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There be wood in there that ye don't find no more. Put the right people on the job and they could add a quarter million to her value."He cleared his throat again. "I been meaning to ask, 'cause I seen the name's been stripped off, what do ye call her? T'ain't good luck for a fine boat to have no name." I liked this guy. He thought of poetic things.I gave it a moments thought. By rights, naming should go to my bride, but I wanted to give her a gift. Sheila would get my reference immediately, and she would love it. I looked at the guy and asked his name. It was Clayton Roberts, "Just call me CR."I said, "Well, CR, I should let my fiancée name her, but then I would not get to see her blush. She'll be The Other Shoe. I am guessing there are none in the registry yet." CR thought that was quite funny. Then he sobered. "Give me the job. I do right by her." I told him to get me a formal estimate by Friday, but the job was his. We shook on it.When I emerged from the boathouse, I saw the first. A lot had changed in the last four years. Russ had divorced and remarried. All Roger knew about the new wife was that her name was Amanda.Driving northbound on interstate 95, Roger occupied his mind thinking of his favorite subject, which of course is women. This last semester had been a remarkable experience for him. He had an affair with Linda Salisbury, who was a teacher taking courses to attain her required masters degree. Linda, damn, he could see her in his mind. Dressed and acted like a teacher. No tits, thin body, age thirty-four, and fucks like a rabbit. What really made her exciting was her mind. He knew that it would be years before he fully understood all that she tried to teach him about life, if ever.He remembered their conversation after one of professor Walters’ history classes. Old professor Walters had challenged the class with the question, “Who here is proud of his Scottish or Irish heritage?” Several raised their hand. Walters then said, “Do you know that you are.
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That was in the days when a small dairy was a viable business, one cherished by its patrons. The glass bottles of creamy goodness were delivered before the sun came up, the glass cow imprinted on the cool quart bottles above the title Belloni Dairy. The golden packets of fresh butter were equally welcome on the tables of his customers. The family business had passed from father to son. Len had operated the dairy while Michael was a boy, a memory both of them cherished. Michael had learned the value of work, the idea that to accomplish things one must make the effort. He carried that knowledge to college and had become an architect, a successful one in the growing city. The dairy had succumbed to a combination of events. Primary had been the move toward consolidation, a realization that with rising costs the only way to survive was to grow. Many family dairies were gobbled up by larger operations which were in turn devoured by even larger concerns until dairies became regional.

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