A Cool Room

I’ve been writing for a decade, and as much as life moves on and changes, the ebb and flow of the seasons bring about repetitive themes, and I think, “I’ve already written about that—how can I tell it any differently?”  Fortunately for me, I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, so on occasion, I give it a go through the lens of today.  Take, for instance, the heat and humidity of summer.  It’s not my cup of tea.  I become lethargic in this season.  I’ve told you that in a myriad of ways over the last decade.  Yet through the close, muggy lens of this summer comes something new to share.

I run ten degrees warmer than my husband Bill and my sons, Will and Liam.  They prefer the indoor main floor temperature to be set at 80 degrees.  On balmy days of relative 100-degree heat, I find the room in the basement to be my retreat.  I close the door then run full throttle the built-in wall air-conditioning unit.  Not only does it cool the room, it also puts a good dose of white noise into the air.  The combination lulls me into a focused state.

One of the first days I discovered this, I wrote for a solid hour, nonstop.  Then a new yet familiar noise started to compete with that of the air-conditioner.  I turned my head to the left and right thinking my eyes or ears might figure it out.  For a moment, I resolved that the sound must be coming from some activity upstairs.  Only when the noise grew a bit more intense did I recognize it: the baseboard heat had kicked on in the room.  Indeed, the thermostat for the heat was set at 62 degrees.  I turned that dial down as low as it would go, to 40 degrees, and let the air-conditioner belt out its song of summer reprieve.

Regaining Routine

Dad’s birthday is this week, and he’ll be 77.  I think of that as I write because some ambitious sort is outside my office door pounding in fence posts at 8:00 a.m.  When we lived in Rockford, Illinois, Mom and Dad would drive out from Iowa for weekend visits.  Their visit meant getting a lot of stuff done. They wake up and go.  On a Saturday morning at 6:00, I would put Dad on a short leash until 8:00.; then I’d let him crank up the lawn mower.  Like an overly excited Labrador Retriever, he’d pace at the door until he could do something loud outside.  Meanwhile, Mom would have my china closet doors open and be moving glasses and plates to the sink for their annual only-when-Mom-visits bath. 

This morning, I resisted the urge to turn on the box.  I wandered around until 7:00, and then I quietly clattered the clean pans and utensils from the counter where they dried overnight to the cupboards and drawers.  I moved to the laundry room, folded all the clothes hanging on my big wooden drying rack, and folded that monster up to rest in the back corner until needed again.  It feels good to accomplish something first thing in the morning before the world comes to life.  I’m my mom and dad’s daughter.

Next, I went to the basement. To the above-mentioned office. The replacement for my quiet room at the library.  It’s Tuesday, and this is who I am on Tuesdays: the writer, Linda Malcolm.  I’m used to writing at a public table, not a private desk.  I gleaned the crop of my random crap from the tabletop and now have only the essentials.  A drink.  The computer.  A notebook in which to jot down interrupting thoughts. A pen.    

Back in early March, I was interviewed by Elizabeth Christopher, a writer who serves on the board of Follow Your Art Community Studios in Melrose, MA.  Elizabeth has written a series of blog posts on “The Many Paths to Publishing.”  We talked in depth about my writing and publishing process.  Today, I find sensible reminders in my voice via Elizabeth’s words. Here’s the link to the interview: “The Many Paths to Publishing, Part 2: A Conversation with Linda Malcolm.” 

I’m entering the reboot phase—for writing new essays and for reaching new readers who are waiting to read Cornfields to Codfish.

Mish Mash August 2020

I’m burrowed away in the basement in one of those funky rooms that’s undefinable. I’m sitting at a 2’ x 4’ portable table against a light yellow wall that’s been scratched by items coming and going.  When we moved into the house, all of our boxes of unnecessary stuff filled this room for nearly a year.  Now half a wall is populated by boxes and drawers of questionable memorabilia: newspaper clippings, papers from conferences, photographs, architectural projects from the kids’ elementary days—in general, riffraff that has not steeped long enough to merit being pitched.  It reminds me of the vegetable drawer.  Things that are aged—but not green, mushy, or growing sprouts—get a fair chance.  Or those funny weeds that pose as flowers throughout the growing season, only to be identified in late August as impostors.  They soar to the sky with confidence mimicking a perennial, only to peter out with no blooms like a dud firecracker.

This is the staging room for tubs of seasonal decorations coming into the house from the barn loft.  During the months of September through January, I call this the “room where all the magic happens.”  Then, it’s a disaster zone with tub lids laying around and wrinkled paper in heaps from unwrapped glass ornaments. However, it’s a snug place and would be a safe refuge in which to avoid tornadoes.  A rarity here in Massachusetts but for the possible spin cranked up by a passing hurricane or tropical storm. 

The hard black shiny ceramic tiled floor is cold to my bare feet.  I have a throw rug laying under the table.  Insulating my feet, the flimsy rug swims on top of the slick tile, and my toes cannot resist the urge to move it around feeling grooves of the joining grout underneath.  I could see an 8’ x 10’ area rug working nicely here.  Big enough to carve out an office footprint, yet small enough so as not to infringe on the storage space and not needing to go under heavy storage shelves a foot away from my table. 

The hydrangeas are hanging on porcelain door knobs from my great aunt’s house. Harikleia Kuliopolos painted the Greek scenes on the shelf; she paints light spectacularly.

Given the close proximity of a predicted, glancing hurricane, I hacked some hydrangeas off the bush and made bouquets that will dry.  I’m trying two methods: One group of stems is in water and will dry when the water evaporates.  The other is a big branch hanging upside down to dry more quickly.  A simple science experiment to see which ones look the best in September.

During this dry, humid summer, I water the flower gardens nearly every morning, but I have not weeded or taken out stray saplings.  I like to say I have a lot of “undergrowth” this season; that sounds better than “weeds.”  In early summer, I downloaded a plant identifying app on my phone.  I can take a shot of any plant, and whether it’s flowering or not, the app identifies the plant in seconds.  Three saplings out front have unique yet familiar leaves and are growing taller than usual since I haven’t ventured out with my pruning shears.  A couple weeks ago, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, where it was happily broadcasting Christmas music to my neck speaker, and in the app, I snapped photos of these three saplings. 

A black walnut.  A shag bark hickory. An American elm.  All grow in black Iowa dirt.  That’s the closest I’ve been to Iowa trees since November 2019.

Yet, onward.