12 and 12

Today I passed over a few guilded bricks that spelled out: We used to work seven days a week. I breathed a silent prayer of gratitude to the Union I used to curse for taking 2% of my monthly wages. Next I read a story on the railing written by a boat builder in 1935. He and his partner could build one 14' boat a day. They'd make $2 each. And they worked seven days a week.

I was a little bit more in love with the lake this morning than usual. I remind myself to stop and take in my surroundings, especially on mornings like this, pastel and glimmering, sky and water the same magenta turquoise and foamy clouds, sillhouettes of tall masts in a sea of moored sailboats. People vacation in places like this. They rent the houseboats across from ours for $200 a night. I don't want to take that kind of view for granted. Especially now that it's spring, officially. And although the forecast guarantees us rain until July 5th, after that we've got an endless summer of 72 degrees and blue sky until Halloween. The daffodils have made their grand entrance. They are bursting from their bulbs, shoving up from the soil, shouting from each pot, waving their stiff lemony arms in lily glee. "Hi! We're here!"

En route to work I passed a sign that said, "Call before you dig deep." That's good advice to carry with you through life.

Our neighbors got a new boat and we went over to see it yesterday. It looks truly enormous, but it's only five feet longer than ours. Before they bought this one, they lived aboard a boat like ours -- the same model give or take a year. Susan is fun to talk to. She reminds me of myself when I'm older. Except she sounds Canadian. She's almost six feet tall, her shiny grey hair in a high ponytail, the gentle creases in her face look like they're from smiling in the sun for the past few decades. She and her husband lived aboard that boat for 20 years. The same boat we have. She said that, and at first it sounded ludicrous to me. Two-hundred square feet. Two humans. Twenty years. But you get used to it -- you really do. In September I didn't think I'd make it another day, and now I can't imagine leaving. They cruise, too. Bop on up to the San Juan Islands for the summer, sailing all over the place. The freedom comes with the territory, and it's inspiring to consider -- never having a lawn to mow, not needing all the stuff that we humans often convince ourselves is essential to our survival but really just clutters our quality of life. Boat living is simple. I have two pairs of jeans -- one for painting and one for not-painting. I can't have a third pair; there's nowhere to put them. At first listen, that kind of life sounds claustrophobic. But say it again, and you hear the exhiliration in its simplicity.

I don't know how the cats would handle cruising. They are unfazed by the normal daily rollicking, the steam boat blasts, dive-bombing seagulls, sea plane takeoffs and landings, salsa parties on the balcony, occasional temperamental swells. But I don't know how they'd react if we added forward motion at 23 knots to the equation. Then again, I don't know how I'd react either.

I have big plans for the upper deck this summer. I've spent the past few weekends procuring seeds and nursing them into tiny sprouts. Sunflowers, shasta daisies, persian violets, star gazer lilies, morning glories and moonflowers, an enormous pot of climbing heirloom sweet peas. I have images of hanging dragonfly lights and marine-colored chinese lanterns, stained glass butterfly windchimes, ivy scaling the radar arch. Summer nights under the stars, giant floating daisy candles in the water, pink lemonade. Oh, and the boy and I are getting little radio-controlled boats that we can race in the marina. Because when you only have room for two pairs of jeans, you have more money to spend on toys. That, my friends, is freedom.