THE GARDEN SHED

 Dear Harry,

You'll never guess how I spent the other morning. I'm usually at my computer keyboard hammering out a few more words as I'm doing now. But since completing the third draft of our "Dear Harry" book I have been taking a little time away from my usual pursuit. Unusual, though, for me to be spending time in the garden! (I should spend more time there! It's a good deal healthier for heart, mind and soul than the time I mis-spend worrying about the state of the nation and the world!)

It was a job that needed to be done. We have a long-neglected garden shed halfway down the long yard behind our house. Tall and narrow--some eight feet high, six wide, and a couple of feet deep--this wooden structure had been home to a few mostly unused gardening tools and multiple generations of assorted creepy-crawlies over the years, and had accumulated more than two decades of dust and dirt, and thick, looping, almost impenetrable spiderwebs.

I set to work first with a broom, reaching far up into the corners to sweep aside the densest layer of webs. Cleaning some of the dust from a high shelf, I soon realized that it was foolish to be working without a mask; the air was so thick with heavy particles as to be unbreathable. I took a break and climbed back up the long path and the steps (did I mention that we're located on the slope of a steep hill; and that my recent hip replacement surgery is not yet fully healed?) to the house. Lucky that the pandemic has left us with a good supply of face masks! I found a sturdy one and, for good measure, armed myself with a handy whisk broom to help out with the cleaning.

A half hour later I had the roof of the shed and that high shelf cleaned, and the walls brushed off to my satisfaction with the whisk broom. Time to take care of the floor, with its three-inch accumulation of solid, impacted dirt. That long-disused shovel proved its worth, along with a trowel to dig out the corners. Bending down that far and scooping up heavy shovels of dirt proved a challenge with my still gimpy leg, and by this time I was sweating profusely with the effort. 

Still, slowly, slowly a solid concrete floor began to reveal itself and soon there was nothing left but to use the broom to sweep away the last remnants of dirt. I was delighted to find myself rewarded with the imprint of several paw marks that had been made before the concrete dried and the inscription: SPUTNIK THE CAT, 1986.

That was the bonus, Harry. The real reward, as you well know, was the satisfaction of knowing it was a job well done. The gardening shed can wait for another 35 years, for all I care, before it needs another cleaning out. And someone other than myself will need to do the job.

By the way, I heard from a publisher today with an enthusiastic reaction to the "Dear Harry" manuscript I sent. "An immersive and powerful collection of letters," they said. And even offered me a contract, which I'll need time to think about.

With love, as always, Peter