For the past two months, we’ve been tracking sand into the kitchen day after day. No matter how often we shake out the rug and mop or sweep, the floor is gritty. If this were summer and we were in a cabin on the beach, the grit would be tolerable payment for paradise. But we’re in Iowa, in winter. It’s not paradise.
The sand issue started a few days before New Year’s. Our sidewalk wasn’t safe for the family arriving to celebrate a late Christmas. So Hiram sprinkled sand on the icy patches and no one broke any bones that weekend. The company left, the suitcases left, the gifts left, and the ice melted one warm day.
But the sand stayed. From what I’ve observed, it doesn’t plan to leave any time soon. It’s settled into every miniature pothole and crevice of the sidewalk, determined to escape Iowa’s cold by clinging to our shoes and moving into our kitchen.
I figure the only way to get rid of the squatters and reclaim the kitchen is to wait for a driving rain. That’s not going to happen until spring, which is when paradise-in-Iowa begins, and after spring comes summer when, if I squint hard enough, tracked sand might convince me that we are at the beach, which could be very good for my mental health. The sandy kitchen squatters just gained a reprieve. Now if I can re-envision them as beach bums and find my swim suit and a mindless novel, I’ll be happy.
A good attitude depends on how you look at things, I guess. Is the sand trap half empty or half full?
