Blather

Jeri Southern was singing “Smoke gets in your eyes.” Some of the lyrics were more spoken than sung, but no one could argue that she wasn’t a singer.

The club was full, you could hear glasses tinkle, women laugh, and even the smoke in the air had its own sound fabric. On stage she stood in the dark, just a spotlight making a microphone-shaped shadow on her shoulder. The large silver mike hid her chin, but when she tipped her head back and sang, you could see her teeth. Her eyes took her somewhere else. The trombone slid around some notes when she had a pause, seeming as if the player were in another room, far away. The violin made a grey sound, keeping the atmosphere solid with sound until she started singing again.

Sitting there with my wife, I had a fleeting curiosity – what would the singer be like, as a lover? Would she be enthusiastic, or would she be soft and lovingly spacey? While naked would she concentrate on sex, or would she be concerned even during sex only with her singing and her career? Of course, the real-world path to that point was never a genuine issue, I just wondered what she’d feel like, what she’d smell like, how she’d sound, that sort of thing. The entire episode with her lasted a second or two. Then I looked at my wife again.

I saw my wife’s face and heard the girl sing. Strange juxtaposition of women, I thought. The singer crooned, “When I give my heart, it will be com-plete-ly, or I’ll ne-ver give … my heart.” And my wife was looking at me with that familiar, closed look on her face. The same look I’d seen many times already. There was something there, behind the eyes, but exactly what was there remained a mystery. I jumped into the singer’s mental place, thinking about me and the way I might give my heart, in that romantic sense. Well, it was too late for me already. I’d already given my heart to my wife. Or so it seemed to me. Lately, I was less certain.

I was lost in my own little world for a bit. Then she eased into her next song, “You’d better go now, because I like you much too much now.”

I saw the words to the song as a sort of slogan, some sort of spoken philosophy that almost made sense to me. She repeated, “You’d better go now because I like you much too much.” That really threw me for a loop. How did the woman with the golden voice see into my inner psyche? Maybe it wasn’t the singer who was talking to me, it was the songwriter: he had an idea there that was like a clarinet’s wail – more than one meaning, sort of like reality bending a la Dali, and the singer was his instrument.

“Hey, where are you?” my wife asked.

I inhaled suddenly. “Oh, just wandering off somewhere,” I replied, more than a bit sheepishly.

“You treat all your wives like this?” she needled rhetorically? She knew she was the only wife I'd ever had.

“Naw, not all of ‘em,” I gave her back. Looking for a clever retort, I added, “Just the ones I go clubbing with.” Funny how she could be hard and distant one instant, then more or less normal the next.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Sure, go ahead,” I replied.

“When we’re together, do you notice anything missing?” she began.

I knew this question was so broad, so vague that the answer could be anything at all. “Well, I think most things are there – you, me, a bit of pleasure, a bit of passion. What do you think I’ve been missing?” I answered.

“You know how you pleasure me, how I get to the point where I lose my, er, train of thought, right?” she began. “Well, what do you NOT hear when I get to that point?”

“Oh, a quiz,” I hedged. By obliquely responding, I didn’t have to answer the question right away.

She dived fearlessly into this conversational crevasse. “What do you fail to hear when I am experiencing pleasure?”

“I’m not sure. It seems I’m occupied with something else at the time. Your pleasure, I believe,” I added coyly. Banter is a signal that the speaker is not angry, and we’d just plunged into the conversational pool that could easily result in some hostility. I wasn’t hostile yet, and wanted her to know that.

“I don’t say your name,” was the bombshell she’d been waiting to drop.

“Aye, I reckon you don’t,” I agreed. “But what makes you think I’d not noticed that?”

“Have you really noticed?” she inquired.

“Oh, you betcha Margie,” I answered in my best Minnesota accent, keeping the banter going because inside me I didn’t want to fight over this issue.

“Have you really noticed?” she repeated, just a bit more slowly and clearly, indicating with her enunciation that the question deserved a real answer.

