NOTES FROM THE HINTERLAND
AT MY DESK
By Laurie Meunier Graves
When I am at my desk, I can look out my window and see the snow falling on a
huge pine tree and a clump of hemlocks. Because we heat with wood, my office
is often chilly, and I need a mug of tea to warm my stiff hands before I
begin typing. As I drink, I watch the snow and am soothed by the muted
palette of winter—dark green, white, and brown.
My desk, which is mission style and solid oak, has been with me since I was
young. My mother bought it for five dollars from a neighbor, and the desk
has traveled with me to tiny college apartments and to various homes. It has
settled in this office and has had several modifications to bring it to the
computer age. Instead of a drawer, there is a pullout shelf for a keyboard,
and blocks have been added to the legs to raise the desk to a more
comfortable height. Naturally, I have mixed feelings about this. On the one
hand, I am sorry to have disturbed the natural design of the desk. On the
other hand, being a frugal New Englander, I am happy to make use of this
sturdy desk that I have had for so many years. Why buy another when this one
is at hand?
At my desk, after an ice storm, I see the branches glitter in the sun, and
as the wind moves through the trees, the woods are filled with flickering
sparkles and little rainbows. I am utterly enchanted, and it is only with
great effort that I turn my attention from the gleaming outdoors and bring
it back to my writing.
On my desk, in the upper left-hand corner, there is a flat-screen monitor.
It is another kind of window, and through it I can see things, both good and
bad, that I would not ordinarily be able to see. I can read movie reviews
from the New York Times, discover Feral Publishers from an independent
publisher’s newsletter, and go to bartleby.com when I have grammar
questions. I can also accidentally go to pornographic sites or get
misleading information when I do fact checking. Browsers beware! Not all
listings are correct. Chucky Cheese is actually Chuck E. Cheese’s, no matter
how many people on how many websites spell it the first way.
At my desk, when I look out the window, I see a fox run down the road. He is
plump and his coat is full and he trots with his tail straight behind him.
Hoping a car won’t hit him, I say a little prayer for the fox, and when I go
out for my afternoon walk, I am relieved that there is no still, furry body
by the side of the road.
At my desk, on my computer, I write and wrestle with words each day. This
daily tussle is never easy, and I approach it as V.S. Pritchett did, with a
jutted jaw. Each time I stare at the blank screen, I wonder how I am ever
going to be able to fill it. However, I persevere, and the words do come,
sometimes grudgingly, sometimes with coaxing, and sometimes they actually
seem to fly there on their own accord.
From my desk, I stare outside and see a flash of red as a large pileated
woodpecker lands on the pine tree. Other times I see a cedar waxwing or a
tufted titmouse or a chickadee. Still other times, there are wild turkeys
scratching the snow as they look for food.
At my desk, there is a convergence of nature, technology, and, I hope,
creativity. Two writers I admire—Robertson Davies and Wendell Berry—have
criticized writers who use a computer. But neither man had to type finished
manuscripts; they both had help. I am not that lucky, and somehow I find the
combination of computer, old desk, and window exactly right.
