Emily

###“He’s in the basement.”
###Before I’m through the front door, Mom’s already telling me where my father is.
###“You can’t allow him---“
###She doesn’t let me finish. “I couldn’t stop him. Your father has worked with that old wood stuff all his life. Can’t do a thing about it.”
“He could hurt himself. ” ###Halfway down the back stairs, I see him at his worktable, quiet and studious as a monk.### “Dad?”
###He turns and peers at me through the protective goggles. “Bob? That you?”
###“Paul. I’m Paul.”
###“Sure.” He sighs, the solitude broken, pulls off the goggles and unties his canvas apron.
###“Mom tell you I was coming? We thought we’d go for a drive. Get some fresh air.”
###“Sure.” He pulls on an aged brown cardigan, and we start for the stairs. “Wait,’’ he says and goes back to the worktable, turning over wooden blocks and scraps until he finds what he’s searching for. He slides it into a pocket.
###“Ready, Dad?”
###“Sure.”
###When he’s in the front seat of the car, I close the door so he can’t hear me and ask Mom, “Who’s Bob? Dad thought I was ---”
###She laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’
###We drive in silence except when Mom, from the back seat, announces a red light or a stop sign.
###Soon as we turn into a long curved driveway before a large brick building, she starts in. “Isn’t this nice, George? All these shade trees and flowers. Benches for people to sit. Why, it’s like a park. You can tell they really keep this place up.’’
###She hasn’t told him what it is or why we’re here. We go inside, and she chatters like we’re in a shopping mall. “Look at all these comfortable chairs and couches. Those tall windows let in so much light. They’re going to show us around the whole place, George. Like a tour. We’ll see everything.”
###And we do. She’s especially enthusiastic about a spacious room with bright ceiling lights above long tables where a few people are concentrating on scissoring up old greeting cards and making new ones from the pieces. “See, George? It’s the art room. You’ll like being in here. Make all kinds of things.”
###“Sure.”
###Dad and I stand in the sunshine outside the front door while Mom goes off to find a powder room.
### “So, Dad, what do you think? Of this place? Like a hotel, huh? Mom thinks maybe you might want to stay here for a while. What do you think?”
###He reaches into his pocket and pulls out odd-shaped wooden pieces clumsily attached and answers with the most words I’d heard him say in a long time. “I made something today for you, Bob.”
###“Paul.”
###“It’s a---”
###“I know,’’ I stop him, using Mom’s trick. A sad, uncomprehending look comes over his face. I take the small object, warm from his hands. “It’s beautiful, Dad. Really. You still have the magic touch.”

Joseph

Hello,###
I'm writing to ask you a couple of questions about the small wooden object you are selling on ebay for $5.00. Is it varnished? If so does the varnish smell? Or does it have another odor, such as old cigars, musty carpet, or (god forbid) old linoleum. Does the little arm move? Does it make a rubbing or squeaking sound? Does the edge of the wood make a satisfying tap when it touches the other piece of wood (assuming they touch at all)? What is the wood made of? Oak? Pine? Please don’t say it’s painted balsa. I can’t stand faux finishes! Is it heavy? Would you throw it at a home intruder if it were the only item you could get your hands on or would you be better off looking for something more substantial? If you were sitting on a back porch in March and lazily began moving the arm back and forth (again, assuming it moves) and your finger got caught in-between the two pieces of wood would you require medical assistance? Or maybe just some ice? I should have asked before, but is there a concealed blade anywhere? If that’s the case it surely wouldn’t be on my back porch in March or any other month!! It would be comfortably out of reach of anyone under 4 feet tall. But that brings us back to the weight, which I already asked about. I wouldn’t want it falling on anyone’s head that’s all. Well, I guess that covers it. ###

Thank You. Gloria ###

P.S. Why is the shipping $9.50? ###

Gloria,
I can tell you this thing’s made of wood and it moves. That’s about it. I don’t care to smell it, throw it, drop it, fondle it, or do anything else that involves medical attention or back patios in whatever month of the year. If you want it it’s $5.00 and shipping is $9.50 b/c that’s the price I decided. Thank you and have a nice day. Also, please check out my other items at Joe’s Ebay Garage. Thanks. ###

Joe.

Lee

I was sitting on the back step, whittling on my R15, when Mom said through the screen door, “A penny for your thoughts.” Mom had this weird thing about wanting to know EVERYTHING. I didn’t say anything, just kept whittling. Couldn’t she tell I was working? Working on the very last piece of my rocket, the key piece no less. Once I finished the R15 toggle switch, I’d be ready to blast off. “Aah, come on,” she said, “I’ll give you two pennies.” She was making me nervous. She came down the step and sat down beside me. She put her arm around me and said, “Don’t you want to tell Mama what that sweet little head of yours is thinking?” I had to stop whittling or I might make a wrong slice. I wriggled away from her and looked at the ground. “Come on,” she said again, “tell me.” It was the last straw. “I’m building a rocket,” I said through my teeth, “so I can fly to Mars where nobody has a brain that someone tries to get inside of.” She looked at me for a long time, then she went in the house and came back and handed me a nickel.