I paused. Answering too quickly was not a good thing. I’d shot myself in my metaphysical foot too many times. I took a deep breath, both as a way to calm my inner self and as a way to effect a pause in the conversation. “Yes, I’ve noticed. I first noticed after we got back together the second time.”

“I see,” she answered slowly. You could see the wheels going around in her head.

I felt like honesty here would be a good thing, so I continued. “I noticed. But after I thought about it, I decided that I couldn’t win if I said anything, so I kept my mouth shut.”

Her eyebrows got a bit closer together. I decided telling her wouldn’t hurt me, so I did.

“Yep. See, if I’d said something about that, if I’d said, ‘Why don’t you say my name?’ then nothing would be good for me. You’d either start saying my name, or you’d continue to refrain from saying my name. Neither was a good thing for me.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Well, just go with me here a bit,” I continued. “If I’d said that, and then you’d started saying my name, how could I know that you were saying my name because you wanted to, at your moment of intense pleasure, or you were just keeping me happy by tossing me the relationship bone I wanted.” Her face began to cloud over a bit. “Worse, if you still continued to refrain from telling me that it was I who was pleasuring you, what would that particular signal do for me? Let me know that even though you enjoy me pleasuring you, you still didn’t want to let me feel appreciated? No thanks.”

“Funny, I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” she said softly. “For me it was something else. I haven’t been able to put it into words, either.”

“Yeah, I guess we look at things from our own perspective,” I opined, hoping she wouldn’t take offense at presuming to say how she looked at something.

“For me it was, um, ... it was linked to trusting you.”

I didn’t want to open the Why-She-Can’t-Trust-Me can of worms, so I nodded and looked at her.

“There may be more. Sometimes I don’t know how to say what’s on my mind. And sometimes, when I know what’s there, I don’t feel safe telling you. Sometimes telling you something comes back to bite me in the butt.” She looked at me, her face flitting from sincerity to hostility to embarrassment. How could she do all that in the blink of an eye?

Then she shut off her face. Just eyes, nose, a mouth, but no emotion on her face. After seeing this so many times, it still amazed me how she could transform herself into a flesh statue- all the components there, but nothing else.

The singer stepped back into the shadows, letting the band have our attention. I tried to listen to the clarinet, try to imagine the times the band practiced, each player taking the lead, backing up another instrument. One part of me wanted to hear my wife, respond to her; another part of me wanted to escape. The piano tinkled around various octaves, the clarinet came and went, and the drums shuffled a slow, synchopated beat. I glanced at my wife while the band played.

Then the singer stepped forward, stood at the mike and sang, almost alone. The instruments’ volume dropped, just her voice carried the song. “Every time we say good bye, I die a little,” she lamented. The song meandered, rhyming and sighing, to the point where I wondered if the singer really loved the guy she was singing to. Ah, it was just a song. But it sure had a lot of apparent sentiment to it.

The song ended. I stopped escaping. “Do you still have trouble trusting me?” I asked.

“I want to trust you, I really do. But there’s something inside me keeping me from being as trusting as I used to be. It’s part of liking myself, part of knowing I don’t really need you.” Then she paused a bit. “I don’t mean to hurt you with the part about not needing you.”

“Yes, I know. It’s all right if you don’t need me, if you’re not dependent on me,” I replied.” Then I looked for the right words. “I don’t mind if you’re economically not dependent on me. But there’s another sort of bond, a sort of need that I wish I could be sure of. I’d like for you to need me as a person, as someone next to you.” I hesitated, looking for some better words.

“Yes, that too,” she continued. “I’m not sure about that sort of need or dependency. I’m not sure I need you like that, either.”

“Ouch!” I said. “That isn’t making me feel better.”

