Last week was marlin week. Any time I catch a wonderful sport fish like a marlin, the event merits an interruption in my blog schedule. This week, we’re back to the creation of my new desk. As you can see, it’s a messy process.

The woodworker, Scott, called to say that he had finished the joinery. He has all the legs ready, and he’s shaving them from square to round before shaping them into their final profile. I was his excuse to buy a lathe (yes, Ranchman is jealous), and he demonstrated it today. It reminded me of the edit process, in which I start with something I think is the basis for a good manuscript and then whittle madly to make the story lean and mean.

As I watched Scott, I recognized a fine touch. He braced his body to ensure that he didn’t take off too much, or gouge into what would become the leg on a contemporary Biedermeier piece. If you look closely at the photo to the right, you see the metal slide in which his left forefinger moves to ensure that he applies even pressure as he glides his tool down the wood. It’s almost as if he’s dancing carefully, the machinery his partner. And in a way, since human and machine are creating this desk, they are partners in the project.

The boards for the skirt are set aside on a trolley, as are the boards for the top. The finished piece is kind of large, so he’ll assemble it after the parts are ready. I know he’s working this weekend, and I’ll resist the urge to stop by the shop to spy. (NOT!)

He’s inserted blanks in the top of each leg, where pieces of the writing surface will fit. The blanks will stay in place until the legs are perfect. If he tries to put the legs on the lathe without the blanks, the slots in the wood might burr, and he’d be starting all over again.

It’s exciting to watch this project unfold, just as it’s exciting to be drafting the next manuscript. I’m more than 10 percent finished, and if I can maintain this meticulous pace, I’ll have a complete draft in May. Most of this manuscript will be written at my new desk, the first NEW desk and commissioned piece of furniture I’ve ever owned.

I’m up to the challenge!

(Disclaimer: I thought this was the fish that would best me.)

What is it about a marlin? Hemingway fixated in The Old Man and the Sea. Anglers regard the species as part of a Holy Grail that includes the chinook; a tarpon; any sea-run brown off the Tierra del Fuego; and a tail-walking steelhead (“the fish of a thousand casts)” caught spey casting while wading the Deschutes.
Striped, black, white, or blue, a marlin is angling braggin’ rights. In my dreams.
In six months, I’ve lost one parent and settled the second in assisted living a thousand miles away. I’ve sold a house, executed an estate, distributed belongings, and seldom been home more than two weeks in a row.
This trip, scheduled a year ago, was supposed to be a break from a frigid winter on my mountaintop. Instead, it was a communications marathon with doctors, nurses, assisted-living employees, lawyers, and adult children.
When we boarded the boat for deep-sea fishing, I wasn’t at my best. Saltwater fish get large (duh). I haven’t been working out because I’m either doing eldercare or recuperating from eldercare. And although I’ve landed a sixty-pound salmon in a river and several thirty-plus pound salmon in the international shipping lanes between the Kenai and Queen Charlotte Islands, I have great respect for ocean currents. I also have issues with . . . seasickness.

It was shoulder season for large species, so I encouraged Mr. Wonderful to take the first strike. He brought a vibrant green dorado, which matched my face, to the boat. I watched from the upper deck, content to escape diesel fumes, as he wrestled his catch.

The captain sent me to the chair. Moments later, it hit. Hard. The line buzzed as the fish headed for Ireland. Three rods were brought in while the fourth was jammed into the holder. I gripped, braced my feet against the cooler, and reeled for all I was worth. Which wasn’t much.

I was dreadfully seasick, facing backward, breathing fumes, rocking sideways. The captain yelled, “Marlin!” and I glanced as it leapt. I was in trouble.

This white marlin didn’t like me. I wasn’t fond of it. I hoped I didn’t throw up all over the rig and thought I might have to try to hand the rod to my husband: ANATHEMA! The fish cleared the water in an arc, and I reeled while wondering if this was going to end well. My triceps and biceps reminded me of the dusty free weights on the office floor, but I kept steady pressure on the lunatic acrobat with fins. Stupid fish.

I kept reeling. The marlin jumped, ran, and misbehaved. The captain adjusted the position of the boat. My husband muttered about lucky anglers and asked for something that would cut the thick monofilament line uniting me with my fish.

For twenty minutes, I forced myself to focus only on the fish and forget the rest of my world. After one last leap near the boat, we tugged the marlin over the side, snapped photographs, estimated nearly seven feet (including bill) and sixty pounds, and threw it back into the Atlantic.

I stumbled up the stairs, then chummed the boat from stem to stern, fore and aft, side to side, and over the river and through the woods. Although not as epic as Hemingway’s Santiago, the marlin escaped to be caught another day as a fitting end to the battle between this old woman and the sea.

“My big fish must be somewhere.”

Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

My late mother’s ashes in a box on my bookshelf remind me of Lent, which started with the traditional service and an ash cross on my forehead.

I’m not saving her ashes because they are her—her soul left her body in December—but rather because snow lays thick on the ground. If I release them, they’ll smear across the landscape until the next snowfall. Given that she was a fan of everything beautiful, and I have spent the past five months honoring her wishes, I’m certain she would NOT want to be remembered as a wash of pale gray on white.