Linda

SEED ###
Fresh out of college, Ivy was hired as a teacher in a small rural town. In time, she was befriended by families of children she taught. That was how she met Todd, a four-year-old who never spoke. ###
Upon meeting Todd, Ivy’s thoughts drifted to a cherished gift her father had fashioned from a small chunk of wood. It was oblong-shaped with one moving part — a slice of wood attached with a screw — that could be swiveled away from the body rather like a wing. On Ivy’s fifth birthday, her father handed her the gift saying, “See the invisible within the visible and have fun. See what you can see — and be what you can become.” He was a hardworking village carpenter — eking out a living and creating a life for himself and his daughter. He had named his baby girl, Ivy — hoping she would thrive and cultivate the will to move beyond her humble beginnings. He was the only parent Ivy had ever known and from his strong, calloused hands came all the warmth and love she needed. She did not know she was poor; she did not feel poor. ###
The smooth wooden oblong was shaped to fit snugly in a small hand. Its moving piece, easily rotated to the open position, acted like a suggestive switch — stimulating a willingness to see beyond the apparent. This treasured gift became Ivy’s dear companion. As she held it and flipped the wing to the open position she heard her father’s words, “See what you can see — and be what you can become.” Ivy called the captivating oblong “Seed.” It symbolically held all of life’s possibilities. As she became adept at envisioning the invisible veiled within the visible, Ivy realized that her anticipated destination in life was to be an ongoing journey — of seeking, seeing, and becoming. ###
One day Ivy slipped Seed into Todd’s hand. His fingers traveled over the object, eventually, flipping the wing open. He stared into Ivy’s eyes — saying nothing. As they walked to a small stream beyond the pasture, Ivy began telling Todd about her adventures with Seed. As he listened Todd occasionally closed Seed’s wing and quickly returned it to the open position. At times he closed his eyes. He never spoke. Eventually, the wonder of a bird’s motionless, outstretched wings riding the thermals caught Todd’s attention. While gazing skyward he raised Seed with its open wing to his heart. Faintly whispered words — “free to be” — flowed into being, breaking his silence like a roaring clap of pent-up thunder. His heart had opened. His essence poured into spoken words that echoed, “See what you can see — and be what you can become.” ###
Ivy loaned Seed to Todd for as long as he wanted its guidance. He began telling fascinating stories and, eventually, became a talented writer sharing profound insight and compassion. Todd excelled at seeking, seeing, and becoming. He valued Seed as Ivy had. Then at twenty years of age he was drafted and sent to Vietnam as an Army medic. Three months into service, Todd was mortally wounded and his sensitive, loving essence flowed out of his young body. His revered written works, however, live on. ###
Seed, found among Todd’s belongings, was returned to Ivy. Years later as she was preparing to die, Seed was found in her hand. She courageously continued her journey — flowing into Spirit.

