presents

I used to laugh when you brought home “presents” for me during the summer months, presents in the shapes of push brooms, shiny rakes, sharp shovels, the weird-looking gravel rake, and more hose to snake across our property. I laughed because I couldn’t appreciate the gift as a gift. Without those tools my work would have been harder. What we accomplished in those years might not have been possible.

When Mark came back from another trip to Lowes, and said, “I have a present for you,” I laughed with appreciation and a heart full of memories. There was a pair of new leather gloves. Giving up on the idea of sharing all those memories, for the moment, I reveled in the feeling that this is what I’ve been missing.

Home is not just the place we come to rest. In the leisurely drives I used to take in the country-side of Ann Arbor, Grand Junction, and the Black Forest, I would admire the large homes. One home stands out among all others because there was a black dog prancing the edge of his property, a man trimming his hedges, and his wife rolling a wheel barrow down to him in the evening sun. To me, that looked like home.

Sometimes the extent of our project, and the un-ending problems of under-taking those projects, are plain laughable. Sometimes, for the sake of satisfaction, I will clean a window before calling it a day. When the last glow of the evening fades from Pikes Peak, and I am tired in a way I haven’t felt tired in years.