I took the pen and wrote my name carefully in clear cursive: Robert Mitchell.

“Have you done any woodworking before, Mr.

Mitchell?” she asked, looking at my line on the sheet.

“Not since high school,” I said.

“My wife always said I should pick it up again once the family business calmed down.”

“We start at nine sharp every Tuesday morning,” she said, handing me a yellow paper receipt.

“Wear an old flannel shirt unless you want pine shavings in your pockets.”

I went down the hall and stepped into the workshop doorway.