The boy and I break out the picnic table and venture out into the sun to work. We’ve bought a new sander to help with his woodworking project. He’s building a coffee table and has picked some odd green color to paint it when it’s finished.
“I want it to look like nothing else in the house,” he says. “That’s the point.”
And here I was thinking that he just wanted to take up coffee drinking.
I do all the cutting, since I am the old man who wouldn’t be too put out if a finger or two is lost to the blade. I have no future plans to take up the flute, and I can’t remember the last time I used my thumb to hitchhike. Besides, old men almost always end up with twisted or missing fingers. Or is that just in my family?
But the saw work goes without mishap. Growing evidence that I may be the mailman’s kid after all. The scrap lumber, all clear cedar left over from past jobs, is cut into lengths, ready for the eager boy and his cordless screw gun. I stand back and assume a supervisory position at the picnic table. I crack open a beer and pet the dog. From the field, a cow watches the project’s progress from one large, unblinking brown eye. I think about running sprinklers in the nursery, but really need to save some work for tomorrow. I’d hate to run out.