I suddenly understand why so many men I knew growing up sought out time in their garages. It's quiet in here, where I've set up 1x4s across sawhorses and laid out cabinet doors for painting. It's a little smelly in all the right ways, and there's a pollinated breeze coming in through the open door. Things smell a little of dust, a little of paint, a little of last night's flood down the way, and a little of me. I can watch the twilight inch through the yard and down the street and also spy on the crazy bachelor brothers across the way, with their garden and their dachshunds. The work is physical and tangible, so different from writing, so tactile. I do something, and I can see and feel that it's been done, marked on the boards and in my body, which aches in new and subtle ways. I paint and attach hinges and curse and redo, and there's just me in here, since I've left Mr. Husband to grieve and ponder in solitude on the couch on the other side of the wall.

I have a wonderful colleague back in the Twin Cities. Brilliant and well-traveled and cultured, probably more of each of those things than I'll ever be. But he grew up on a farm in a tiny town in Georgia, and some days when the light is right I look at him and see the mildly bent Southern man he would have been in another life, see how the overalls would have hung, how his legs would have bowed, how the sun would have weathered him. Here, living this life for these weeks, I also see the little ol' Southern man I would have been in my own other dimension.

When I buy a house, I think I shall move my study into the garage, mix the books with power tools, keep the MacBook and the DeWalt drill side by side. When I hit a hard spot in the writing I'll move over about a foot to sand and drill and curse, and then I'll come back to the computer to tap away and curse. It'll be alright.