Elienne

### He laid the key gently in the space he had made specially for it, and slid on the lid, locking it in place with a deft hand, feeling the smooth wood, thinking of the many days, the numerous hours spent working long into the night, to make this: a puzzle box, made of cedar. A knowing hand could move the levers into place, releasing the catch, and allowing the little box to slide open.### He knew it was time to start when he heard the sound of the motor, seen the tall, pale man get out of the car and stride into the house next door, followed by movers, carrying long cardboard boxes, containing, as he well knew, guns, knives, and poison. He knew he should have started sooner. He knew it would happen. He just hoped it wouldn’t. It was not that he was afraid of death, but that he liked living. So he had gone out and bought metal shutters, installed a peephole, and put motion sensors at every door and window. He knew it wouldn't stop them, just delay them. He just hoped he had long enough.### He was startled out of his memories by a rustling sound outside his window. Probably just the wind. Nonetheless he felt a panic creeping down upon him like a dark blanket. He grabbed a pencil and began scribbling the code upon the box: Rs 5/... Too late he heard the beep of the motion sensor, felt the wind upon his back, he turned, a cry was upon his lips, but a shot rang out, and his shout died with him. As he fell, his arm caught the box, and sent it skittering under a bookshelf. The murderer, a tall, thin man covered in black clothing did not seem to notice. He was busy examining the dead man, face permanently set in an expression of surprise, horror, and disgust. “Well, well,” murmured the assassin, “It is you, old man. Now where have you hidden that key?” He began to methodically search the room, his cool blue eyes glinting cruelly as they flicked about. As the search progressed, and he did not find what he was looking for, he grew incensed, slashing books, overturning chairs, and breaking the dirty plates that lay in piles about the room.### It still felt like a dream, as it had a week ago when she got the call and took the next plane, arriving that evening to find a team of police and detectives peering through magnifying glasses and taking samples and... She shook her head as if to clear it of the fog of sadness and confusion that kept gathering there. She knew she had to get something to eat. She had not eaten for the last day and a half, she had been so busy being interrogated, signing paperwork, and sorting through her uncle’s stuff. Most of it was garbage-shattered plates, slashed books, and broken furniture. It all had to be thrown away. What was left was some good furniture and some miscellaneous knickknacks. The furniture had been sold to the local antique store. Now all that remained was to sort through the stuff that to almost anyone else was garbage, but to her might have some sentimental value.### She got in her car, drove to the nearest restaurant, gulped down a tuna sandwich and raced back to the house, eager to finish the job. As she pulled up, she saw a long black car drive away. She walked up to the door and was about to enter when the policeman, posted to guard the house, barred her way. Burly guy with rippled muscles and a shaven head. “Got any friends around here?” he growled “N-n-no.” she stammered. “Tall, thin guy came up here, all dressed in black. Says he’s your friend. Asks to come in. I said not till you get back. Looked ready to punch my lights out, till he saw I had a gun; then he ran right off. You know him?” “No.” she said, shuddering. Some part of the description stirred a fear in her. She shook it off. “No.” she repeated, more firmly this time. He growled something incomprehensible at her and stepped aside.### She walked inside. There they were, piled on a table, the last things; a plaque bearing the words ‘Home Sweet Home’, a wiry doll with a shrunken eye, a small sculpture, a Marlboro canteen, a bonsai, and a rounded block of wood with two screws in it. Two levers folded out of it. It looked like a pocket knife. Something about it drew her. Some aura of power. She almost put it in with the stuff she was taking with her. Then she thought of how little space she had for useless things, and she put it in the thrift store box. The doll, the sculpture, the sign, and the canteen soon joined it. She kept the bonsai. She took the next plane home.### One year later...### I pace about the room, my mood as black as my clothing, nearly sobbing with frustration. “I must control myself!” I think. “So what if I was close enough to touch what I have been working for all my life. So what if I arrived five minutes after the people bought it from the thrift store. So what? There is still a chance I’ll find it!” This chance didn’t do much to improve my mood. What I need, I decide, is to listen to some radio. Take my mind off my troubles by listening to someone else’s. I open the website of my favorite radio show. There it is, in front of me. The object of so many hopes and dreams. The Box. Never mind how it got there. I have to get it. I have to write the best story. I just have to. But how? I have an idea.........

Rebecca

Ben: “What is that?”#
Al: “Don’t know.”#
Ben: “Well, what are you going to do with it?”#
Al: “Haven’t decided. There was a penny with it”#
Ben: “What?”#
Al: “A penny, there was a penny with it.”#
Ben: “So?”#
Al: “So, I wonder what it means.”#
Ben: “It means someone dropped a penny and then someone threw that, whatever it is, in on top of it.”#
Al: “I don’t think so; I think they go together.”#
Ben: “Whatever.”#
Al: “See this part moves; opens up wide enough for the penny to slide through.”#
Ben: “Great.”#
Al: “I think it fit inside something. Yeah, that’s it. It fit into a box probably. A wooden box with a slot cut in the top for this to fit in.”#
Ben: “OK, so?”#
Al: “This piece would fit in the hole and when the movable part was closed down it would look like the box’s handle.”
Ben: “Big deal.”#
Al: “But when the movable piece was pulled up you could drop money through it. It was a secret bank.”#
Ben: “A secret bank? Why would anyone need a secret bank?”#
Al: “Someone in trouble or someone who was in a bad situation. Being abused, yeah, that’s probably it; abused.”#
Ben: “Abused?”#
Al: “And they can’t let the abuser know they’re saving money in hopes of getting out of the situation.”#
Ben: “Oh, please…”#
Al: “No, really, f they saved up enough money they could leave at night or if they’re ever left alone. Get a taxi and get away. Maybe go catch a bus or hide out until they have enough money to leave permanently.”#
Ben: “You’re crazy. What are you doing?”#
Al: “I’m going to buy this thing.”#
Ben: “What on earth for?”#
Al: “I’ve been thinking. You never know, you know? I just might be leaving soon.”#

Naomi

My first wife was a “thrower-outer”. If she didn't;t have a use for something it was either given away or tossed in the trash. The one exception was anything the kids made, drew or collected.. The refrigerator was covered with their art and a special bookcase was set aside as the Silver Family Museum."###"

As the kids grew older many of these formerly treasured items were relegated to the dump heap. Only a few very special things were saved for the grandchildren we hoped to have some day."####"

This was not to be. When our last child left home, my wife left, too. She took a few things with her saying “I can’t bear to part with this.”"###"

“How is it that you can bear to part with me? I asked her."###"

She had no specific answer for this. She was not a sentimental person, and whatever sentiments she had for me had dissipated after 30 years of marriage."###"

The day she left some sympathetic friends introduced me to the woman who was to be my second wife Rita."###"

I guess I spent too much time talking about my first wife who was still constantly in my thoughts."###"

“Please, if you want to keep seeing me, don’t ever mention her to me again.” she pleaded."###"

This didn’t seem unreasonable, but after we were married, a year later, she insisted that I move into her small house, rather than live in my large one."###"

