This morning when I returned from my virtually snowless – thanks to the recent warm temperatures – morning walk, the snow shovel leaning cock-eyed by the back door made me think of a Christmas tour of homes Anne and I enjoyed a few years back. You know the kind I mean, one of those charity events where people who know something about interior design open their homes so those of of us who know nothing about interior design can gape, drool, and get great ideas we have neither time, talent, or money to implement.
The segue from snow shovel to home tour doesn’t make a whole lot of sense unless you know that I came home from the tour with a burning desire to create an outdoor Christmas/winter decorating tableau using the kids’ charming, beloved Red Flyer sled. Of course, Hiram wasn’t home when we got home, so I forgot to ask about the sled until several summers later when we were cleaning the storage shed. “Where’s the old Red Flyer?” I asked.
“That old piece of junk? I threw it away years ago.” This from the man who gathers screw and bungie cords on busy roads and stores them in his wood shop.
“You threw it away,” I repeated in disbelief. “You threw away the kids’ charming and beloved Red Flyer sled?”
“It broke the first time we used it,” he reminded me.
“But I had great plans for it. I was going to hang a wreath from it and lean it against the side of the house beside the door at Christmas.”
He stared at me. “Why?”
“It would look charming and beloved,” I explained.
“But it’s a piece of junk.”
And that’s when I gave up on my exterior decorating career, at least until this morning when the shovel leaning cock-eyed beside the back door caught my attention. In my mind’s eye, the handle sported a jaunty red bow and the scoop was stenciled with a perky, little snow family. It would be so cute and serviceable, too.
Then I imagined my husband the next time it snows. He would bound in the house all frosty and triumphant. “I went outside to scoop, and saw that some fool, one of the nieces or nephews at Christmas I suppose, messed with the shovel and tied a ribbon on the handle and dabbed some abstract art on the scoop. But don’t worry. I cut off the ribbon and spray painted the scoop. It’s good as new.”
I examined the shovel and shook my head. Instead of allowing my design prowess endanger our marriage, I came inside. But all morning I’ve been dreaming that some dumpster diving decorating diva rescued our old Red Flyer sled and repurposed it to create as many charming, beloved memories for her family as it did for ours.
In her eyes, I hope, it was not a piece of junk.
