Hummm. Friday the 13th. And it's a dreary morning, too. Gray and gloomy, cold and no rain. I have my space heater in the studio up full tilt. I do have a room of my own, thank you very much Virginia Woolf. I first had my own room when I put the two boys in bunk beds and deprived my toddler son of his room. Then I went through seven years in Colorado without a space, writing in our family room cum bedroom. Then one year back here before the older son went to college and I appropriated his room, but had my desk in our bedroom. Then we moved here twenty years ago and I grabbed the tool shed out back. It had two broken refrigerators in it, was painted six colors and had a dark room. We hauled my desk out and I set up shop. About fifteen years ago we had the shed redone, with a half bath, bookshelves lining the walls, and two young guys built me a beautiful desk, so I got rid of the one from a warehouse that my dad had found for me. I have my own hut, hideaway, studio, shed. I'm a lucky lady.
I also sew out here, and the table is strewn with material, thread, a sewing machine and all the half done projects with my foster granddaughter. I love it! I had to get rid of my mother's cabinet Singer sewing machine, and bought a portable at Target, which sits at the end of my table at all times. So first Dad's desk, then Mom's sewing machine. I hope people are using them and enjoying them. Time moves on, and things move to new lives and stories. I like that.
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