“Aw, it’s so hard to explain. I want you in my life, but I’m not ready to be as hopelessly lost, as vulnerable as I used to be.” She stressed the vulnerable part by looking at me with her soft brown eyes. I saw a reflection of the past, a memory of how she used to be vulnerable. Just for a nanosecond, or maybe it was just in my imagination, I saw that young girl I’d married, seeing her with today’s eyes, recognizing how she was vulnerable. And feeling none the more honorable for putting her in this place now.

I began to understand her better. “Aye, darlin’, ‘tis fearsome difficult t' balance the two, isn’t it? You want to 'ave me around, but you can’t let y'rself be hurt again,” I said. The brogue was just a conversational reflex to keep me from facing what she’d said. Intellectually I understood her. That’s why I was able to comprehend the push-pull of trust and vulnerability.

Then I began to see how that was true for me, too. I floundered a bit, trying to tell her how I’d gone through some sort of wall, where I, too, was able to survive alone, without the assurance that she was part of my life. The cocky, confident guy she’d married was the compliment to her shy vulnerability. But in my way, I was just as vulnerable. She'd been my emotional anchor. “Heck, what can I say? I’m vulnerable, too, but in a different way, maybe because we’re different people.”

“Yes, we used to be very much alike, you and me. Now we’re less each other’s clone,” she said seriously.

Fortunately for my ego and for this conversation, the band started playing louder, just a few bars. This gave me time to think of something. I looked into her eyes. How could 30 years affect someone so little? She seemed as sweet and cute as when we were first married, our economic life and death hanging on the thread of some pocket change. She’d always been a trooper, always giving me what I asked for. I wondered if I’d ever given her anything.

“You know, this isn’t going anywhere good for me,” I informed her.

“Oh, I know that," she granted. " I don’t think I’d like to hear this either,” she added.

I changed the subject. “Do you like the songs?” I asked.

“Yes, very romantic. I’m a bit surprised you like them. I thought you might find them too mushy, too sentimental,” she replied. She was aware that talking about the songs meant we didn’t have to talk about us.

“Mmm, the lyrics are romantic. Maybe I’ve changed, maybe I’m looking for something that reminds me of us.”

“You think we’re romantic?” she asked. “After all the hostility we’ve gone through?”

“Sure I do,” I answered. “People who’ve had problems and are still together are still together because they want to be together. I think that’s romantic.”

She didn’t seem ready to respond. She glanced away, looking at the stage. “Good songs, good music, good singer,” she said.

I could tell this was another intentional break in the conversation, an attempt to go somewhere else. I was a bit curious about her surprise at my romantic tendencies, but this didn’t seem urgent, so I let this mini-surprise go.

“Glad you like this date.”

“Oh, we’re on a ‘date,’ are we?” she queried, with a glint in her eye.

“Yep. An official, genuine, no-nonsense date,” I smirked.

“And you think this will get you … where?” she continued.

“Into your bed, into your heart, into your life,” I said sincerely.

My blockbuster, though smaller than hers, was sufficient to make her pause awkwardly. “I see,” she mumbled.

I didn’t want her to be pressured, so I changed tack again, going with the nearest topic. “And she sings well, too.” I think this evasive maneuver went over her head, but it gave her a chance to stay with the singer, and avoid our relationship.

“Yes, she’s great. Jeri Southern is a terrific singer."

I liked "Smoke gets in your eyes.”

"Me too. But we still don't know where we're going from here, do we?"

Unable to stop the flow of sentiment induced by the singing, I replied, "Nope. Maybe our two paths will be separate, but maybe they will touch each other awhile longer."

By US Customs Senior Inspector

In August 2002, I spent six weeks at OBS on a very productive TDY. If an inspector had a question about a person or shipment that might be related to terrorism, OBS could give that inspector the information needed to release or refer.

The TDY personnel work in the function familiar to them. There are land border inspectors, airport inspectors, and cargo inspectors. The group with whom I worked were from all over the country- Puerto Rico, San Ysidro, Miami, Texas, etc. Fred welcomed me as the only other San Francisco/Oakland inspector.

