A Writer's Holiday

Did I tour a colonial home this week? Nope. Time for a story that will explain the pictures above.

When I was a little girl, my mom would load all three kids on the Greyhound bus every summer and we would toodle on down Highway 1 (I knew the names of every single stop along the way) to visit Grandma for two weeks. Grandma lived in Ojai, and her house was the BEST!! Croquet, raspberry bushes, orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees, a great big hammock, a tire swing. Who could possibly not have fun at Grandma's house? Grandma also had a rolltop desk in her den. When I wasn't making lemonade (a daily event) or playing Army guys with my brother on the den floor or going on an outing to the beach or walking around the corner to the grocery store on an "important errand for Grandma," I liked to sit at Grandma's rolltop desk and write.

Let me point out here that I didn't really know HOW to write at this time of my life. I may have mastered printing my name and telephone number, but I know I didn't know how to write cursive. Maybe I could read; okay, probably I could read. But that desk called to me. It had fun cubbyholes and pretty paper and stamps and all sorts of things to use. When I sat at that desk in the rolly chair, I felt important. Whatever I was doing while seated at that desk was important and grown-up. I would sit for a long time (maybe hours, maybe not) and "write" on pieces of Grandma's stationery. Line after line after line of squiggly scribbles. I was writing.

For years now I've been looking for a rolltop desk like Grandma's. I've wanted it so I could have my own little "writing station." Yes, I have an office on campus. Yes, I have a sewing table converted into a computer desk. But that's not the same thing as what I had at Grandma's house. I've wanted a space of my own, a place where I can store pretty paper, pens, and cards. A place to sit and write what I want to write for myself, not for work.

Just after Memorial Day I poked around a fairly new consignment shop, just to see what was there. They had a rolltop desk and a drop-leaf desk, both with fun cubby holes to store writing materials in. I looked and thought and tried to talk myself out of the purchase. I told myself delivery would be a hassle; the store delivers for a $25 charge. I told myself I didn't have room in my house; I ended up measuring and going home to check.

Bottom line, as you can see from the pictures: I have a desk and rolly chair, a writing station of my own. (The rolltop didn't fit the space as well, so I went with the drop-leaf, which you have to admit is prettier with the little spindle legs, right?) Every time I look at it I feel happy. Grandma's desk went to some relative five years ago after her funeral, and the house in Ojai has probably been sold and resold. But I have a writing space that reminds me of her.