Virginia Woolf had a point . . .

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."  I would even go so far as to say she might have stopped her sentence after the word "write", as I have long enjoyed writing memoirs, reviews, journals, critiques and more. In her time, Ms. Woolf and her contemporaries would have had precious little in the way of money or a room of their own, as these were privileges reserved for men alone. Today, women as writers enjoy equal advantages in areas of income and independence, thanks to those foremothers who fought to open the doors. And so I have both. Money, yes. Not vast fortunes, but enough. And a wonderful room . . .

In my lifetime, this room has had life as an office before. My dear friend Lizzy's father, the late Robert W. Healy was a surgeon here in Kentville for many years, and as a small child I passed through this room with its door to the back yard and gardens, mindful of and awed by the large oil portraits on the wall, the entire wall of bookshelves filled with books far beyond the scope of his medical texts, and the large mahogany desk and tufted leather chair. 

When my family moved into this home in 1967, the room had several purposes -- Dad's huge oak office desk was here, piled with all of the paperwork for the multitude of endeavours he had on the go (school board, town council, property developments) as well as all of his veterinary medical books and journals filling the bookcases, along with volumes of fiction, poetry, natural wonders and reference books. Very soon, a television and a long sofa were installed, so my six foot four Dad could grab a quick power nap before going back to work after lunch, or for evening office hours. Of course we all used it to pass through on our way outside, but it was very much his refuge and quiet place. From the huge picture window, he could survey the back yard, his roses and vegetable garden and watch sunsets with satisfaction. It was Dad's den.

After he died in 1983, my mother took over the den, having it repainted and papered, and buying new comfortable furniture more to her own taste. She took down his photos and framed degrees, replacing them with watercolour paintings and more feminine botanical prints. A desk was not a priority for her, but more comfortable chairs and a larger TV were. Why sit in a big open dining room when it's just you and your youngest son? The den became Alice's "nest" and she and Tony probably ate most of their dinners in there until he left for university. Here she did her daily crosswords, watched her soaps and had her tea. Grandchildren played on the floor with Grandma's toys, and I dropped in many days after work with my little one, often being asked to stay for supper.  

When she was so ill with cancer in 1999, this room became her bedroom and day room, with morphine drips and visitors, nurses and flowers. We were mere days from securing a hospital bed to be moved in here when her condition became grave enough to require transfer to Valley Regional. She left this room and never returned home.

And so, the den it remained. Reconfigured, redecorated, rearranged; still, it felt like Mom's place. Over the years after Quin moved out, we used it less and less. We're not big TV watchers and what little we do watch seems to be in our bedroom on the bigger screen set. With its door to the arbour and patio beyond, the room became more of a glorified hallway than a place to land and stay. 
 
From our veranda, cafés with free wifi, the backyard, to the kitchen island, I have done my writing everywhere. Feeling very much the homeless scribbler, about a year ago I embarked on the search for a desk. I didn't want anything bulky or heavy, just a simple surface, preferably real wood, on which to plunk my MacBook and write. I found the perfect piece of furniture with a multitude of possibilities that very day when Julie and I set out to look. Leon's. Good old Leon's. Seems it can be ordered from Amazon, too and several other stores. 

The beauty of it is that it can all fold up into a skinny console table or one leaf can fold out which is perfect for my applications. As shown in the image, both leaves fold out make a great square table for extra dining guests or what have you! Mine is somewhat darker in colour and the crisscrossed legs of the base have a sort of Asian sensibility which you know speaks to me! 

Because there are no drawers, I am forced to store things which might otherwise clutter my desktop in nice lidded boxes which I find for a song at Winners/Homesense and this makes the organizer in me deliriously happy. I change the accessories on the back of the desk as my mood demands . . . currently I have an antique green Remington manual typewriter here.

 Also a small stack of old hardback books with pretty bindings and a scarred painted alarm clock c.1927 with the hands stopped at 7:15. The typewriter and alarm clock were two of my gifts from colleague who quipped that now I would have all the time I wanted to write when I retired. She thrifted these vintage items and probably has no idea that similar ones are listed on Etsy and eBay for upwards of $250 and $70, respectively. I love them and their aged patina. One of my favorite Buddha busts sits on an upended vase for a pedestal.

My 2013 wall calendar for above my work spot is John Lennon's Imagine, with one of his whimsical sketches for each month, and I have to say my next purchase will be a corkboard for some of my favorite collectibles including the holographic Jerry Garcia stamp from Tanzania given to me my beloved audiophile and dear friend, Darrin Michael Harvey.  Once a Deadhead . . .

Yes, there's a couch with tons of comfy cushions and a thick woolly blanket for naps. Bookshelves have been purged some over time, leaving a modest selection of my very favorites and collected travel mementos. TV? Sure, for when the grandkids come and our conversation gets too boring. Music? Not always, but I move my Bose iPod dock from room to room as needed.

My room. From its window I can look out over the snowy landscape today and see black-capped chickadees at the feeder and the sun in the wan winter light slowly sinking. I have a room of my own.