Times like these

It’s Friday night, the end of a long but productive week at the Abbey. With less than 2 weeks to go before the Folsom Street Fair, I have been all but living in my shop. Days are not marked by the calendar, but rather by the number of feet left to make and days till show. In addition to being one of the largest events we will do all year, Folsom also marks the end of summer. Gone are the sweltering hot days of August, now replaced with that mellow, soon it will rain, warmth that is Seattle in September.

My motorcycle is parked under the giant covered loading dock that sits at the center of the old industrial space where our rope shop calls home. I stow my shop clothes, dirty and bearing (to the unknowing eye) suspicious looking crimson stains from today’s dye job. On top of them I pack away the fresh organic tomatoes that Peanut brought me earlier today. They will make a fine surprise for Dancer; I’ll be in her arms in a few hours. I give Nerdy a hug and thank her for all her hard work as she makes her way out of the building. We both laugh and agree that if Griffin gets any more efficient next week that he will be the death of us both.

David Bowie’s “Life on Mars” blasts out from one of the neighboring shops. The timing seems perfect to call Tambo; this is after all her favorite Bowie tune. Leaning against the dusty nose of my sidecar, I place a call to Tambo. We touch base, recount our day and make plans for what we will do when we re-connect tomorrow. Dinner? Movie? Naked snuggles? She giggles her signature giggle at the last suggestion.. She tells me that she loves me and to say hello to Dancer tonight when I see her. I thank her for trusting me so and that I love her too.

As we kiss our goodbyes and hang up, I spy another neighbor. A steel artist just back from Burning Man, he is dirty from a long day of work and enjoying a much deserved beer. In the back of his truck lay dozens of oddly shaped arches of steel. From my vantage point they look like a jumble of rust and jagged points, but in his hands they were a tower of light and fire that lit up the desert sky. Although younger than I, he sports deep crow’s feet. When he smiles his tanned face seems to squint into nothing but crow’s feet and teeth. He smiles and raises his drink in a toast, “And to think, dude, some people actually have to pay money to rent happiness?”

How easy it is to forget that. To get caught up in the toil and push for more, a few hundred more feet out the door or the stress of a huge show pressing down upon us. Sure this week we worked more hours than most would consider healthy. Next week will be even worse and in the end, sure we might make a huge chunk of money but that money will go right back into keeping the dream alive for another month or so. Ah... but what a grand dream it is.

I raise my diet coke in return and smile.