Chapter 8 Choosing Happiness
The garden bench is finished. Three coats of polyurethane.
Sanded between each coat with fine-grit paper until the surface was perfectly smooth.
The oak has come alive exactly the way Ross said it would.
Warm golden brown with a depth to the grain that wasn't visible under decades of weathering and neglect.
The split leg is solid now. Glued and doweled and reinforced until it's actually stronger than it was when it was new.
The armrests are tight. The seat slats are evenly spaced with uniform gaps for drainage.
I put the bench on the patio where the plastic chairs used to sit and it looks perfect. Solid. Beautiful. Built to last.
I threw the plastic chairs away. Both of them.
They went into the garbage without ceremony and I didn't feel a thing about it.
Those chairs wobbled for three years because I never bothered to replace them.
I was waiting for Kirk to help me pick out new patio furniture.
Waiting for the house we were going to buy together.
Waiting for the life that was always just around the corner.
I'm done waiting. The bench is here. It's real. I built it with my own hands and it doesn't wobble.
Ross came by last Saturday to help with the final coat.
We worked for about an hour and then sat on the patio steps drinking lemonade while the finish dried.
We talked about the preservation project and about Morgan's Antique Store and about a hiking trail north of town that he wants to show me.
When he left he told me to send him a picture once the bench was fully cured.
I sent it this morning. He responded with one word: "Perfect. "
It's Thursday now and I'm at the County Archives delivering the seventh batch of records.
Ross and I have developed an efficient rhythm for the transfers.
I bring the boxes. He catalogues them. We review the condition of each document together.
I take notes on his recommendations. We talk about history and preservation and the town and whatever else comes up.
It's comfortable and easy and I look forward to these visits more than I probably should.
"I wanted to tell you something," Ross says as we're finishing the cataloguing.
He's standing at his worktable with a document spread flat under a magnifying lamp.
"The county historical society is hosting their annual history festival this Saturday at Meadow Park.
It's a full-day event. Exhibits. Antique vendors.
Historical demonstrations. Food trucks. I'm running the preservation tent but I'll have time to walk around during the afternoon. "
He looks up at me. "Would you want to come? It's really well done. They have vendors from all over the county. Some of the antique dealers are excellent."
"That sounds wonderful actually."
"It starts at ten. I'll be setting up earlier than that but if you want to meet me at the preservation tent around noon I can show you around after."
"Noon works."
I drive back to City Hall feeling lighter than I have in weeks. Amanda is at her desk and she looks up as I pass through the lobby.
"You're smiling," she says.
"Am I not allowed to smile?"
"You're always allowed to smile. I'm just pointing out that you're doing it. Regularly now. Which is new."
"Ross invited me to the county history festival on Saturday."
Amanda puts both hands flat on her desk. "He invited you."
"To a public event. With exhibits and food trucks. It's not a marriage proposal."
"Brook. He invited you to spend a day with him at something he cares about. That's significant."
"It's a history festival, Amanda."
"It's a date."
"It's a festival."
"It's both."
I shake my head and go downstairs to the Records Department. Roger is at his desk reading a book about the history of county land surveys. He looks up.
"You seem cheerful today," he says.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Well. You seem it. That's all." He goes back to his book and I go back to my work and neither of us says anything else about it.
Saturday morning I wake up early and spend too long choosing what to wear.
I change three times and finally settle on a comfortable pair of jeans and a blue blouse with short sleeves.
It's going to be warm. I want to look nice without looking like I'm trying to look nice.
I realize how absurd that thought process is and I laugh at myself in the bathroom mirror.
I drive to Meadow Park and park near the entrance.
The festival is already busy. Families with strollers.
Older couples walking hand in hand. Kids running between vendor booths.
There are white tents set up in rows across the park grounds with signs identifying each one.
Historical society. Local artisans. Antique dealers.
Food vendors. A live music stage near the center with a bluegrass band setting up their instruments.
I find the preservation tent near the back of the festival.
