“I thought I could make it. I really thought I could make it,” the older man said into the phone, sitting at his kitchen counter with his mint herbal tea and bacon and eggs. He wore his red and black plaid slippers that his wife had bought for him years ago, paired with his matching plaid pajamas. This was always Harry’s tradition: every morning he would wake up to the sounds of the birds and he would prepare himself breakfast. After that, he would call his brother, Marcus, the only living member of his family, to talk about his day and about the new book that he was reading: All About Woodworking for the Master Woodworker. His younger brother, who lived about two states apart from him, had the same exact routine, except that the only difference was that his wife was still living. It wasn’t that Harry was all alone—no, he had his friends, Jim and Charlie, that he met at the local cafe every Wednesday at three o’clock for a cup of mint tea and a cinnamon bun. He had Ms. Burrow, the chiropractor that Harry visited regularly for his back pain. And he had Jake who came to mow his front yard once every week in the summer, and in the fall to rake and blow the crispy fall leaves off his lawn, and in the winter to shovel all of the heavy snow that had accumulated on his driveway. Even though Harry didn’t have children of his own, he was still at peace with the way that he lived his life in beautiful New England. “Maybe I took in too many requests for wooden bookshelves this month. I really thought that I could have all ten of them finished by the end of this month,” Harry sighed.

Harry loved to take walks with his cane that he himself crafted in his woodshed with the wood from the big oak tree that sat in his backyard that Jake had cut down not too long ago. All of the polishing, and sanding of this precious oak gave Harry a sense of joy and a spur of creativity. After all, he had learned this woodworking skill from his own father when he was a tiny young boy, and Harry still remembers his father’s words, “You’re going to be great at creating your own wooden appliances one day if you continue to do as well as you are doing right now.” These words stuck with Harry and made him smile—not only did he create his own cane, but he also built a birdhouse for Ms. Burrow, since she loved to feed the birds so much. She had even painted it a vibrant orange to make it stand out from the rest of her average front yard. Harry also built and donated oak bookshelves and dressers to the local orphanage and hospital, but due to his old age, he stuck to smaller projects that were easier for him to accomplish. He wanted the little children to know that people care and that they are not all alone in this great big world. When the opportunity arose, Harry sometimes taught younger children woodworking—how to build a wooden train or train tracks—or sometimes, he would offer to teach adults who were just as interested as the little children to learn how to build with wood. Sometimes when the neighbors took a stroll down Mount Maple Avenue with their dogs, they would stop to stare at Harry’s furnished wood creations that were all shining in the spotlight of his driveway. All of these wooden tables, dressers and bookshelves would be picked up by Jake in his cherry-red Chevy pickup truck and donated to various charities after he finished mowing Harry’s lawn. The neighbors would relentlessly ring Harry’s rusty doorbell in hopes that he would answer: “Would you be interested in building a bookshelf for my son?” or “How much do you charge for a dresser?” Harry, smiling and nodding politely answered: “I’ll see what I can do for you.’’ Not long after, you can hear the tap-tap-tap of Harry’s hammer as he nails all of the wooden pieces together for the final product. Once again, Harry is satisfied with his work and so are the people around him, especially the ones that come to admire his wood creations that patiently wait for Jake to come with his cherry-red Chevy pickup truck and deliver them.