I’m not sure if creeps are silent, as a rule, but the kind I’m referencing is deadly quiet. Picture our house. We have 6 tables downstairs, which sounds a bit extravagant but it’s not. Our sun room has two tables. One of them i(above) s a beautiful round table set with bright mosaic tiles. It’s tall, too, with 4 tall chairs. The other is low, glass-topped and has a love seat and chair next to it. When we have home group, the women often cluster around these tables to eat dinner. (Trust me, I am going somewhere with this. OK, I can hear my dearest widower encouraging me to get to the point). Kitchen- 1 table. Dining room- 1 table. Living room and family room- one coffee table each. There.
Now to the back story. My dearest widower is always writing. Nothing fun, I assure you. He has reports and court cases and research and other official writing. He LABORS over every piece. For one thing, he’s a perfectionist (and I suppose he could be sued if he wrote something goofy, which is why I blog and he doesn’t). For another, he has some word-finding issues, which is why I love playing Scrabble with him, only he won’t play anymore. Finally, my dearest widower has some remnants of childhood magical thinking. (Do you know what that is? I had a young student tell me he learned to read because of a jacket he was wearing. That was totally magical thinking. I had worked my buns off teaching him to read.)
Signs of magical thinking: My widower has this idea that he writes best when he can see out a window. I call it being distracted. He has this idea that a new table will somehow create a breakthrough. I call it materialism. He also believes he writes best if he keeps changing rooms. I call it wanderlust. Finally, my widower builds up so much writing debris in one spot that he must change rooms. I call it nasty encroachment.
I hate to say it, but my widower has the creeps. The writing creeps. Like kudzu or some other invasive, tangled, strangling vine, my dearest widower has contaminated all but ONE table downstairs. Did I mention he has an office upstairs? That we created an office so he could write without distraction, in one place, with windows, and with a whiteboard? You have to understand that his writing is not merely confined to 6 tables, counting his office. He spreads eraser crumbs on every inch of each table and on the floor. Yes, he writes by hand on legal pads, keeping the paper industry in business. Crumbled balls of paper, bits of snacks, and partly finished glasses of iced tea are all signs of his labors. He’s “Hansel and Gretel: Writing Their Way Home.” It’s the creeps!
Me? I have one table. Well, a part of the kitchen table, too. Yes, I have commandeered two entire rooms, but I DON’T have the creeps. I watch Hoarders occasionally to remind myself that I am NOT hoarding teaching supplies. I am merely stockpiling for all those teachable moments. My greatest relief is that my dearest widower’s creeps are not contagious. I am fine. I am perfectly fine.