Since the foot or more of snow meant I wasn’t going anywhere — please, someone tell me again why having four seasons is awesome when one of them is winter — I spent most of the day at my dining room desk.
Sitting in my office chair, my legs barely fit, and other than a pencil I pull out from time to time, 99.9 percent of the stuff in the drawers is probably useless. I might be able to dig out a rubber band, paper clip or tack, but you also may be able to get a floppy disk from the early ‘90s if you dig hard enough.
And unless it falls apart — and there’s no sign at all of that happening — you’ll never get it away from me.
I’ve had that desk more than 30 years, if not 35. I don’t remember what grade I was in when I got it — maybe as part of a larger furniture delivery at my parents’ house — but I remember being excited to get my “big boy desk.”
I didn’t take it to college with me, but otherwise, the desk has gone with me to three apartments and three homes, eventually becoming the place where my wife and I kept our computer.
But to be honest, it was really too small for the computer, so when we moved to our current home a few years ago, she ordered a proper desk for it.
I wasn’t sure what would become of my desk, but then I realized there was a desk-sized space in the corner of the dining room, and I work at home a fair amount early mornings, in the evenings or, on days like today, when the weather is bad.
We had to change the corner when the electricity stopped working on one side of the room (something about the connection between the two outlets being bad, my father fixed the wiring so one of them would work), but it’s my space.
And my desk.