October 18. Tuesday Night.

Hi Journey.

Today I have a fear that we are nestled in the midst of a pack of gadget technogoblins. Joni's PC crashed, and Shelly's cell phone screen is completely black. Spooky.

Dad rang up earlier. He spoke with Mattie this morning. No change. At first I was worried he might break down again, but he really didn't dwell on her at all. Sounded like they mostly discussed the Christmas gift we was milling out for Carmen's kids.

Dad is creating a rocking _______ for the Family Siriso. Not a horse. He is thinking it might be an elephant, but Mattie pushing him to make a giraffe. Much cooler to be seen riding a giraffe, than an elephant, she told him.

Oh, the dilemmas of retirement.

I remember Dad spending hours in the tiny workshop shoehorned into a corner of our basement laundry room, carving and planing and turning and milling. He always had at least three projects under construction; usually a rocking horse (yes, horse) or a First-Grader sized set of chairs and table just perfect for a tea party with our dolls. He'd built Mom a passable set of matching Hepplewhite mirrors for the Master Bedroom and the adjoining bath.

Light lured Dad, same as me. He had several 48” fluorescents strung up above his bench and his small lathe. He had rigged up dryer hose ductwork in between the floor joists overhead; snaking the white, wire-wrapped plastic tubing down to his table saw and lathe and the area on his bench where he ran his router or his drill. Each of these machines was prone to chewing up loads of sawdust. But instead of blowing the sawdust outside he simply sucked it all into a small canister vac he had mounted underneath the bench.

Of course, once Casey had “borrowed” the bottom portion, that is, the canister, and used it as a bucket out to move earth in some backyard hole she was digging. Dad always was safe when he ran his power tools—earplugs and a clear Plexiglas face-shield to cover his eyes. Plus, he had allergies. Often he would wear a small dust-mask over his mouth and nose. The upshot was, he didn't realize until he was nearly finished that he had deposited two board-feet of sawdust all over the workshop and the laundry room as he sanded a cedar chest for the foot of Carmen's bed.

But there was always one half-finished project perched way up on a shelf. One eternal endeavor, sheathed by an old yellow wool blanket like a Rodin-in-progress.

It was a 1961 Jaguar Mark 9. It took him two decades to finish. He lacquered on the final coat of polyurethane finish six months into Case's freshman year at Northwestern.

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