Patina

The installer said our new patio doors should be stained or painted within the first six weeks to protect the wood. That deadline slipped. Then Bill Clinton left office making room for George Bush, 9/11 and war with Iraq. Obviously, I was in no mood for staining wood. I gave up my gym membership somewhere along the line. Stopped running, too. Got out of shape. Some nasty accusations about secret torture camps made the news, complete with nasty photographs. The furnace broke on the coldest day of the year. Then I started running again, but fell. It hurt. I vowed never to run again. Another election. Domestic spying. The air conditioner broke on the hottest day of the year. Melting ice sheets. Sea level up to here. Still the patio doors remained untreated. Lately, though, things have been okay. There's talk of bringing home the troops. I've returned to the gym. Run a few times without falling. My football team has a winning record. There are fewer Hummers on the road and more hybrids. There’s money in the bank. The mortgage is solvent. I am feeling, well, hopeful. So, last weekend I went to the hardware store and bought a pint of wood stain, some sandpaper, masking tape, a drop cloth and a new paint brush. I came home and got busy. First there was the sanding. The patio doors had taken on a patina over the years consisting mostly of human exhaust, skin oil and kitchen smoke. It took a lot of sandpaper to remove this grime. But it came off eventually and the replenished wood soaked in the stain with a pent up thirst. A second coat deepened the luster and filled in the spots I had missed. The doors look nice. Clean. Transformed. Red oak now instead of yellow pine. Next weekend I'll add two coats of polyurethane to lock in the stain and they'll be done. It’s hard for me to imagine. The patio doors are ready. Ready for what? That's the question.