Persimmon

This small town is amazing.

The guy next door, well, two doors over, the house between us - the lady's in a nursing home and her fifty-year-old daughter comes by to mow the grass - anyway, Robert came over with a piece of persimmon.

Like to got a hernia picking it up.  It's only about four inches in diameter, and a little over thirty-six long.  But it is h-a-r-d wood.  Says he cut it in December or February and has been letting it sit.  I'm going to let it sit for the rest of the year, just air drying, stabilizing.

Then I'll make a couple of cars out of it, a couple of screwdriver handles, maybe see if I can turn a small live-edge bowl.

Right now it's resting in the garden cart atop a straw bale for Kathryn's garden.  When I quit huffing and puffing, I'll find a quiet place to stash it where nobody'll toss it into a fireplace this winter.

Life is Good.

Uncle Pat

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