She merely wrote, I’m trying to be useful without making it a performance.

I wished her well and returned to my evening.

One Sunday, I found Silas kneeling beside the herb garden replacing a cracked border.

He had dirt on his jeans, a pencil behind his ear, and a look of intense concentration.

The chairman of a multibillion-dollar investment group was muttering at a stubborn piece of cedar.

I leaned against the porch rail.

“Need help, poor lumberyard man?”