The details of what I did are supposed to stay in the room, and with my really, really short-term memory, they stayed there. But there was more than just work on this TDY. There was the chance to see the Smithsonian, the Library of Congress, etc.

As a former Marine, Fred organized our trip to see the Marine demonstration at Arlington National Cemetery. "One more touristy thing to see in DC," I muttered to myself. At the appointed time, I climbed into the van. Arriving at Arlington, we had to park about two miles from the Iwo Jima Memorial and take a bus from the parking lot. One Minneapolis family rode the bus with us, toting children's equipment, cameras, and a baby stroller; they were dressed like Midwesterners on vacation. The family introduced themselves to us, and we introduced ourselves to them, chatting on the bus to the observation area. They were happy I'd been to Bemidji, MN. Once the bus dropped us off, we sort of lost track of them. Looking around, I saw old folks, kids, a few singles, mostly families. I looked around and saw a slice of America -- visitors from everywhere. It struck me that this was the reason we were working in OBS -- to make sure these folks had something like the security they were enjoying that moment.

As soon as we got there, the presentation started. I was very surprised by the content of the Marines' program. Lots of young guys performed amazing things with M-1 Garand rifles. Their precision was terrific! Their marching, the band's drums and brass, the rifles gleaming in the twilight, and the martial manner in which they carried themselves did something to all of us.

We were proud to be Americans.

While the program was going on, we forgot about the sticky weather and having to work in the morning; all we saw was a company of dedicated Marines and the high level of precision that stems from their dedication.

Seeing the Marines at Arlington National Cemetery was the high point of the TDY. Oh, we certainly did important work, we all got "attaboy" awards, and we had a good time getting to know each other in the lobby of the hotel. But none of us will forget the experience of watching those Marines. Thanks, Fred.

Why this blog? Well my motives start with my old work friend, Linda, who had a great newsletter that she wrote and edited. While she ran "Outtakes," distributed throughout the Port of Oakland/San Francisco for the US Customs Service, she very generously printed everything I sent her. One of my never-to-be-forgotten moments was when she emailed me and said that she never had to edit my submissions for grammatical accuracy. If I can find some of these old pieces, I'll include them here. I wrote about Customs-related stuff, though some of my submissions were very thinly related to Customs. I recall one piece about Schola St. George- 15th Century swordsmanship- that I tried to link to something related to Customs and found that there was, indeed, a nexus. Other pieces were about what I did for Customs- domestic security right after 9/11, temporary duty to the Northern Border and HQ, etc. I had some nice photos there, so I hope I can still find these for later entries in this blog. One piece about my tandem bicycle had absolutely nothing to do with Customs, yet she still printed it. One of my disappointments revolves around the demise of Outtakes- since Linda retired, the news we get is exceedingly dry and to-the-point. Gone are little tidbits regarding who got promoted, who had a baby, who found some narcotics, who did this or that. HQ puts out a memo, the replacement newsletter merely reprints it in its entirety with nothing to make it personal. Linda also used to include small trivia questions, movie reviews, stuff like that. You looked forward to her Outtakes.

More of my motivation starts with me. I like to write, and I don't mind who reads my blather. So I guess I should start with a bit about myself- I have been a Customs Inspector since 1989. OK, technically, I'm a "DHS-Customs and Border Protection Officer," but in my mind, I'm still a Customs Inspector. Since I'm not yet retired, I'll have to be somewhat circumspect in my writings about my work. Bear with me, things will get better. And if I can find some of those pieces I wrote for Linda, I'll put them in here and you can see what I did just a few years ago. I can't bad-mouth Customs too much, they're really a good place to work. They're not perfect, but then which organization is?

What else? Well, I've been married for 34 years. We have a son, 33, a daughter 27, and our last child is a nice 12-year-old young man. We live in Hayward, CA, about half-way between Oakland and San Jose. This is not their blog, it's mine, so enough of them for now. If necessary, I'll write more about them another time.

