Tools’ First Disciple
Tools move to him, are drawn by his hands.
By Tom Sheehan
December gave us both a gray day, thick as hardpan, sitting-down thick, a neutral sadness running pole to pole, a day that cried for work or laughter. Work wins out, I told son James, barely three and barely to my thigh. I dressed him for the full adventure; gloves soft as strung rabbit’s neck, stocking cap puffed…