A Gift

He comes each morning after breakfast. He is welcomed by a horde of cheerful faces and hugs, each wanting to show him something. A few words, and he heads into the next room, and takes off his teal baseball cap and his red and black checked coat. Then he unfolds a sheet on the floor.
One of the children follows him, his face quiet. The boy pulls out some sawhorses, and lays a board across them. The two set up some saws and other tools, and begin working. They are building a bookcase. The old man is clearly a master, giving quiet instructions in his rough German accent. The boy nods. Both prefer few words, and both love what they are doing.
They work, cutting and fitting, nailing and screwing, adjusting and leveling as they go, leaving beauty behind. Each day, when they are through, they tidy the tools, put the saws out of reach of little hands, and sweept away the sawdust. The old man puts on his coat and his hat, and leaves with a quiet word or two.
The first day, six low shelves appeared, their base solid in the floor. The second day, the boy has learned more, and they put a top on the shelves, and enclose them–cupboards. Then they measure, and lay planks on top of the cupboards, and frame three bookcases. The old man smiles at his helper over a snitch of cookie dough. Good work has been done.
The third day, the man comes and the boy helps. They lay shelves, and hang cupboard doors. Everything must be level–and that door must be rehung again. They sand, and fill holes with putty. The other children watch in curious awe as they reset the crown molding and the baseboards around the new bookcase. The mother is amazed–she dreamed, and told her friend. The friend told her father. The father smiled, and decided to do it. And he taught the boy much, let him help, let him learn.
There were thanks and smiles. He cleaned up the sawdust for the last time, and the boy grins wide as the leftover boards are his…for a fort? for a table? or maybe, for another bookcase.

Thank you, Fred.