This past weekend, Jordan and I had a marvellous time on our boat. We didn’t go anywhere; just stayed at the dock in Silva Bay, had dinner with some good friends and spent the next day spring cleaning our “cottage.” We were feeling pretty lucky.

On Sunday, when I went to the laundromat to fetch a pail of water, I saw a young couple doing their laundry.  In fact, there were quite a few young people in there doing the same. A few hours later, I returned to find that same couple there, now into the drying cycle.

I shuddered at the memory of many hours spent in laundromats over the years: waiting…waiting…waiting. I recalled rushing to the basement of countless apartment buildings, at what I ingeniously had calculated as an “off” time, only to find the only two washers that worked were finished but full of clothes and there was no owner in sight. I knew that to remove the clothes would mean initiating a cold war between me and this unknown neighbour, that could go on for months or until one of us moved.

As I now took in the smells and damp heat of this dreary place, I couldn’t wait to fill my pail and get back out into the sunshine. I felt an immediate compassion for the young girl: “This is certainly a long day for you.” She grimaced and conceded that it was. I said —and this is something you probably should only say to a total stranger on Gabriola— “I can remember what a joy it was when I got my first washer and dryer.” She acknowledged that would be a great day and I left feeling oh, so lucky!

Walking back to the boat, I thought of a few other small things that made my life run smoother; giving me a sense of control and breathing space.

It immediately came to me that one of my most precious luxuries is having my own office space in my home. It isn’t just the need for a spot to organize my life, but also my private place.  When we built our new home on Gabriola, it was a must that we both have our own room; a space that the other cannot change around, tidy up, or pry into.

When I put something down in a messy pile, it will stay messy until I decide to move it., and I can always seem to find my stuff in this haphazard filing system. I am surrounded by photos of family and old girlfriends, favourite knickknacks that might be too “girly” for the rest of the house, and my records and old turn table. My desk is an antique oak dining table that was the first big item I bought when I got my first real job. I keep my favourite pens, stapler, and scissors on my desk, and I have everything perfectly, if not exactly ergonomically, placed for my easy reach. My calculator is set to my exact specifications, and anyone mucking around with my decimals points will bear my wrath. My screen saver says: “This is not a toy.” My phone book says: “Kerry’s Desk. Do not remove!”

It reminds me of grade school, when we were given a wooden desk that was ours until the end of the school year. I used to love my desk. We could engrave our initials in it with the point of a compass to cement our ownership of the space and hide away all our secret treasure.

In the world under that lid, we could organize our belongings; our pencil case, erasers, ruler, skipping rope, India rubber ball, jacks, and contraband penny candy.

In high school, when we no longer had a desk to call home, we were allotted the locker, a private place for posters of the Monkees and notes passed between best friends.

I know that nowadays, the individual desk and locker concept are long gone. I suppose lack of space and the unfortunate misuse of these by some has led to this lack of privacy. I don’t know if I could function all that well in today’s classrooms.

Very recently, I re-discovered a terrific source of personal space; my new bike. It was a surprise Christmas gift from my husband. I have gone years without a bike, and when I last had one, it was more for transportation and speed; not pleasure.

My new bike is one-speed; two if you count when I pedal really fast. It is a simple road bike like the ones we had when we were kids. It isn’t a bike for hills or forest paths. It has a wicker carrier in front, a big padded seat, and a bell (sadly missing the picture of either Mickey Mouse or Snow White.) It has fenders and fat tires and a big mirror so that I can see cars coming up behind me, or just to check out how cool (or geeky) I look in my helmet.

I wish I could remember how to ride no-handed; I guess that will come back to me.  I must look somewhat childish with my grin from ear to ear, at least until I eat the first bug. As I whizzed along yesterday, I had an inane desire to clip a baseball card to one of the spokes with a clothespin.  I felt unburdened.

There you have it; three relatively little things that make me feel lucky. I suppose that any psychoanalyst out there would quickly point out that these three “things” all reflect my need for organization, to be in control of my surroundings, and an obsession with privacy.  

Probably!