Marguerite wrote to me. A real letter, four pages, saying she had watched her husband do this to people for thirty years and had told herself each time it was not her place. She said the notebook paper was the first thing that ever made her ashamed enough to move.
I still do construction. I have a crew of nine now and my name on the trucks, and Miles designed the small office we work out of, and he would not let me pay for it.
The nephew is four. He calls me Uncle Russ and thinks my boots are the most interesting objects in any room he enters.
A man once printed a card telling two hundred people what I was worth, and my brother answered him with a piece of notebook paper written in a freezing truck by a man nobody was watching. Worth was never something in that ballroom to be handed out. It was already sitting at table nine, in a polished pair of shoes, waiting for the ceremony to start.