So when the snow melts (in May), I’ll scatter ashes across my meadow, among spikes of the wild purple asters and mounds of the wild pink roses that she loved so well. But for now, even as in life, she’s looking over my shoulder.

As I adjust to a world without her, life marches on. The woodworker continues to build my desk, my only literary indulgence (so far). Yesterday, I stopped by to see the wood for the skirt. It’s Sapele from Africa. We believe it’s linear quality and deeper color will compliment the swirly and paler cherry that comprises the desk top and legs.

His faithful assistant, Shotsi, is my “paws on the ground” between visits. She’s supervising amidst the wood shavings as he prepares the pieces that will, in a few short weeks, be the foundation for my manuscripts—literally! I suspect that every woodworking shop has a pooch, whereas most authors I know have a cat. (Guilty as charged.)

And just as I rely on a variety of tools—travel, maps, atlases, history books, articles, and other reference materials that occupy my bookshelves (with Mother)—to create manuscripts, the woodworker’s shop is a wonderland of clamps and saws and hand tools. Manuscripts and furniture also share careful planning and imagination, and a willingness to risk.

My new desk is symbolic of my rise from the ashes of Mother’s death. I’ll move into the future, with new projects and stories and energy. She’ll be a part of the process as the meadow turns green, and the roses and asters bloom each summer and fall.

The actual, physical labor on my desk began today. It was a joy to stop by the woodworker’s shop to prioritize the timbers and specify those I liked the most. The wood is cherry and very colorful (at this point), swirling with lavenders and greens, and chocolate veining. The colors will deepen as the wood is exposed to light, and I’m going to spend the next year clearing the desktop every evening so that my materials don’t leave permanent shadows.

It’s a small price to pay for something I’ll love.

We arranged the pieces, inspecting each for particularly beautiful sections. I admired heartwood and grain. We propped the pieces on their narrow edges to see how much each piece has bowed as it dried in our scant humidity.

He pointed out “the center of the universe,” a spot that is dead center in the tree, with everything radiating out from there. That will be right above my keyboard, exactly where I sit when I work.

I have no delusions.

He calculated lengths. Could we dodge that knot? Can he make cuts so that we can use the ends on each side of the bow? What’s the drop-off? Do we try to make the swirly grain align, or do we break it up? If the colors bounce too much, do we want to add a glaze?

Then he drew the desk, labeling each pattern piece to match to a board.

The most exciting moment was wen he laid the timbers in place so that I could confirm the dimensions. I had settled on measurements that roughly matched my arm span, but realized that I needed another six inches on the longest (right) side. International suspense is a research-heavy genre, and I’ll stack reference materials—books and articles, maps and atlases—all the way to the right edge.

In so many ways, building this desk is like writing a manuscript.

The process begins in the imagination, fueled by everyday situations, data and information that crosses my radar. Bits and pieces, characters and scenes—all need to be vetted, just like each of these timbers. Then the chosen ones must be arranged in a cohesive manner to maximize every element, again just like the timbers that are making up my desk. Then everything gets woven into a storyline, creating one solid experience that functions as intended, and hopefully inspires beyond all expectations.

I’ve lost myself in the past months.

Away from home more often than not, I’ve tended my dying mother. Now I help my elderly father adjust to a change that rocked his world after sixty-six years of marriage.

I’ve been looking for bits and pieces of me. Living in ICU. Meeting with attorneys. Touring assisted-living centers. Taking time to breathe. Barreling back into supporting whoever needs it. I’m fortunate to be able to do this, but it’s a heavy gift to receive.

Such is the path of the caregiver child.

Before things got this crazy and that two-foot stack (the first of several!) of my parents’ records, passports, accounts and ledgers landed on my desk, I ordered my ring from The Explorers Club (founded 1904). It’s my first ring from an institution, having foregone high-school and college senior rings as extravagances. The venerable band of scientists and researchers has counted Churchill, a Roosevelt or two, and Sir Edmund Hillary among its members. I am honored.

I’m a late-in-life adventurer. A fairly traditional rule-follower who decided, once her children were grown, that there was a HUGE world to investigate. I received my master’s degree at fifty. Voracious childhood reading is the foundation of my  wanderlust.

It’s a privilege to indulge in the passion of curiosity, the urge to explore.

So I dig on, through this phase as the facilitator of a family in transition. The ring is symbolic of an independent person who is more than wife, daughter, mother and friend. I’m a sum of those parts, but not defined solely by them. The globe, flag and compass on the ring signify a world beyond today, at this desk, with these onerous responsibilities.

The symbols remind me of tomorrow’s journeys. Things yet to learn. Stories yet to tell. (I have so many!) People to love. Ministries to perform. Life to live.

The ring also represents my mother, who encouraged me all my life to “dare to be different.” And my father, who taught me that I could be anything I worked hard enough and had the talent to become—unlimited by gender.

I’m crouching at this moment on the shoulders of others whose values I carry into the future, centering myself as I prepare to stand upright. The view, which I’m just beginning to glimpse again beyond that two-foot stack of paperwork, is amazing.

Thanks for being here as I regain my footing.