by Jim Whitehouse
The east wall of our living room is mostly windows.
This is a wonderful thing as my beloved wife Marsha and I can look out on the wooded land and meadows, enjoying the wildlife, the wind-driven dance of the tree limbs and the changing mosaic of green, brown, white and blue.
But all things have a positive and negative, except for pharmaceutical and political TV ads.
The only negative to our wall of windows is the bloomin’ sun.
Okay, before you say anything, I’m fully aware that I may be the only person this side of Rotten Bottom, Scotland who is not crazy about sunshine.
It’s too bright. Too hot. It makes me squint and sneeze. I like sunshine if I’m taking a photograph. I like sunsets and sunrises. But to me, a perfect day starts and ends with sunshine but is devoid of sunshine and rife with clouds the rest of the time.
When I walk on a sunny day, I scoot from tree to tree and diligently avoid the Sunny Side of the Street. Only my dermatologist seems to agree.
Thus it is that having an east-facing transparent wall is a mixed blessing of good views and evil sunshine.
Marsha, on the other hand, claims that I’m a troglodyte, and hustles around the house opening window shades. I sneak along behind her and close them, stopping now and then at the thermostat to undo the damage she has done to the temperature setting.
I’ve done what I can. I hired a company to put an ultraviolet-blocking film on all of our windows to protect our furniture and oak flooring from the blast from Old Sol. On sunny days, in addition to waging full out battle with Marsha with the window shades, I also engage the big awning that rolls out over our deck and provides protection for half of the windows.
How do I get away with it? How can I deny my beloved her treasured sunshine?
Easily. She has a piano. It holds pride of place in our living room. It’s a fully restored grand piano, built 104 years ago and made of curly mahogany which is a wood of amazing quality and beauty.
Marsha worked for years teaching people to play piano. Her earnings went into buying and maintaining that magnificent form-and-function piece of furniture.
It sits on the east side of our living room. Right next to the windows.
The heating duct near the piano, under orders from the man who restored and tunes it, is permanently blocked. The piano even has its own combination humidifier and dehumidifier to protect its precious soundboard.
I, who am regularly treated to private concerts, get away with sunshine blocking highway robbery because of the piano.
The sky is cloudy, but there, just to the south, I see a tiny blue gap working its way to the eastern sky. I leap up and race to the windows and start lowering shades. I hop across the living room to the remote control for the awning, which begins its slow rumbling roll-out. Aha! Just in time!
The sun streams through that hole in the clouds, trying its best to worm its way into the house and bore into Marsha’s piano—attempting to slay the piano, to reduce it to a pile of bleached out, crackled, and cracked mahogany! I have once again saved the day, saved the music, saved that thing that Marsha loves almost as much as she loves me. (Or at least she claims it comes in second place.)
I stand before her and raise my arms, flexing my muscles in a pose of victory. She may be impressed, but so far she is holding her tongue.