More? Sure. I have lots of interests. In no particular order, they include bicycles, welding, blacksmithing, internet friends, motorcycles, languages, travel, art, gardening, renaissance faires, firearms, photography, car repair, movies, writing, philosophy, and learning how things work. (Quick aside: How thing work leads to wondering about one's existence. One of the more curiously-assembled things I've discovered is my own psyche.) I'll write about each of these things and see where they take me.

I have a handlebar moustache that my son says is the best at Dickens Fair.

I've raced motorcycles, served in the Army (Germany, not Viet Nam), been in the delivery room for all three kids, lived on three continents, and been employed at a number of different jobs- working backwards, I guess they'd be: Customs Inspector, chauffer (briefly), diplomat, burocrat, building mechanic/painter/carpenter, truck driver, welder, soldier, stockroom clerk, and paper boy. I think I've omitted some, but that's the bulk of my paid occupations.

Linda wrote some great pieces about herself, her travels and travails. If this blog can reach her level of prose, I'll be happy. Which Linda? Look at "Outtakes at home."

Signing off for now,

r

Once upon a time, a long, long, l-o-n-g time ago, there was a little boy named “Bube.” He was a happy, secure, little boy. He had long hair, some of which was brownish, some of which was blondish. You know the color, right? At the time of the story I’m going to tell you, Bube had lost a couple of teeth and one of them had grown in, but the other had not. You know that children usually lose the two bottom teeth first, then the two top teeth, then others, don’t you? So you can guess Bube’s age by knowing that he’d lost the two lower teeth and only one had reappeared. One more hint about his age: he was too tall to walk under the kitchen table any more.

Bube was big enough to know what was right and what was wrong, but not really old enough to always know about a new situation. He knew he shouldn’t play with knives and fire, but he hadn’t yet learned about a lot of other things. He could dress himself, mostly. He could put on his own socks but didn’t always know which shoe went on which foot. You know about these things that small children have to learn, don’t you?

Bube lived in a house with one large room downstairs and three smaller rooms upstairs. At one end of the upstairs part of the house, his parents had their bedroom. At the other end, his sister had one room and Bube and his big brother shared the other room. The rooms were cozy. This is a word some people use when the don’t want to say “small.” But in this case, “cozy” means that the house felt comfortable to everyone in it. Even Bube could find his way around in the dark.

His parents’ bed was big, soft and comfortable. Bube liked to snuggle between his parents whenever he could, because it felt good to be close to them. His big brother and his sister played with him, but they were older, and you know how older siblings can be, don’t you?

Even though they had their own interests, these two older children loved Bube a lot and always made sure he was comfortable. They understood the phrase “In loco parentis.” Do you know what this phrase means? Well, dear reader, this is from Latin, and means, “In place of the parents.” Bube’s siblings knew a lot about parenting, because Bube’s mom and dad had parented them very intensely and because they got to do some parenting of their own with Bube.

One day, when Bube was learning to count, his dad asked, “How many eyes do you have?”

Bube answered, “Two.”

Then he asked, “How many noses do you have?”

And Bube answered, “One.” At this point, Bube dad thought Bube understood how numbers referred to things. Then he asked one more question.

“How many parents do you have?”

“Four.”

This got Bube’s dad’s attention. “What! How many parents?”

“Four, I said.” Bube knew his own mind, even if he was young.

“Who are they?”

“You, mommy, my brother and my sister.”

Bube’s dad laughed. “Oh, so they’re your parents, too, eh? O well, I guess I can see how you might think so. They’re big, they love you, and they take care of you.”

Bube’s parents spent a lot of time taking care of the house and working to earn money for things they needed - food, tools, books - things they could neither grow at home nor make for themselves. But they also spent time playing with him, talking to him, telling him things he needed to know as he got older. That’s what parents are for, don’t you think so?

One day, Bube’s mom showed him how to make cookie dough: flour, eggs, shortening, brown sugar, and a bit of vanilla extract. Then Bube’s dad took an unbaked cookie, winking at Bube to keep silent. Bube giggled and that made his mom turn around. “Hey! What are you doing?” she demanded.

