“Have you seen my table?” Trudy shouted across the street? She was eager to show off her husband’s (rare) handiwork.
Bill walked over and stood in the shade of the Lacy Oak. “Wow… He’s… he’s…” Then was silent, holding his chin and looking down at the ground.
“He’s what?” Trudy asked. I cringed at what might follow.
Bill held up his hand with his index finger pointing upward. “Who is the guy who painted the Sistine Chapel?” he asked.
Trudy laughed. “Michalangelo,” she said.
“That’s it!” he said. “He’s Michelangelo.”
I turned to look at my creation: an over-varnished steel wire spool converted into a crude table. I ran my hand along the top of it, getting a sliver in the process.
I’ve been to Rome. I’ve sat on the benches along the walls and strained my neck looking up at those frescos. And of course I don’t need to tell you this, but a work of art this table is not. Cool looking, yes. Useful, maybe. But art!?
Let’s just say… it doesn’t have my initials on it.