Three wild and mildly questionable decision-makers...

Three wild and mildly questionable decision-makers. Add a couple of power tools, and what could possibly go wrong?

I had exactly half a day to turn a wall of very serious, very brown, 5-by-10-foot recessed bookshelves into something that didn’t whisper “public library circa 1987.” No time for carefully curated props. No time for mood boards. Just me, a pile of fabric, some twinkle lights, a few hand-painted signs, and an assortment of “treasures” that polite people might call junk.

We’re in the middle of moving our small, slightly magical, definitely mischievous little shop into a space five times its size. Which sounds exciting—until you realize the new place has all the personality of…well…picture a former shoe store. Not a sleek, modern one either. The old-school kind. Rows and rows and ROWS of built-in wooden shelves. Brown shelves. So many brown shelves. And just to keep things interesting—we’re not allowed to paint them.

So there I stood, staring down the Great Wall of Shelving, armed with antiques, oddities, and a firm belief that nothing should ever be used for its intended purpose. Also nearby: a table full of power tools—the kind that make my husband quietly hover and say things like, “Maybe just…be careful?”

I was mid-stare (the kind where you hope inspiration shows up before panic does) when—like some kind of perfectly timed sitcom entrance—two of my dearest, oldest friends walked in.

And when I say “oldest,” I mean in friendship years, not spirit. Although between the three of us, we’ve probably clocked over 300 years of collective life experience…give or take.

Marilee and Jeanna. My people. My co-conspirators. My annual Kentucky Derby partners in questionable hat choices. They weren’t even supposed to arrive until later—but there they were, right when I needed them most.

Now, one of the best things about friends you’ve had forever is this: they don’t ask a lot of questions. They don’t need a plan. They just…jump in. Or more accurately, they jump into whatever I have decided is happening.

Next thing I know, I’m dragging out old soda crates while someone hands me a drill. We’re holding things up, squinting, saying “maybe?” and then immediately committing. Out comes the level. The staple gun starts singing. Fabric goes up. Twinkle lights are declared essential.

“Let’s put the lobster trap here.”
Yes. A lobster trap. Obviously perfect for dried soup mixes.

“Those wire egg baskets? Snack bins.”
“Sap bucket? Needs a moment to shine.”
“Who’s climbing the ladder?”

And not just any ladder. The 18-foot ladder.

(We did not discuss this with our husbands. We will not be discussing this with our husbands.)

There was a brief moment of, “How are we getting lights that high?” followed immediately by, “Well, we’ll figure it out,” which is the unofficial motto of both our friendship and this entire store.

What followed was three hours of absolute, joyful chaos.

No arguments. No “we can’t do that.” A few “we probably shouldn’t do that,” quickly ignored. Lots of laughing. Lots of pivoting. Nothing about it was polished or methodical. It was more like…creative dodgeball meets light construction.

And it was perfect.

Because it wasn’t just about transforming shelves. It was about being with people who know you so well they don’t blink when you suggest hanging a display from something that used to live in the ocean. People who let you be exactly who you are—power tools and all.

When this move is finished, and the new Merril Mischief is open and bustling, I’ll walk past those shelves a hundred times a week.

And every single time, I’ll see more than displays.

I’ll see that afternoon.
I’ll hear the laughter.
I’ll remember the ladder (and how we absolutely should not have been on it).
And I’ll smile.

Thank you, Marilee and Jeanna…for showing up, jumping in, and making a little mischief with me.