{Another in the exciting, sometimes explosive series of revelations about “rooms.” But seriously, folks, I’m writing each day during Lent, and exploring some 40 rooms.}
When I was a kid, my Mom’s parents lived just two blocks away from our Liberty Ave. home in Endicott. As a very small child, before my three sisters had been born and when my younger brothers were toddlers, my grandparents would have me over for a day’s visit now and then. It provided Mom a little respite…a little. They were fun days for me there on Loder Avenue. I had some tin soldiers (yes, tin…not plastic) to play with, and cool streamlined 1940s toy cars. Grandma, who had been an elementary school teacher, would read to me, play the piano, teach me songs, and make baked bean sandwiches for lunch. In that kitchen, the radio was playing “Ma Perkins” or Don McNeill’s “Breakfast Club.” Another memory flash: raw clams to swallow whole.
And speaking of the kitchen there, it was the first time I encountered a “nook.” My grandparents had their morning meal in a small alcove off the kitchen, a “breakfast nook” they called it. (When their house went on the market a couple of years ago, Joan and I took the tour and that was one of the things I looked for. But an expansion had replaced the nook with an actual room. Another part of my childhood lost.)
A nook is defined as a small, secluded spot, or alcove. The word’s derivation is unknown, except that it has something to do with “four-cornered.” It’s not quite the “cubby hole” I remember from our earlier childhood home. That was like a boxed-in space in our bedroom, maybe three feet off the floor, probably meant to be for linen storage. But I could crawl into it and listen to my crystal set (my cigar-boxed first radio!) and feel very secure. Safe. Secluded. Away.
Recently as Lent began, Joan knew I was typing and said, “You should write about your nook.” Yes, I have a nook. I’m in it right now. When the house was designed, the builder intended a space just inside the front door to be a roomy entrance way. Then he added some book shelves. I liked that idea. But then the specs changed and he reverted to just a larger coat closet. Wait! Please put the shelves back, I begged. Well, requested. And he did.
When we moved in, we discovered there was space enough for my computer desk, lots of books, my audio gear, Godzilla (the way-out-of-proportion house plant), and me. Soon, we called it my nook. Small, secluded, away from the main living area, far from Joan’s quilt room and from the kitchen where snacks might beckon if I were closer. This is not an escape, you understand, but a space for creativity, writing (occasional sermons still, and blogs), communications (email, Facebook), and audio/video adventures. I record my weekly jazz show in my nook, edit vacation videos (yes, dear Joan, I’m way behind on the Ireland trip), and record the “Spirit of Jazz” podcast with Bill Carter. Next major nook-project: producing three short videos for the local Council of Churches.
Being just inside the front door, I can’t exactly hide here. But it is my space. Joan has her quilt room, and I my nook. In a small home, we are blessed with lots of space in common, but some room of our own too, dwelling places where we both create good things from messes, making the best of retirement. At home.
I hope you too have (or can make) some personal space, for leisure, productivity, or just being. Can you make room?
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 