On 9/11 of this year, I was heading toward Maryland to drop off an order to a friend I had met in Manhattan back in March.
Suddenly, cars in front of us started honking and slowed down under one of the many bridges that spans the main highway connecting the states on the east coast. Irritated, I wondered what was going on to cause the mild commotion. But then the lump rose in my throat. Two large American flags hung from the bridge from the hands of an older couple, who were waving their free hand at people in the cars below. The drivers were honking and waving back and, if anything like me, blinking back tears. The sight of an American flag on a highway still makes me pause and remember after fifteen years.
The client is a fellow artist and writer living the tiny house dream three stories up. Her gorgeous rooftop deck overlooking the water in Annapolis extends the living space. I could see her spending a lot of time out there watching the sun set and stargazing while thinking about her next novel. Wine glass holders were cut into the armrests, and I built a book nook – a fitting personal touch for a writer – for the back of one of the chairs.
Hearing later that night that the chairs passed the approval of her cat, who declared them to be the right height? My job there was done.