Ross is inside talking to a woman about the proper storage of old family photographs.
He's wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his glasses are pushed up on his head.
Behind him there's a table covered with examples of preserved documents and a display board showing before-and-after pictures of restoration projects.
He sees me come in and his face changes.
Not dramatically. Just a small shift. A warmth that wasn't there a second ago.
He excuses himself from the conversation and comes over. "You made it."
"I did. This is impressive."
"Wait until you see the rest of it. Let me finish up here and I'll show you around. My volunteer takes over at twelve thirty."
I wander through the preservation tent while I wait.
The display is excellent. Ross has arranged it to show the full lifecycle of a historical document.
How it's created. How it deteriorates over time.
How it can be saved through various preservation techniques.
There are samples of acid-free paper and archival-quality storage materials.
Before-and-after photos of restored ledgers and maps and personal letters.
A small station where kids can try their hand at simple conservation tasks.
A boy of about eight is standing at the kids' station trying to carefully flatten a wrinkled piece of practice paper using a bone folder. His mother watches from behind him and looks over at me.
"Are you with the historical society?" she asks.
"No. I work at City Hall. Records Department."
"Oh how wonderful. My son is obsessed with old maps. He's been in this tent for twenty minutes."
"We have maps at City Hall going back to the 1890s. If you ever want to see them you can make an appointment through our office."
Her eyes light up. "Really? He would love that."
I give her my name and tell her where to find me at City Hall. The boy looks up from his paper and says "Mom can we go tomorrow?" His mother laughs and tells him they'll make an appointment during the week.
Ross's volunteer arrives at twelve thirty. She's a young woman from the community college named Beth who seems competent and enthusiastic. Ross gives her a quick briefing and then joins me outside the tent.
"Ready for the tour?" he asks.
"Lead the way."
We spend the next three hours walking through the festival together.
Ross knows many of the vendors and exhibitors and he introduces me to several of them.
There's a blacksmith demonstrating ironwork techniques from the 1800s.
A woman making soap using a Civil War-era recipe.
A local historian giving a talk about the founding of Wildhorse that includes several facts I've never heard before despite working with the city's oldest records for eight years.
The historical talk is fascinating. The historian is a retired professor named Dr. Martin Cole who has spent thirty years researching the founding families of Wildhorse.
He tells us that the town was originally settled in the 1860s by three families who pooled their resources to buy land along the river.
One of those families was named Archer. The main intersection in town is named after them.
"I've handled the original land grant for the Archer family," I whisper to Ross during the talk. "It's in our oldest archive file."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. It's dated 1864. Signed by the territorial governor."
"I need to see that document."
"I'll add it to the next transfer."
After the talk we stop at every antique vendor. Ross has an eye for quality that I respect. He picks up pieces and examines the joinery and the hardware and the wood species the same way he examines historical documents. Carefully. Thoroughly. With genuine appreciation for the craftsmanship.
At one booth he finds a small wooden box made of cherry with a hand-carved lid. He turns it over in his hands.
"This is beautiful work," he says to the vendor. "Is this hand-carved?"
"My grandfather made it," the vendor says. She's an older woman with silver hair and glasses. "He was a cabinet maker in Millford."
Ross looks up. "Millford? I grew up in Millford. What was your grandfather's name?"
"Arthur Hensley."
"Arthur Hensley made this? I know that name. My father bought a bookcase from him in the early nineties. He still has it."
The vendor's face breaks into a wide smile. "That's incredible. Small world."
Ross buys the box. He carries it carefully in both hands as we walk away.
"That's going on my desk at the archives," he says. "Right next to the document magnifier."
"You're sentimental."
"About craftsmanship? Absolutely."
We eat lunch at one of the food trucks. Pulled pork sandwiches and sweet potato fries and fresh lemonade. Ross insists on paying even though I reach for my wallet first. He does it without making a big deal about it. He just hands the cashier a bill and says "I've got it" and moves on.