Here's Gertie lying on the couch on the porch. She's pretending that she's not hatching an evil scheme in the tiny little pea brain of hers.

















The Land of Counterpane

by Robert Louis Stephenson

WHEN I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane



*counterpane=bedspread, I looked it up.





When Billy was in Florida for a conference last month, I did some serious reassessing. I knew it would happen. We were apart for 8 days, the longest we've been separated since we met 5 years ago. We've spent an enormous amount of time together. We're very compatible and we love to talk to each other. But I was looking forward to having the house to myself and doing more or less exactly what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it without consulting him or considering his schedule.
I’d planned to do some shopping; maybe take a day trip with my daughters, call old friends and do some catching up on reading and writing. The irony of it all was that I was sick; I mean really, really sick with a very bad sinus infection. All I could do was stay in bed. Oh, I'd get up from time to time and fix something to eat. I had an old friend over to sit on the porch. We hadn't seen each other forever and she was one of the first people I called when I found out Billy was going to be out of town. I was so much looking forward to sitting on the porch with her, having a long catch up conversation and drinking some wine. She came on the night we'd decided on and I tried desperately to rally, but one glass of wine and a little food and I was ready to crawl back in the bed for 12 hours.bleeeeekkkccccccckkkkk!!!


* * *

But– sometimes I do my best thinking when I'm stuck in bed. I was the giant great and still that sat upon the pillow hill and my wooden soldiers were: my Apple laptop Macbook, Travels with Charlieby John Steinbeck(a book he wrote before he got the Nobel prize. He took off in a pick up truck/camper and traveled around America for 3 months with his, get this, French poodle named Charlie. In Patagoniaa book my daughter, Sarah, gave me. She inscribed it thus:" To Mom, This book made me a better person, I can only hope it does the same for you." very funny, Sarah. I had a box of Kleenex, stationary, a bar of dark chocolate, a couple of pens and my magazines; Harper's, Garden Design, Garden's Illustrated and House Beautiful, and my meds.

Because Billy was gone and I didn't have to keep to my side of the bed, I truly did live in the land of Counterpane. I slept in the pillow hill, in the middle of the bed, on my side of the bed, on his side, I spread out. I took care of myself. I read. I ordered take out. I watched movies on my laptop, I wrote, I watched my birds at the bird feeder, and I thought.

When Billy came home from Florida we spent hours telling each other what had gone on in our lives. This conference was so good for him and such a rich experience. It's called Credo. I'm not sure if I've mentioned it or not, I think I have, but if you're like me you can always be reminded of something you've read a long time ago. Credo is a wellness conference. That's the best way I can think of to describe it; wellness conference for clergy, Episcopal clergy; body, soul and spirit.

The day after he got home, we had tons of things to do. We went together to run errands. While we were out we went to lunch at Houston's, sat out on the patio and, well, we got reacquainted. Harper's (one of my favorite magazines)had a big article about the division in the Episcopal Church over the ordination of a homosexual bishop, Gene Robinson. It was a fascinating article about the rift within the Anglican Communion. I read it aloud to Billy as we ate our lunch. Of course, he's so concerned about his beloved Episcopal Church.

But as we talked, I sensed something was different. We'd both changed and grown in each other's absence. It was a rich time.

* * *


It's odd that the house was bottled up; that we'd moved in and hadn't finished the work we needed to do. We'd moved in and, frankly, I was in a frantic rush trying to put a pretty face on the surface for my children who were coming for Christmas. Billy just doesn’t know ANYTHING about organizing a room, much less an entire house. Not that we have gender roles in our home, heaven forbid! We’re a very modern couple, all labor is divided equally in our house. I do the cooking, cleaning, clothes washing and the yard and he pays the bills and handles the tv remote from his chair–––.
He makes the money and I spend it and other gender specific roles.
Seriously, if I left decorating the house to him, we’d be living in a cave in the front yard, a cave with a chair, a television set and a net flix account.
One of the needs I got in touch with while Billy was gone was a need for privacy. Maybe privacy isn't the right word, maybe it is. I needed a room of my own away from the noise, the activities of the main part of the house, a place that would always be available for me, a workspace for my craft, my craft of writing. So while I was lying in bed, sick as a dog, I was moving furniture in my head trying to figure out what it was that frustrated me about the house and how I could find in the house an office or personal private space for my creative side.


I hadn't fully formulated my "studio" plan, but I did tell him that I felt the need for that space.

The other night after supper, I brought up a plan that had finally come to fruition inside of my head. My plan was to hire someone to help me move furniture and organize things. The guest room and the den needed to be swapped. In other words, I was going to make the guest room(aka my creative space) at the front of the house off the porch and the den would be where the guest room was. Lots of furniture, books, bed, desks, television set(the old heavy kind), coffee tables, lamps, you know, stuff would need to be moved. In addition, his office had to finally be cleaned out, that is, boxes unpacked, books sorted, cd’s and videos organized, tons of useless receipts and papers thrown away so that it could finally be fully moved into.

Billy jumped at the idea and agreed that it was time to get it done.
"I love it," he said, "let's do whatever it takes to get this project going." (which is code for, ok, I know this is going to cost us, but we've just got to spend the money.
I knew I couldn't do it alone, and Billy’s just no good at moving furniture. I called Charlie, a college kid who lives down the street. He's started a new job, but he agreed to come with his friend and help me for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

I have to preface this story with the guilt I carry around on a daily basis about not doing any volunteer work that helps inner city kids or the homeless. Billy volunteers on both fronts. He tutors 2nd and 3rd graders at an inner city school and he works downtown at the Hub once a week, which is a place where the homeless can go during the day for respite and for help with identifications such as birth certificates and driver's licenses. He just loves both of these activities and I've been dragging my feet by not getting involved.

