The mover raised the heavy slab of mesquite while I stepped up onto the top stair to guide the brass ring over the hook.

The wood clicked against the iron, hanging straight and level against the white wood siding.

“That carved lettering looks like it was done by hand,” the man said, mopping his forehead with his sleeve.

“My husband carved it forty years ago,” I said.

“It spent eighteen months behind plastic lawn chairs in my son’s garage.”

He stepped down onto the grass to check the angle.

“It’s hanging perfectly straight,” he said.