Bube’s dad gave her a hug. “Um, I’m just seeing if the cookies are going to be any good, ” he said lamely.

Bube’s mom squirmed, but laughed. “If you don’t stop eating the dough, there won’t be any cookies!”

Then Bube picked off a small piece of cookie dough and put it in his mouth. His mother saw this, nodded to his father, and rolled her eyes. “See what you started?”

“OK, OK. Want me to take him off your hands?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve got to keep an eye on the oven. Go ahead.”

So Bube’s dad took him outside. He took Bube’s hand and went to sit on a bench outside the house. The afternoon sun kept them warm, and they sat quietly for a bit. Then Bube started getting antsy. You know what this feeling is for little boys, don’t you?

His dad knew what antsy boys need, so he got a small, squishy ball and started to play catch with him. His dad tossed the ball to him.

When Bube dropped the squishy ball, his dad said, “Oh, that was pretty close.”

When he caught the ball, his dad said, “Great catch, kid!”

Though he had some trouble catching the ball, Bube was pretty good at throwing the ball. He could throw with either hand, but he liked to throw with his right hand.

Bube got a funny idea- he had his dad running around, because he threw the ball over his head. This made his dad run to pick up the ball. Bube thought that was funny. Do you think that’s funny? Do you think you might play this trick on your dad? I hope not.

As they played catch, Bube got better and better at catching the ball. He could follow the ball with his eyes and guess, very quickly, where the ball was going to be and then make sure he was able to scoop it up with his hands.

This was a very pleasant time of the afternoon. The sun was low, and the trees near Bube’s house made some shade for them. The breeze kept them from getting too warm. The birds were almost quiet. The ground was smooth where they played. If the ball hit the ground, it didn’t roll too far because the ball was soft.

Bube didn’t get tired of playing catch, even after he thought he knew how to catch the ball pretty well. Part of the fun was being able to catch the ball and part of the fun was in playing with his dad. Bube loved his dad.

Bube’s dad told him that he had made a particularly difficult catch and he gave Bube a big hug. Bube laughed when his dad picked him up. Then his dad put Bube on his shoulders and tossed the ball straight up in the air. Bube tried to catch the ball. If he missed, his dad could catch it. When his dad didn’t catch the ball, he groaned because had to bend down and pick it up with Bube on his shoulders. This made a sort of up-and-down ride for Bube. This was a teeny bit scary, but it was also fun.

After they played for awhile, they went inside. Bube’s mom and sister made a very tasty dinner, after which they sat around the fireplace full of logs which Bube’s brother had chopped. Playing catch had tired out both Bube and his dad. They both yawned during dinner and dozed in front of the fire until Bube’s big brother picked him up and took him to bed. His dad made it to bed by himself. They all slept well that night. Oh, this story is making me sleepy! What about you, dear reader?

One morning, when the weather was still warm, though not as hot as the hottest part of Summer, Bube and his dad took a trip. Bube and his dad traveled on a horse. The sun was low on the horizon when they arrived at a city where there were lots of people. Some were dressed like Bube and his dad- pants, shirt, a jacket, and shoes. Some were dressed in nicer clothes and wore a sword. Others were dressed in styles Bube hadn’t seen before- they wore black pants and jackets or they wore brightly colored scarves and long skirts. Bube and his dad got down and walked the horse.

Bube saw a group of women, some of whom covered their faces, but most didn’t. One of the younger ladies saw him and smiled. She found a pocket somewhere in her dress and pulled out a pear. It was small and round, rather than pear-shaped and had a definite red color at the bottom. She offered it to Bube. His father said to him, quietly, “Take it with both hands from underneath.” So Bube put out two hands and took the pear which looked like both a pear and an apple. He told the lady, “Thank you” in his most polite voice. Then he looked a bit closer at her face. She had freckles and light brown hair, but she spoke a language he didn’t know. Her friend had dark brown hair and a round face with high cheekbones. The girl with freckles said something to him that he didn't understand, but his dad said that she was telling him he was a good boy.