I've been feeling especially guilty/thankful in light of this recession we’re in: people losing their jobs, their savings, their homes, and gas prices, and the war and the suffering. I remember times in my life when I felt close to being homeless, when going out to eat was out of the question, even if it was McDonalds, when security of any kind just didn’t seem to be there. There have been others in my family who’ve faced similar situations, so maybe it’s the combination of memories and proximity to the suffering that enable me or force me to empathize with the nameless thousands who are watching their lives crumble. Whatever the reason, not a day goes by that my empathetic response is not triggered for “those who suffer,” as Preacher Billy say.
I stepped outside Wednesday morning to water a few thirsty plants. I was pulling the garden hose toward the street when I noticed, strolling in front of my house a tall, attractive African American woman and her dapper little daughter who was dancing merrily along the sidewalk in front of her. When the woman heard me she turned. We immediately recognized each other. We’d spoken to each other many times. She lives in my neighborhood, right around the corner from me.
In fact, every time I see her I think of the time she rescued Gertie. Not long after we moved into our house, now almost 3 years ago, Billy and I were sitting on the porch when I decided to take Blue and Gertie for a walk. I’d called out to Gertie,
“Gertie, come on, time for a walk. Wanna go?” she’d glared at me then put her head back on her paw as if to say, “Are you kidding me? It’s hot out there,” while Blue pranced and pawed with excitement.
So I left her on the porch curled up in a ball sleeping. Blue and I turned briskly toward the street and left them, Gertie sleeping and Billy reading the paper, his radio on, listening to classical music.
* * *

When I returned about 30 minutes later I saw that Gertie was no longer on the couch beside him.
“Where’s Gertie?”
“Gertie? I thought she was with you.” He’d been oblivious to all of it. He didn’t hear or notice Gertie nuzzle her nose through the little dog fence on the porch. She’d never done it before. But now, Gertie was gone.
We called. We searched the house and the yard. We ran up and down the street. He got in the car and drove around the blocks in the neighborhood. I went searching on foot.
I ran frantically toward the corner of Midland and Reese where I saw a woman, sitting on the steps outside her house. She watched me as I approached and when I came near, she said, “You got a little dog, don’t cha. You lookin’ for her? I got her right here. I caught her with a piece of white bread. She came right to me.”
“You have my dog? You have my dog, Gertie? Really?”
“Yeah, I put her in the fence in my neighbors yard. I figured you’d be around here before long.”
Together we went to the neighbor’s back yard and shoving the wooden the wooden gate open, there before my grateful eyes was Gertie, trembling with fear and delight. I took her into my arms. She licked my face. We spent a few seconds celebrating our reunion. I thanked the woman and waltzed with jubilation back toward the house where Billy was anxiously waiting.
“I found her!” I shouted as I approached the porch. “She’d decided to follow Blue and me on our walk. She’d gotten all the way to Midland and Reese. The black woman who lives on the corner knew she was lost and lured her with a piece of bread!”
Now fast forward: This was the woman I saw strolling in front of my house. I was familiarly pleasant as I spoke to her. Her response was familiarly frank.
“Hello, how are you?” I asked casually.
“Aww, I’m not so good. I’m not doing so good. My boss just told me he didn’t have money to keep me working. My baby here told me today she wanted to go to the zoo, I said ‘Baby, I ain’t go no money to go to no zoo. I ain’t even got money to get a bus ride to go looking for a job. I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do.”
We talked for a few minutes. She’d applied for several jobs at restaurants, convenience stores and as a cleaning lady by going over to the library and doing it online. I asked her if she had a resume. She told me her sister-in-law was going to help her with that over the weekend.
I immediately thought of all the work I had to do. “You want to help me move some furniture and clean?” I pay a good fair wage.
Her face lit up. “When? Right now?”
“Well, I’ve got to go tell my husband you’re going to be here. Give me about 30 minutes. Do you have someone to keep the baby?”
“No, she’ll be fine. She’ll just sit in a chair if I tell her to.”
“You know, I don’t even know your name.”
“My name is Kenya. And my baby’s name is Sharnesse.”
Well, Sharnesse didn’t exactly just sit in a chair. She’s just a little over 2. She’ll be 3 in November. She was a ball of energy, but I’d bought some books and toys as a yard sale for my grandson Matthew. They were perfect for Sharnesse. We read books, played with play dough, played with plastic measuring cups, worked puzzles, sat in the little baby seat I have for Matthew, she was under our feet the entire time we worked, which was about 5 hours.
I’ve never accomplished more in one day.


This is the view as I sit on the guest bed(my office desk:). I love opening the front door and letting the cool porch air drift in. Plus, I get to hear the wren parents who are raising their babies out there.





It was so much better having Kenya here than it would have been hiring Charlie and his friend. I needed a woman. I needed a woman who had cleaned houses before. You might suffer under the illusion that cleaning a house is something that requires very little intelligence or skill. That is most certainly not the case. Kenya brought with her life experience, strength, skill and intelligence. And even though it made everything much more complicated having a 2 year old under foot, I have to be honest. I now have a new best friend. Sharnesse!
Kenya is coming back this week to work. I’m going to try to get the attic organized! What lofty goals! I’m also going to see if there’s anything I can do in helping her find a job. She has a job interview at Perkins on Friday. Hopefully, it will go well.




Kenya, still fresh as a daisy after our hard day's work.