That’s exactly how he puts it, in his Boston accent: while away a summer evening. He makes it easy to accept the worth of the endeavor, both the woodcraft and the whiling. Weeks given to scratch-building a reliable glider so I could sit close to a beloved in the gardened yard in June, when the days are longest and we can be most generous with the spending. I imagine myself back home—in New England, like Norm—passing and repassing above the same patch of glad ground. My cedar bench carries us comfortably and the hardware I oiled hushes along and it is summer, our short season, and we eat garden strawberries as we swing—like metronomes, marking time, or like the wrench I ratcheted over the swing’s many bolts, doing my best to help everything hold.