Unlimited time is chaff to the Gods. What we crave, they suffer. In amusing their idleness, they direct me, puppet-like, to another garage sale. I think I’m searching for a used Lie-Nielsen #102 hand plane, but their machinations prefer otherwise.
Cold road-tripping mornings remind me of the “Old Man” comment suffered even in my 20’s. I like a wool throw over my legs and knees to fight the chill. Before me, in an out-of-the-way yard sale, upon the mixed textiles pile, is a nice scrap of tartan. Wool. Perfect size. A few small meals extracted, but largely left untouched by moths. Neutral smell. Good signs, all.
We bargain the old-fashioned way. She said eight dollars and I quickly accepted. A small pile of worn Yankee dollars and silver pour from my hand into her jug. I am the newest caretaker of this fine Amana wool throw. Handcrafted in Iowa since 1855.
A perfect companion to winter mornings in the Southwest. If that cat jumps upon my lap, I may stay here until lunch!