Recovery

One of the few things saved when our house burned was my mother's desk, resplendent in a mantle of soot, bubbled paint, and charred wood. Its fittings -- intricate metal handles -- were roughed and rusted out by some quirky residue, fallout from the burn and the black cloud of smoke that wrapped itself around, well, everything.

It was never a valuable desk; it is plain, solid wood, with three drawers of substance and a maze of divided spaces and drawer behind the drop leaf front. In my 60 years of life, such a desk has always been a part of my life. Like my mother, I am a letter writer, a keeper of photos, and gift-wrapper of enthusiastic proportions, and all the components for such activities lived in "the desk."

Of intrepid spirit, I wanted that desk to be pulled off life support and brought back to life. It was dragged out of the house to a patio, where I spent days soaping it up, washing it down, drowning it in vinegar, fumigating it, and bemoaning the difficulty of its resurrection. In other words, I tucked it in my storage unit and let it sit.

In the past year it worked its way into the house, landing in hallway in all its charred glory. Armed with scrapers, sandpaper, and all manner of fix-it gadgets, I began the slow process of, if not restoration, reclamation of the shell. An hour here, and hour there, and a year, still a shell in charred glory, minus a few bubbles of paint.

As I moved through a period of limited mobility, living in close company with "the desk" on a daily basis, I knew that it was time to try that final fix. I believe my mother was prodding me from whatever space she is in today. I rolled the desk (on casters) into my kitchen and parked a plastic porch chair in front of it. I began to work, scraping the drop leaf smooth, one square inch at a time. Sometime a quarter inch at a time, dropping tiny bits of charred paint to the floor. I worked around to the sides, the trimmings (the worst) and its more ornate footings.

I had started this once before; the resistance of the paint to its removal defeated me. This time, though, I found the pieces giving way beneath my fingers, succumbing to my desire to renew this old-fashioned desk. It was a long process. Clear a small section, then stretch, lie down, apply heating pad to aching back, uncramp legs, come back later and do a bit more. With enough repetition, over a lengthy period of time ( I began this nine months ago), the cleaned up parts became greater than than the unfinished remains.

I broke out the paint. The desk was not going to take stain well; plan two was paint (I am a huge fan of painted furniture anyway). I began with a drawer, testing the paint against the wood and finding myself pleased with the color: Autumn Stem, an auburn brown with a hint of plum that pulled to it the burgundy and brown tones of my furnishings and art. The painting was repeat of the rituals of the cleaning: paint a small section, then stretch, lie down, apply heating pad to aching back, uncramp legs, come back later and do a bit more. Eventually, it will all be done. Patience is key.

The drawers are now finished, restored hardware firmly attached, and stand in a neat row in the hall. The cubbies inside the desktop are painted, hinges reattached, and only one section still needs a second coat of paint. Not today though. Not today.

The top of the desk remains rough; much damage still lives there. Thus I am considering adding a narrow trim to its perimeter, and filling the interior with tile (or a mosaic of broken tile), or perhaps even decoupage. The artist in my mother would approve such a solution to the problem.

I won't make a decision in haste, though. As the desk is assembled, piece by piece, later this week, I will think about it, study it in relation to the treasures it will house and the treasures that will be placed upon it.

It will rest below a huge burgundy/brown toned poster for a production of Madame Butterfly -- fitting, since that was one of my mother's favorite operas as well. There is a certain kharma, a distinct energy, that brings all these pieces full circle to each other.

Tonight my small kitchen smells of paint rather than food, and resembles an obstacle course more appropriate for the cellar I no longer have (a cellar is the perfect place for such projects).

Next weekend, when this desk is seated in its new resting place, with its new facade, the fire that tore our lives apart will truly be over. I'll be thinking of my mother as I sit to write my first letters there. She's smiling, I know.