Not long ago, my wife Dolly said, “when are you going to clean up this bomb blast you call a shop?”
“What do you mean,” I said, warping an eyeball out from behind a skelter of sticks, where I was sorting wood shavings according to texture and color. “Every stick in here has a special purpose, and one day I will know what that is.”
“Today is that day,
and I’ll tell you what that purpose is,” Dolly said.