Bube had some berries in a little wooden box that his dad had carved. His brother made the strap so Bube could wear the box over his shoulder. He opened the box and offered the berries to her. They were large, sweet blackberries that grew near his house. She lowered herself to look in his eyes. He saw that her dress was made for warm weather and wondered, just for a moment, if she also had a coat for when the winds got cold. He also saw that the sun had tanned her arms. As she got a little closer, she smelled nice. She took his wrist in one soft hand and turned the box over until a few berries rolled out into her other hand. Then she picked one berry and popped it into her mouth. She grinned as she tasted the berry’s flavor. She gave a couple of berries to her friend, who also enjoyed the berries Bube had picked. Then she bent down and smiled at him, a few of her top teeth pressing her lower lip. The sun made her hair blowing around her face look like a halo. Bube didn’t know what to say. He just looked. Then she squeezed his arm gently and stood up.

Bube took a bite of the pear and found that it was very sweet. As they walked away, he could hear the ladies laughing in that far-away language. But for the moment, he only thought about putting one foot in front of the other and chewing on his pear.

Bube’s dad soon found a road leading out of town. Very close to the city, they saw a small house, a field, a couple of horses, and a large, well-constructed barn next to a large oak tree. Going into the yard, Bube’s dad called out, “Vincent!”

“In back of the barn!” came the reply.

They walked around back. On a large table, a man with dividers was measuring distances on a large sheet of paper. He put down the dividers and sat on a bench next to a smaller table. You know what “dividers” are, don’t you? They’re little pointy things that you can set for a particular distance, then you can use them to measure the same distance on another place. On the table were a pottery jug and glasses. “Have some water. Who’s your friend?”

Bube’s dad sat down, poured a glass of water, and said, “Thanks Vincent. And you know this young man already. He’s my son.” Turning to Bube, he said, “Bube, say hello to your uncle. He hasn’t seen you since you were a baby.”

Vincent walked over and shook Bube’s hand, then gave him a hug. Vincent smelled like tobacco. But he was nice, and after the hug, he shook hands with Bube’s dad. He said, “It’s really great to see you. And look at Bube- he’s getting so big!”

Bube’s dad smiled, and put Bube on his lap. “Yes, he is getting big, isn’t he? But I see you’re working on a drawing. What are you going to make?”

Vincent pointed to the drawing. “This is going to be a forge. See, here’s the anvil, here’s the bellows, and here’s the fire.

Bube asked, “What’s a forge?”

His dad said, “It’s a place where you can make things from iron and steel. Simple things like nails, brackets, and hinges, and more difficult things like knives, axes, plows, even springs.”

Vincent added, “It takes a while to get good at using tools, then once you learn how, you’re never done with learning new things because you try things you haven’t done before.”

“Can you show me how to make something on a forge?” asked Bube.

Vincent and Bube’s dad looked at each other. Then Vincent said, “Well, I have some coal and some steel in my old forge. Maybe we could make some nails tomorrow.”

“That’s great!” exclaimed Bube’s dad. “I need some nails for my workshop.” He sat back and smiled. Bube could see his dad imagining all the things he could do with a bag of nails.

They sat outside for awhile longer, then they went inside. Vincent’s family made room for them around the table. Bube’s dad told Vincent’s family about Bube’s mom, brother, and sister. They asked him to bring back some stories to Bube’s mom, brother, and sister. Bube talked about his berries and his mother’s cookies. After dinner, they talked about the next day but, because they didn’t have lights like we have now, they didn’t talk for too long. Pretty soon the whole house was quiet. Everyone dreamed. Bube’s dad dreamed about nails. Vincent dreamed about making another forge, but that’s another story. In his mind, Bube tasted small, reddish, sweet pears; he saw happy young ladies with freckles and he heard words in another language. He had happy dreams.