I always go, to the mattress factory. I was supposed to set the table for dinner but they could eat right out of their hands for all I cared.

"I sat on the sofa that my dad built and laid my head down on the arm. It smelled like dust. Pat and Julie probably watched him make the sofa when the frame smelled like new wood and the fabric was bright. They knew what the mattress factory looked like when it wasn’t laced with spider webs, so thick with dust that they looked like twine. They had watched Dad feed mattress ticking into the sewing machine when it wasn’t pocked with rust spots and the belts weren’t cracked. They probably sat on the big table and swung their legs and watched him use the huge scissors that are so rusted they won’t even open. They have clean, sharp memories. All I have are imaginary ghosts.

"I pulled the notebook out from under the middle cushion and wrote about my rotten sisters. I wrote that Mom said I was compassionate which was as bad as saying you have nice feet when everyone else is being praised for looking like Miss America.

"I stayed in the mattress factory until I was sure dinner was over and the dishes were done. When I heard the screech of the mattress factory door I shoved the notebook under the cushion and looked up to see Mom picking her way around a pile of bed springs, carrying a tray with a dishtowel over it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, you can see why I loved the chicken coop when I saw it. It almost made me cry, it was so beautiful. And it's certainly not something people "with money" would have in their back yard. But, it brought me a whole soul full of joy and I'd give almost anything to have it in my back yard.

And then further down the road, where I was lost, I saw this marvelous tree and it gave me happiness again with it's ungainly beauty.

So, I think I was not lost at all. I think the angels sent me on a detour. I thank them.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO? TODAY'S LIST.

If I had unlimited money here is what I would do:

1. I would hire a dentist to take care of all the people I sent to him. I would hand out notices to people with missing or bad teeth--I have seen some doozies in the past week.

The notice would say something like: "You are invited to participate in some new dental procedures. Your teeth will be taken car of, free of charge for one year." And then I'd throw in, just for fun, "But there's a catch, you have to tell the dentist how many people comment on your beautiful smile." Or something like that.

Obviously I would work on wording but you know how blogs are? You write it. You post it. No time for editing. Later, when I re-read my blog I often think, I can't believe I posted that, but it's too late. A bunch of people already read it and then there is no doubt in their intelligent minds that I have a pea-brain.

2. I'd go to Europe--for a long time--a month, two months. I would go to the ends of Paris and walk back. Until I were tired and then I would take the Metro.

Phil will be with me as he is most helpful on trips. Actually, he is most helpful at all times. As my daughter, Gilmore Girl would say, "He is a pleasure." He would be my Paris pleasure. Actually he is my life's pleasure but that's something to think about later.

Or I would go to New York City and go to a bunch of Broadway shows.

I would do all the touristy things like go to Chinatown and Soho and the museums. I would do all the things that real New Yorkers never do.

I would stay up late and eat out in all the little places that cab drivers recommend and really see the city--for as long as I wanted.

Or I would go to California, northern California, and meander down little roads leading to wineries--even though I don't drink. I think wineries are magical, beautiful sorts of places.

If I could find an olive grove I would buy into it and be the proud owner of a private label olive oil. I would say thing like, "Our olive oil has a subtle buttery taste." (Are you impressed with my "subtle, buttery" words? I stole them off a web site.)

Then I would dip a crusty piece of San Fransisco sourdough bread in it and hand it to you and simply say, "Taste." You would be enchanted with my subtle, buttery olive oil--and with San Francisco sourdough bread.

I'd go to a beach, even though the northern ones would be cold, but I would just sit there and watch the waves and think. One of the things I would think about was why I was not young. And thin. And beautiful, like this woman.

Or I would go to my home town and see what my cousin has done with the house I grew up in. Wonderful things, I hear. When I do that I'll post pictures. Or I'd just go somewhere. Anywhere. I would go soon.

3. I'd buy several tons of malaria nets for the African people. And pay for wells so they could have fresh water.

I have a friend who has gone as a volunteer with the Mother's Without Borders group to Africa twice--or it may be three times--to help where ever she could. She loved it. It is a wonderful work they are doing. This picture is from their website.

4. I would find single mothers and pay for their rent and food and necessities while they got an education so they could support their families. I would drop off a box of surprises--things they needed and luxuries that they didn't need--once a month until they were fully ready to take care of their families.

5. I would take classes. Classes in writing. Classes in art. Classes in photography. Classes in what ever I wanted. Who am I kidding? I'd have to take classes in how to have 48 hours in a day first.

First of all though, I would pay all my bills and debts and take everyone I loved to dinner. It would be a month long party. There would be much celebrating in the land. And toasting--with 7-up or sprite or some such thing. And eating of sourdough bread, dipped in olive oil, with a subtle buttery flavor.

So, that's what I'd do if I had unlimited money.

What would you do?

FORGIVENESS

I had lost some money. A tidy sum. I didn't dare tell Phil. I felt awful about it. I was careless. I'm like that sometimes. Careless and casual and irresponsible--laa-te-dawing through life.

Yesterday Phil took the stack of newspapers out to the recycle can. I was going to go through them first to see if I had dropped the envelope on top and it had gotten mixed in, but he took them out a day early. Tomorrow the recycle truck comes and I HAD to fess up and tell Phil why I was going to trudge inside with an armful of papers and make a mess in the tidy (because the home teachers came) living room.

I unburdened. I waited for the sighing and the reminder that I'm careless. I waited.

"That money is not in the newspapers. You'll find it," he said. This is the same thing Pam had said--I had told her because I knew she wouldn't sigh and remind me that I'm careless and I simply had to tell someone.

I waited for the other shoe to drop. Waited...waited...waited...nothing.

"Phil," I said, "I've looked everywhere--FOR A WEEK. It's gone."

"It's okay," he said. "It's just money."

My eyes bugged out of my head. Just money? Honestly, he's lost his mind, I thought.

Our water heater has decided to breathe it's last, flooding parts of the laundry room and flooding the bathroom. The water should have gone down the laundry room drain, but things being what they are, the floor slopes the wrong way. Thank you, builder-who-cut-every-corner-possible. So, obviously we need a new water heater, if not a new floor. Which costs money, like the money I'd lost. Not enough to pay for a new water heater but enough to pay for part of it.

"Have you prayed about it," Phil asked in a mild mannered Clark Kent voice.

"No."

"Well, do that and you'll find it. If not, it's okay."

Now, how can you not adore a man who treats you like that?

I said a silent prayer, went into the kitchen, set the timer for seven minutes and thought, Maybe I can get the table cleaned off in seven minutes. At least this will take my mind off the lost money.

Seven minutes? Ha. I am still wrapping and bagging caramels and all the other fru-fra of Christmas is there on the table. Seven minutes wouldn't be enough time to even start but guess what? In less than seven minutes I found the money.

"I found the money," I yelled downstairs to Phil, who was talking to a plumber who was supposed to install a new water heater for a prearranged price.

"I knew you would," Phil said.

The plumber was also happy to hear I found the money so he quoted almost $400 extra dollars to re-rout the gas line--or some such thing--the mechanics of this kind of thing escape me--and install the water heater.

I forgave him his greediness because Phil forgave me and it felt so good--to be forgiven. I forgave him and gave him a bag of caramels when he left.

Phil is going to install the water heater. He can do anything. Include forgive people who are careless and irresponsible.