“I don’t want any reminders of your previous marriage around,” she announced. “That includes anything in your house. What is there now, stays there.”"###"

I gave in to her demand. What a sad mistake. Instead of my forgetting my life before we met, it only sharpened my memories and saddened me over the loss of any reminders of what I thought had been a happy life. But as the years went by I adjusted to her style and, though I felt as helpless as a leaf in a stream, I just couldn’t bear the thought of going through another divorce. "###"

Then one day in May, many years later, while vacationing with Rita in Vermont, we were roaming around, perusing the many tag sales resulting from spring cleaning after the long winter. At one house I saw a familiar object that took me back 40 years ago. It was a small wooden creation
slightly resembling a dog. I was sure it had been made by my son when he was 5 years old and attending a kids’ art class. It was one of the few items my first wife took with her when she left."###"

I bought the dog with my son’s initials and his age on it over Rita’s strong objections. She couldn’t understand why it meant so much to me. By this time she had cut me off from my whole family...not only my ex-wife, but also my children. Finally, after 20 years I got up the gumption to stand up for myself. I brought the dog (for that’s what I was sure it was meant to be) home and put it on the night table next to my bed."###"

It was only after I got back home that I discovered exactly how the object happened to be in someone’s tag sale in Vermont. I decided to call my son, in spite of my Rita’s attempts to cut off any contact. “Mom died last winter,” he told me . “She rented a place in Vermont. We gave all of the contents of her apartment that we didn’t want to her landlady to dispose of.”"###"

The tag sale contained only one remnant of my first marriage, but the discovery of the lost dog reunited me with my family again, and I finally decided to leave leave Rita and everything we had shared. "###"

But you can be sure that I took the dog with me. Today it stands by my bed as I get dressed to go out to dinner with my wonderful family."###"

Ellen

Lulu was torn between sneaking off to play with her brother's trucks or staying put with Scarlet and her collection of Barbie dolls. She stayed with the Barbies but swore to get her hands on something special and non-pint. Luckily Lulu's father had a workshop with lots of scrap bits of wood so she devised this little anti-girly device. Lulu carried this in her pocket and fumbled with it, turning the bits around and around. This soothed her when visiting Scarlet, a type of pacifier, steeling her against the onslaught of frills.

Cathy

“Our family had nothing,” he said. He picked up a small wooden figure (was it a figure?) from the objects on his nightstand. He turned the object in his hands as he spoke. He didn’t look at it, but let hands explore its surfaces, as if he were a blind man, trying to fathom the whole from the shape of the parts.###

“We lived in a basement apartment. My father was the super. Everyone in the building was as poor as us. My father had a good heart: he did his job and anything they wanted him to do in addition. But there were hardly ever tips. Mother was sick, she hardly went out. I spent my childhood in a hurry to get old so I could get a job and make money to chip in. I think I was born wanting to work.”###

He smiled at me. His first smile since I met him. Of all the things to smile at: the thought of being born to work. I looked at his hands, the ones caressing the object. They were weatherworn. He had found work, eventually. I tried to make sense of the object in his hands, but I had to wait for his story to unravel.###

“I went along with my father on his rounds, after school. I even stayed home and helped him all day if he needed me. I missed half of first grade this way. The school sent a social worker, eventually, someone just like you, to scold us and explain I had to go every day. A witch, is how I thought of her.” He winked at me, teasing. ###

“I was just a child. A child with no toys, no time for play, no coddling. ‘Bring me a damp cloth,’ my mother would call to me, not ‘come sit on my lap.’ She held it like a cold compress to her forehead. One day my father made something with wood at our kitchen table, paying attention to every little surface, holding the thing as if it were made of glass, so gently. I asked what is it? ‘A toy truck,’ he said. Some new people had moved in, with a sick boy. He was making that child a toy.###

“I was jealous. ‘Will they pay for it?’ I asked. He said he hoped so, but if not, he would give them the toy anyway, because the kid was crippled from polio. He didn’t understand much about disease, so he told me not to come, he didn’t want me to catch it. He went off with the toy and I waited for him to come back, imagining him with a nickel and a sense of triumph. The image made me stop wanting the toy for myself.###

But instead he came back dejected. The parents had given him a penny but rejected his gift, afraid the wood had rough edges, afraid the bolts might give the child tetanus. Clearly they were frightened of losing that child, which worked out fine by me. I got the toy truck. It also looked like a rabbit. In my imagination I made it a superhero, a hungry pet, a bulldozer, a dagger, a king of invisible gnomes under my bed, and more. It magically turned an ordinary penny into a lucky penny. It was my only toy as a child, and it was everything I could ever want. ###

