I am piddling in my shop this morning. I should be writing, but I’m not inspired. I need some fresh ideas. I need new material. I should interview interesting people, I guess.

Lights on. A cup of coffee in my hand. Looking for the perfect inspiration.

The sawdust on the floor is thick in some places. A tool bag sits on the saw table. Scattered beside the bag is a tape measure, a speed square, pencil, hammer, and a worn-out piece of sandpaper.

There are also the remnants of the projects that Marion and I did with the grandkids last week. A broken staple. Three pieces of stained trim. Several rough sawn oak boards.

By definition, piddling is the art of doing a host of small tasks that no one would ever notice having been completed. These tasks are hardly visible to anyone but the one doing them. But to me, these are the things that allow the mind to work while the hands are simply busy.

I hang the hammer back on the wall. The tape measure goes back on the bench. The wood scraps go to their designated pile.

I’m thinking about the events of my life in the last year. It was the first week of August 2023 that I first messaged Marion and began a conversation. That conversation turned into supper, and supper turned into dates, and dates have turned into a life full of what the both of us call second chances.

I’m moving an old pair of sawhorses out of the shop and under the shelter outside. My floor space is way too cluttered.

You could call it “cleaning up” I suppose. But that’s not really my intent. I am putting a few things back “where they go,” whatever that means, but I’m not on a mission to put everything in order. Some things I leave right where they lay.

There’s a toolbox on the bench that belongs in my truck. I’ll get it later.

It’s not easy to be in your late 60s and start over. A year ago, I was content to be alone because I was not lonely. I had learned to be comfortable with the solitude. My time was my own. I had my friends and my church. I was free to think and plan and go as I pleased. My kids loved me. Life was good.

I look up and realize that I’m missing my brooms. One is a push broom and the other a regular whisk broom. I also have a large aluminum dustpan, big enough to scoop up heaps of sawdust. None of them are on the wall by the door where I keep them.

I close my eyes to think. My shop was full of grandkids last week. I remember seeing sawdust and chips flying high in the air, like confetti being tossed at a parade. I can still hear the screams and laughter.

I find the whisk broom on the floor buried under the sawdust. The push broom is leaning against the wall inside my finish room. The dustpan is on the floor under the bench against the far wall.

I’m not really planning to sweep because I’m piddling. I just like knowing where my things are.

It’s been quite the change having Marion in my life. All for the better, I should say. She has taught me to use parchment paper when I bake biscuits. That’s a slick deal if you don’t already know it.

I have taught her to hand prune her shrubs, and she is trying to be a good sport about it. But honestly, I know she’s just humoring me. It’s driving her nuts trying to restrain herself from “whacking” on her “bushes.”

“I need to prune the hollies along your front porch next time I’m up at your place.”

I’m replaying a recent conversation in my mind. She wants to keep her bushes small. I want to keep her from butchering them with the chainsaw again.

She looks at me with a sheepish grin. I know this is not a good sign. I suspect that sound horticultural practices have been tossed to the wind.

“What have you done?” I ask.

No answer. Her eyebrows raise and her cheeks wrinkle beside her smile.

“You might as well confess,” I say.

“I kinda trimmed one with the weed eater the other day.”

I’m squinting at her over the top of my glasses.

“It was in the way,” she says. “Besides, the weed eater worked pretty well.”

Long pause. Then . . .

“I might use it on all of them.”

She really knows how to get my goat.

This reminds me that my weed eater is still at the shop in town and that I need it today. I stop piddling long enough to go get it and bring it home.

Maybe I’ll prune my camellia with it!

Back inside the shop I move some shelving boards to my assembly table in the corner. A project for another day.

I turn and notice something orange on the floor under the edge of the table. I can’t make it out. It’s dusty looking. A little flat. Nothing is registering in my brain.

I bend over to pick it up. It’s a squashed Cheeto.

The grandkids were hovered around this table last week working on their projects. Little girl and boy faces, each with an orange froth smeared around the edges of their mouths.

I bend lower and spot another one. Around the other side of the table, there’s one behind the leg. There are two Cheetos on the steps to the loft. Another one beside the drill press.

Marion and I have said from the beginning that we are not the Brady Bunch. Blending families at our age is different than when you’re in your thirties with young children.

I am grateful, however, for the progress we are making as a “family.” I don’t even know for sure what that fully means and how it will play out as the years go by. But I know it’s a very important part of this new adventure that Marion and I are both navigating.

As I’m sweeping up Cheetos, I’m thinking about last week. Cousin Kamp.

I didn’t write about this, but I was so proud of how each of them said their bedtime prayers. Mine and Marion’s. We didn’t ask them to do it. They asked us.

They didn’t parrot the “now I lay me down to sleep” prayer. They spoke whatever was on their little hearts. And not just at bedtime either. They clamored to be the one to say the prayer at mealtimes.

The one thing they all repeated more than once was this:

“Dear God, thank you for our family.”

This family still has a lot of work to do. My kids lost their mama and Marion’s lost their dad. Grief does not disappear just because there is a new day in our lives. But today there are signs that we’re getting there.

It’s time to stop piddling. I turn out the lights and close the shop door.

Grateful for the morning.

Grateful for small prayers.