Sanding

About a week ago, we had our first truly beautiful sunny day in the Portland area. I pulled my big pine chair outside and dropped a line in the river. No bite. I changed bait and lure. No bite. I sat patiently waiting. No bite. My stress thirst started nibbling at me so I went inside an poured myself a glass of lemonade to substitute for wine. The beautiful weather makes 7-Eleven a busy place and I had spent my morning hop'n and pop'n at work. The residual work energy crawled through me like ants. Feeling my chair's rough ruined finish as I squiggled; I felt guilty for leaving it out in the weather for two years.  This chair is a favorite of mine because it's old, sturdy, and unique. It always holds me when I sit outside on a nice day.

I began rummaging through drawers and boxes to find sandpaper. There was a small pack that I got at the dollar store of medium grit. I began taking the peeling grey finish off of one arm.

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Then I thought, I need tunes. I listened to some John Lee Hooker and sanded to the beat until the sun had faded from the sky. I got part of an arm and a patch of the seat sanded. There was a sense of contentment.

The next night I came home and pulled my chair out on the deck with no intent of fishing, only of sanding. I set up an audiobook and finished listening to John Howard Grisham's Black Like Me.

I managed to get one back peg, one arm and the seat mostly sanded.

One neighbor called to me across the water, "What grit of sandpaper are you using?" I became defensive.

"I don't know. I'm not here trying to show off my skills, this is just a therapy project," I said.

"Oh, yea . . . umm, I know. Sorry," he said.

"I think it's medium grit," I added, feeling bad about being so guarded.

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When I came home from 7-Eleven on the next busy sunny work day I stopped by the hardware store and perused the shelf of sandpaper. I got one sheet of super awesome coarse grit to take the finish off with, the kind with fabric instead of paper backing. I got one sheet of cheap fine paper, and another pack of medium grit.

This evening I set my chair outside, with a big mug of ice water and no music. The sanding was all I wanted. My hands ached from the earlier sanding sessions. My back ached from lifting boxes and cases and bottles and cans in the cooler at 7-Eleven. My soul ached from the world and all my worrying little problems. All I wanted was to take small specks of damaged surface off of the chair, one sandpaper stroke at a time.

shush-shush shush-shush shush-shush shush-shush shush-shush shush-shush shush-shush shush

When I began sanding the back of the chair I wondered how old the chair was, because the finish looked just the way an old piano's does. It had that crinkly look to it. I wondered if I hadn't damaged the worth of the chair, where the original finish maintained it.

"Are you going to stain it?" another neighbor asked.

"I don't know," I said. I am falling in love with the soft bare pine.

"I would suggest using a rag, to get the stain on evenly," my bearded neighbor offered.

"Thanks," I said.

I sanded most of the top of the chair clean. My clothes were covered in sawdust. The sun went down. It hurt to stand straight up because my back muscles tightened me. I dusted myself off . The scent of pine sawdust soothed me. Sawdust flew around.

"Do you have a bathtub? Your arms must be really sore? You should go have a good soak in the tub," called a neighbor lady from over the water.

"Yea, yea I will," I said as I put my chair away. I only took a shower.

Why is it so hard to relax.