Jill

It trundled into the psychologist’s waiting room, looked longingly at the comfortable chairs lining the perimeter of the room, sighed, and found a spot near the entrance to the private office, close enough to be seen when the doctor emerged, but not so close that It would get slammed into the wall when she opened the door. It had learned this the hard way. One doctor had actually tried to use It as a doorstop. Humiliation was tiring. ###Within a few minutes, the psychologist appeared. She looked around the room, puzzled. Hesitantly, It cleared its throat, and at the sound, the doctor glanced down, started a bit, but quickly recovered. ###“Good morning,” she said, in a tone that suggested at least a number of her clients were small wooden objects of no discernible use or value. “I’m Gia Tamarin. Please come in.” ###It followed the doctor, pleasantly surprised that not only had the doctor introduced herself by her first and last name, rather than playing what It thought of as the doctor game, but that in lieu of the plush carpeting that It often encountered in these settings was a hardwood floor, polished but not overly slick. It rolled in front of the red brocade loveseat, centered itself, and looked expectantly at the doctor. ###“Are you comfortable on the floor?” Gia asked. “If you would prefer the sofa and would like some assistance…” ###“No, no, I’m fine,” It assured her. ###“In that case,” she said, “do you mind if I sit on the floor as well? I would feel uncomfortable looking down at you.” ###“Please don’t worry about it,” It said, grateful for the offer but embarrassed nonetheless. “I’m used to it.” ###“I’m not,” Gia replied, and seated herself on the floor in front of her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. She propped her pad on her lap. “What brings you here today?” ###It was stunned. In almost a decade of therapy, with scores of clinicians, no one had ever opened a session with that question. ###“Really?” It said suspiciously. It’s last clinician had started the session by asking It whether It really did, in fact, zip when It moved and bop when It stopped. It had left the session immediately and reported him to the American Psychological Association. ###“Yes, really,” Gia assured It. ###It wasn’t sure how to respond. “Don’t you want to know what I am?” It blurted out. ###“What you are, or who you are?” the therapist replied. “You can tell me whatever you like. It’s your session.” It searched her voice for even a trace of irony or amusement, but could find neither. The respect was unfamiliar, and unsettling. There had to be a catch. ### “Please…don’t fuck with me,” It said bitterly. Tears rose to its eyes, but It forced them back. It had had it. “You’re all the same. No matter what I say, I know what you’re thinking: ‘What is that thing? How the hell is it talking with no mouth?’” It’s voice rose to a fevered pitch. “I know I’m a freak – a monster. You can just say it. Go ahead – say it!” ###Instead, Gia got up on her knees and turned toward her desk, rummaging through some papers and pulling out a thick manila folder. It’s heart sank. It was It’s clinical file. It knew what was in there, although the labels varied depending on the doctor: Identity Disorder NOS; Mood Disorder NOS; Sexual Disorder NOS (that was a doozy; talk about projection!); and then of course, Personality Disorder NOS, with a range of features: Histrionic, Borderline, Avoidant – even Antisocial. Of course, that was after It ran over the therapist’s feet on It’s way out the door in a way that certainly smacked of callous indifference. The only thing the clinicians could agree on was NOS – Not Otherwise Specified. In other words, no one knew what It was. No one. ###“Have you read this?” Gia asked softly. ###It shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ###“Have you?” ###It nodded, ashamed. Suffocating. ###“I haven’t,”Gia said. “And I’m not going to – not unless, or until, you tell me you want me to.” ###It stared in disbelief. Gia smiled gently. She returned the folder to her desk. ###“Now,” she said, “what brings you here today?”

Peggy

The Thrift Shop Spirit ###Psst! Over here. That's right, the box. Pick it up. Feels good in your hand, doesn't it? Open the top. See? No, don't close it yet! I know it doesn't look like a box, but it is. It's a puzzle...magic! Wouldn't it make a great conversation piece? Wouldn't your friends have a good time trying to figure it out? ### Come on, buy it! It doesn't cost much. It's been sitting on this shelf for a long time. They'd probably give it to you for half. I need to get out of this shop. I need to get out of this box! Please! Just get me out of here! ###Hey! Don't walk away! You don't want that doll. It's dusty and ragged. What would you do with it anyway? Put it down and come back here. Pick the box up again. Feel how smooth and satiny the wood feels. Slide the top back. Isn't there something under the top that looks like it could be opened? Isn't there some way into this box? There has to be! If there isn't some way in, that means there's no way out! That can't be true!
###That's it! Slide the top back and forth. Good! Okay, now just take it up to the counter and pay for it. That's right. See? He gave you half off. You don't need a bag, just put it in your pocket and take it home. I can tell we're going to be very happy together.

