Years ago, sister Sarah put dibs on Mom’s beautiful old oak Hoosier cupboard in the kitchen. She’s coming to get it next week.
At present, the Hoosier contains Mom’s silverware, napkins and hot pads, utensils, and all the baking supplies, bowls, and pans. It includes a 48” wide countertop; antique pots and plants are displayed on top. Where’s all that going to go?
For the last 29 years, until I moved to my Seattle apartment, my kitchens have included a lower cupboard unit, 30” wide, with one shallow and two deep drawers, topped with a butcherblock countertop. I think everybody needs one.
Mom likes the idea, so we picked out cabinets to order at the local Menard’s. We’d need an installer. Menard’s recommended a guy they called ‘the other carpenter.’ (Huh? If Don is the other carpenter, why can’t we get the main one?)
I phoned, and he said he could come early that evening to look at our job. When he arrived, he was wearing a t-shirt with a logo that clarified the Other Carpenter thing: It’s Jesus.
About the only religious t-shirt I’ve ever been comfortable with is the one that says, “Love God. Love other people. Nothing else matters.” Still, I figure a carpenter who advertises his connection to Jesus would probably aim to do a job that would make Jesus proud. And it’s definitely better than the beer and babes shirts some builders wear.
Mom and I loved Don. He seems like a genuinely nice man and unlike our own other carpenter down the street, a guy who has often disappointed us, Don actually speaks to Mom instead of referring every question to me like Mom’s not in the room. And Don seems to have that know-how that my building-contractor ex had. We decided to have Don build and install a custom unit.
As he was heading back out to his truck, Mom and I were commenting on the beautiful sky, and Don said something about how God paints these amazing pictures. I’m Christian, but that kind of talk makes me twitch. The next morning, I mentioned it to Mom. I said, archly, no doubt, “Don’s comments about God painting the sky accord with neither my meteorology nor my theology.”
“How do they accord with your poetry?” Mom replied, mildly.
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