Uncorked wrote:
I grew up near a swamp. We liked to wander around the hidden paths. A plank bridge to a little island where my dad used to deer hunt.... My brother free-hand mapped the whole thing one summer..
I lived near a (natural?) sandpit...with a pond. The sandpit was cool...we'd do nature walks there. All the bad boys would ride their motorcycles there. We slid down the steep hills in the winter. The pond is where we'd ice skate. You could find pussy willows and bittersweet. A good place to make out, too. 
Uncorked wrote:
The dying work ethic...still alive in the experienced craftsman...
..you're making me think about my dad alot tonight...good thoughts
And he wore a beige outfit that was crisply pressed...you know it probably got washed every night. He cleaned his tools after every day then he'd WD-40 them so they wouldn't rust. He had milk cartons of tools and he crafted special contraptions...like two huge pails in which he turned over and put a board over, but it was notched so it didn't slide back and forth.
He didn't clump the stuff on...did several light coats...this room is pretty big and he stripped out the bad plaster tape/drywall and re-secured some of the drywall with drywall screws the first day, the second day he taped and mudded, the third day created perfect corners with a corner tool and did some sanding and picked up the drop cloths and vacuumed!!!