Fran

It was my dad's. I never did get around to asking him just what it was, because I didn't want to embarrass him. Now that he was gone, I wish I had asked.###

My dad grew up during the depression, being born in 1925. Things were different then. You didn't just throw things away. There weren't nearly as many things to begin with, so those you had were precious. Who knows what that seemingly useless piece of wood could be used for. For now, it was precious, my dad made it for his dad, who kept it until he died, and then it went back to my dad. Now it is mine.###

This much I do know about it, he was never able to finish it. He caugth rheumatic fever that year, and was never able to go back and finish it. He was in bed for over a year, and had to learn to walk again. He never was able to finish school.###

I was surprised he would want to work in wood at all, since he had been out for several months the previous year, after hitting his knee with his axe while chopping wood. He told me he didn't even feel it until later. When he went back to the house he noticed the blood.###

So here it sits in front of me, a mystery that that has been handed down 3 generations, and will be handed down to the 4th and 5th. I'm not sure what it symbolizes, other than my father, and the sadness of those almost 2 years spent in bed.###

Ironically, the heart murmur caused by the fever had a alot to do with his death. Those 2 years followed him to the end.###

Someday I will sit down with my son, and eventually my daughter, and explain the story behind the unfinished piece of wood. I hope someday they tell their children about it.###

I hope we will learn not to be a throw-away society. Maybe this seemingly useless piece of wood can help be a story about the values we need to embrace. Perhaps someday we will have the best of both worlds melded together.###

I put the odd looking wooden object back in the cabinet, next to my father's childhood pull toy and his doll. Yes it was different then.###

lukuan

Once in a little town called Geutensburg, there lived a very famous navy general. His name was general Evenson. He was one of the most famous of all navy generals, has saved thousands of lives and has served the army for well over forty years. He had a son named Greg, but he never got to see him, as he was always away at war. One day when he was back in Geutensburg visiting his son, he gave his son a strange wood block with screws and opens. Evenson was going away on a long journey, and he wanted to give his son something special, something to remind Greg of him. He said to Greg that this block of wood has been in the family for centuries, and Evenson wanted to pass the wood block to him. Greg was very polite, and accepted the gift, but after his father left he threw the block away. “What is the point of this piece of junk?” he asked. “He could of given me something better. I don’t care if it has been in the family for a long time. Why this?” He pondered this question for 7 years, until one day, news spread of Evenson, who apparently died in battle. Greg was devastated by this news, and on top of that, he had thrown away the only item he had to remind him of his father. He knew that the wood block should be long gone by now, but he had to try to find it. He owed it to his father. After some research, he found out that the block of wood was an extremely valued object among navy generals, and is believed to grant a safe journey to whoever possesses it. The thing is, other countries hoped to get their hands on this object as well. There have been several bloody wars fought over this already, and the only thing that Evenson could do to prevent another war would be to pass it on to Greg. He had hoped it would be safe in Greg’s hands, but not so. As to where the block is now, resources say that one of Evenson’s friend’s had it. His name is Ralph, a retired soldier that was one of Evenson’s close friends. He had found it in a junkyard, and having recognized it, he took it home. Greg found Ralph’s address and began his trip to Ralph. The last time Ralph had seen Greg was when Greg was a little baby. Now that he is 23 years old, Ralph did not recognize him until he introduced to himself. Greg was welcomed in to the house and he explained his situation. It turns out that the object was stolen from Ralph a couple days ago. When Greg asked who stole it, all Ralph had was a fuzzy photo of the robber, dark trench coat, fedora, and a slash scar across his face. It image did not give a lot, but it was enough to trigger a memory in Greg’s mind. It was when he was three years old, and his father was home visiting. There was a man with the same scar, who he later found out was his uncle. Him and Evenson were arguing, and suddenly, during the argument, his uncle ran out the door, never to reappear again. He never learned his name, all he remember was that scar. On the night of the robbery, Ralph was able to follow Greg’s uncle to his house, where there was a fire. With a swift movement Greg’s uncle whipped the block out of his pocket and into the fire before Ralph could do anything. Greg, knowing that there was no hope in saving the block now, returned home sadly.

Elaine

###He almost missed it, tossed into a box under the table, partially hidden by a tangle of dirty baby doll arms. It might have been the curve that hooked on one of his hoary memories. Shapes always pulled on his eyes demanding that he mentally march the outer edges of a piece of furniture, a toy, a tool - memorizing the angles and arcs so that he could draw them later, even years later.

###But it might have been the color. He rubbed that color into that wood when he was a boy. Layers of bees wax over the smoothly sanded surface made it chocolate-brown, warm-brown, remember-me brown and so he bent to pick it up and he remembered.

###His memory drew the rest of the lines, the part someone, somewhere had cut off. When he held it last it had perfect balance but now it was awkward, so much of it gone, the best of it gone, the toy of it gone. Gone with his childhood, his golden hair, his straight and agile fingers.

###He tossed it onto the litter of arms and hobbled off, a boyish grin nestled in his wrinkled face.

Kay Merkel Boruff

I’m pretty sure that Nobs, Pee Wee, & I bought this thing when we went for a drive one Sunday. We drove fast, 80 klicks an hour, in the little red Honda car, all the way to the border of Cambodia, the windows down, rice fields on both sides of the road, towns looking like Taos, New Mexico when D.H. Lawrence and the posse was partying with Mable Dodge, Tan Son Nhat in the rear view mirror, kids playing in klong water and riding water buffalos to and from their homes. It was September 30, 1968, my birthday, and my husband Merk was RON to Nha Trang. We stopped at lunch and had sticky rice and warm Ba Mui Ba, the best beer in Viet-Nam. ###Some kid had carved the wooden thing that looked like a Tinker Toy on heroin, the thing thumping along a red dirt road, galumping on misshapen wheels, an arc sail sticking up, testing the wind for napalm. The wood was acacia. My daddy was a wood freak and I’d mailed him wood from Thailand and Singapore and Hong Kong but nothing yet from Viet-Nam. I sent him a wooden bamboo Buddha that reminded me of bamboo growing 12 inches one day as I sat around the White Hotel pool, drinking and smoking, the guys gone to Company orientation. The bamboo Buddha reminded me bamboo growing under fingernails. Nice torture trick. Where the hell the kid got a Lincoln penny is a mystery. Strange things happened in Southeast Asia. Probably some GI gave it to him and a Hersey candy bar and a pack of cigarettes. Maybe the Dinky Dow thought the kid wouldn’t tell the VC where his squad was stationed and maybe he wouldn’t get napalmed or pungy-pitted before he rotated home, agent orange legs and jungle rotted toes and a lean-mean glare behind the whites of his eyes. I liked the shape of the wooden thing, like an ark without the animals, like we all could get on the vessel and sail into the sunset and the war would be over.

Challie

“What does Dad do?” “You know, I don't think I know for sure.” Katie was trying to not say###
anything bad about her ex-husband. Instead, she tried to re-direct the conversation. “Do you have a### pencil?” “No, why?” “Just...I was thinking, I can't remember the number for the school's nurse. Could### you write it down for me?” “Sure, but why do you need it?” Katie now had to come up with an###
excuse. She was never good at lying, but this was important. “In case you get sick, you know, like,###
you can't eat or something?” “That's lame. Are you sure you're OK?” Katie had no answer. Just some###
odd looking scrap of wood. The number written on it made no sense to her. “Is this it?” “No, that's###
Mr. Schuyler's art project.” “No, I mean the number.” “Now you're starting to worry me.” Katie started###
to speak, but could only sigh. “You're right, I guess, it is silly.” “NOW you're making sense.”

Saadia

How was I even supposed to know it was special? Or important? Or even had a point? It was a hunk of wood. Not even wood that anyone could use for anything because it was too banged up and was poor quality anyways. The two screws that were drilled into it in seemingly random locations were rough and rusted. It was strangely rounded to create an oval shape that made it hard to store and moreover added to the point that whoever created it was crazy because who would want to sweat over a wood file for five hours to achieve a shape that really didn’t improve the object? When I saw it I did notice a diagonal gash in the front (or what I assumed to be the front because what I assumed to be the back had nothing on it) which you later told me was a cut in the wood that made it possible for two parts of the wood that were screwed into the body to swing around, but again, I didn’t see the point of them being able to do that. And somebody scribbled some senseless numbers and letters into the side, “Rs 5/”? It wasn’t even carved in, just jotted down carelessly in pencil. Honestly, when I first saw it I thought you had tried to teach our grandson woodworking, and he tried to start a project of his own. Yeah, yeah, he’s eight but I know you have the same passion for woodworking that you inherited from your father and he inherited from his (and so on and so forth), so it’s not all that farfetched.###How was I supposed to know you would go into our room and shut the door when you found out that I donated it to some thrift store and he would never see it again? How was I supposed to know it would break your heart so badly to find out it was gone forever? How was I supposed to know an object that was so worthless looking was actually anything but? I’ll reiterate what you told me. This object had history in your side of the family. Your great-great-great-great-grandfather grew up very, very poor. He got by with the absolute minimum, but he worked hard in school and got a scholarship, blah, blah, blah, we’ve all heard this story. But, anyways, by the time he was done with college he had a respectable occupation (the exact job I can’t recall) and was doing perfectly well financially. On the day he died, he dedicated almost all his things to charities. Of the few things he gave to close friends and family members, he gave to his son, one of the people closest to him, just a solid rectangular block of wood. To some, the point of it would be, well, missing. But your great-great-great-grandfather always speculated that by doing that his dad was reflecting on his childhood, he wasn’t given anything special but he turned it into something he loved. That was the message, he thought. (Or maybe he was just totally senile and thought it was a block of gold or something, that’s how your slightly less thoughtful great-great-great-grandmother put it.) Over the years, your great-great-great-grandfather added something to it, rounded edges. Then your great-great-grandfather, nails. Then your great-grandfather, cuts that allowed it to swing open. Then your grandfather, some writing. Your dad added scratches.###How was I supposed to understand what these things meant? How was anyone? How was someone supposed to trace the meaning through their trains of thought at that moment? I guess, well really this is what you told me you guessed, but I agree, all these details mean something. The same way your great-great-great-grandfather thought your great-great-great-great-grandfather had some deep meaning by giving him that block of wood, I’m so sure your great-great-great-grandfather had a deep meaning in mind when he softened the edges of that block. It made sense to him. But I guess anyone who didn’t know the whole back-story would be very confused as to what it was about.

Julia Lynn

It was the first semester of Title IX – no more sex-specific education in our public schools. No one knew quite what to do with us, a row of awkward girls arrayed around the edges of wood shop. “We’re, ah, making bird houses,” Mr. Smithson announced unnecessarily, gesturing to the boys sitting beside their creations in various states of completion. “Why don’t you, ah, pair up. The boys can explain our projects.” Nervous shuffling, a few titters, and no one moved. Mr. Smithson affected not to notice, then and for the rest of the term, as we reformed our cliques, played with random awls, and gossiped about who had been seen with who. Ambient sawdust ended a brief foray into intricate nail polish creative design – all the current range with the popular girls during lunch hour. My friends were all in fourth period, so I was alone, left to my own devices to keep myself entertained. I never got access to the circular table saw, but sanded a few discarded scraps, ignored the boys’ laughter when the screwdriver and screws I selected didn’t match up, and eventually completed my project. I named her Samantha, but not out loud. “This is very clever!” Mr. Smithson chirped enthusiastically. I got an ‘A’ in the class and the whole group – boys and girls – moved on to Mrs. Gray’s cooking and sewing, newly retitled “domestic art instruction.”

Juan Calvo

I am a collector of things. My collection has grown through the years. The magazines I own are quite rare. I own things that people want and need. When it breaks, I have the part to fix it. When it’s missing, I have the piece to make it whole again. For every collection, there is the one item that always eludes the collector—I have it.###

My mother had a basket that she got from her mother. It was full of needles and yarn. In my collection I have a blue acrylic sweater and matching booties which she knitted. Both of my sons wore the sweater and booties when they were young. The blue has faded a little but they hold such sentimental value, I could not part with them. I did not knit like my mother. It was tedious and my fingers did not move the way hers did. The thread of the yarn flowed around the needles, passing in and over and out with her fingers brilliantly orchestrating the motion.###

She willed the basket to me after she died. Frankly no one else really wanted it. They seemed content to paw over the rest of her possessions. It was sent to me in a box, wrapped in tissue. My father had put it in the basement when she was in the hospital and left it there. Mice had gnawed through the bottom and shredded the lining and the yarn. When it arrived, I didn’t know what to do with it, and in my grief, put it in the trash can.###

I think I would have gone on for years not regretting my action, if it hadn’t been for this wooden thing that I stumbled upon in a thrift store. It reminded me of what I had done and appeared to be the exact piece that would have fit into the gnawed through corner of the basket. When I held it, I realized that it was too big and thick to ever be part of a basket. But I bought it anyway. I know that someday, I will know what it is for; what its intended purpose is or was. Someone will see it and recognize it immediately. I suspect that that is true of many things in my collection. The value of what I own is unfathomable.

Judie

THE INVENTOR
###
The late summer heat was oppressive, but Granddad’s basement workshop was cool and dry. Dust motes floated in the sunlight from the tiny windows, and the air was filled with the aroma of old wood shavings and lubricating oil. A single, unadorned light bulb hung from a cord above the ancient workbench against one wall.
###
It was at that massive workbench that Granddad had created his inventions, many of which now stood against the other three walls. Around ten years ago, Grandma had made me drag an overstuffed arm chair, faded and worn from some forty plus years of service, down the steps and into the basement.
###
“He needs a place to rest when his back gets tired,” she told me, and her eyes were warm and filled with love for the man who had been her soul mate for almost seventy three years.
###
Granddad sat in the old arm chair while I brought out items for him to identify. The keepers were put in one corner of the basement for “the children” to pick what they wanted to keep as a memento. The rest I tossed into barrels for the trash men to take away on Friday morning.
###
“Now that little invention was for your dad,” he said, as I brought out what appeared to be a step stool on wheels, with a long handle attached. “He was small for his age, you know. I made that so he could roll it around the house and step up to reach things he needed. You know, like a drinking glass out of the kitchen cabinet. He loved that old thing until the wheels went out from under him one day and he split his head open on that old secretary in the parlor.”
###
One by one, the unusual items, created out of his imagination, were sorted and placed in their designated piles. There was one last object, a small wooden thing, made in three pieces and put together with two bolts. I turned it over and over, but the usefulness of this piece eluded me.
###
“What’s this, Granddad?”
###
“Oh, that!! Now that has a story, let me tell you! It’s my best invention ever! I sold a lot of those back in the day. Yessir, I surely did!”
###
He took the piece from me and stroked it lovingly, like an adult might stroke a cherished toy from childhood. I knew that feeling. I still had all my lead soldiers that he had made for me by pouring molten lead into the tiny molds, then polishing and painting them. If one got broken, or lost, he would simply make another.
###
“What does it do, Granddad?” I asked.
###
He leaned forward and began to study the piece, turning it this way and that. After a while, he leaned back and rested his head on the headrest of the arm chair. His eyes told me that he was somewhere in the long ago past.
###
“What does it do?” I asked again.
###
After a few seconds, he looked at me, and I could see tears welling up in his eyes.
###
“I don’t remember,” he said.