envelope hasn’t got anything on it and just chuck it into the mail. There is no way for them to be sent to the right person or even returned to the sender. Sometimes they’re damned important, too.
~ Gertrude Biun, Property Office Manual
O n That Day, as he had come to think of it, the wooden box in Ben’s hands was smooth, the inlays dating it to at least the 1800s, but someone had replaced the hinges recently and poorly. He probed at the loose nails, deciding he would need to pry out the hinges completely, use filler, and then attach something more period appropriate than stainless steel craft hinges. He hated when people couldn’t be bothered to take the time to do something right.
“Da-ad. Can I see the box? Can I?” Benny knelt on the stool behind the counter of his parents’ antique shop. More properly, his mother’s shop, but Ben was the one who did most of the buying and selling as well as all of the repair work. The five year old teetered as he made a grab for the box in his father’s hand, steadying himself against the counter.
Ben lifted the box out of his son’s reach, still focused on the repair job at hand. “It’s a box. There are plenty of others in the store to go look at. I need to fix this one.”
“But I’ve seen all the other boxes. They’re boring. That one has cool patterns on it. Kinda like the Republic symbol from Star Wars.” He made lightsaber noises as he caused the stool to sway onto only two legs before it resettled with a thunk.
His son’s words didn’t quite make it through to his attention and Ben asked, “The what?” He pulled pliers from his back pocket and started to gently work the nails loose from their seating.
“You know, the circle with the thingy in the middle that the Republic has on all their uniforms and ships and everything.” His fidgeting started to tip the stool to the side again, and Ben placed one large hand on top of his son’s head to steady him. He was amazed that his son had only had two trips to the emergency room for stitches by this age, considering how often Ben had to catch him from falling while he was doing something stupid like rocking the stool off its feet. It wasn’t like Benny got that reckless behavior from either of his parents, but the boy just didn’t care about pain or danger.
“Enough. Sit down properly. Come on, feet out from under you.”
Benny sighed, squirming until his feet drummed on the legs of the stool and his butt was firmly placed on the seat. “Now can I see it?”
“When it’s fixed. Can you watch the counter? I need to go in the back and get started on this. It’s almost closing time; there shouldn’t be anyone coming in. But if they do—”
“I
know
. Call for you as soon as they come in.” Benny crossed his arms and kicked harder at the stool as Ben went into the back workroom.
He was careful to avoid nicking the beautiful wood of the box as he pried out the bad hinges. The wood filler was out on his workbench from a project the day before, and he took his time filling the holes, ensuring that every last air pocket was accounted for before using a soft cloth to wipe up the excess and then place the two halves of the box on his drying rack. This was the kind of work that he loved doing, setting everything to rights, bringing out the beauty in an old craftsman’s work. It was a kind of meditation to him, finding all the cracks and filling them, refinishing wood so the stains wouldn’t show, making each piece beautiful and tidy.
Since his son had not called out to him, Ben went to his odds-and-ends shelf and started poking around for a set of hinges that would work with the mahogany and pine tones of the box. It took him another five minutes to find the ones he wanted, a set of brass hinges that had been too small on the tea caddy they had originally closed. Tossing them on his desk to attach to the box in the morning when the filler had dried, Ben returned to the front of the store.
His son
~ Gertrude Biun, Property Office Manual
O n That Day, as he had come to think of it, the wooden box in Ben’s hands was smooth, the inlays dating it to at least the 1800s, but someone had replaced the hinges recently and poorly. He probed at the loose nails, deciding he would need to pry out the hinges completely, use filler, and then attach something more period appropriate than stainless steel craft hinges. He hated when people couldn’t be bothered to take the time to do something right.
“Da-ad. Can I see the box? Can I?” Benny knelt on the stool behind the counter of his parents’ antique shop. More properly, his mother’s shop, but Ben was the one who did most of the buying and selling as well as all of the repair work. The five year old teetered as he made a grab for the box in his father’s hand, steadying himself against the counter.
Ben lifted the box out of his son’s reach, still focused on the repair job at hand. “It’s a box. There are plenty of others in the store to go look at. I need to fix this one.”
“But I’ve seen all the other boxes. They’re boring. That one has cool patterns on it. Kinda like the Republic symbol from Star Wars.” He made lightsaber noises as he caused the stool to sway onto only two legs before it resettled with a thunk.
His son’s words didn’t quite make it through to his attention and Ben asked, “The what?” He pulled pliers from his back pocket and started to gently work the nails loose from their seating.
“You know, the circle with the thingy in the middle that the Republic has on all their uniforms and ships and everything.” His fidgeting started to tip the stool to the side again, and Ben placed one large hand on top of his son’s head to steady him. He was amazed that his son had only had two trips to the emergency room for stitches by this age, considering how often Ben had to catch him from falling while he was doing something stupid like rocking the stool off its feet. It wasn’t like Benny got that reckless behavior from either of his parents, but the boy just didn’t care about pain or danger.
“Enough. Sit down properly. Come on, feet out from under you.”
Benny sighed, squirming until his feet drummed on the legs of the stool and his butt was firmly placed on the seat. “Now can I see it?”
“When it’s fixed. Can you watch the counter? I need to go in the back and get started on this. It’s almost closing time; there shouldn’t be anyone coming in. But if they do—”
“I
know
. Call for you as soon as they come in.” Benny crossed his arms and kicked harder at the stool as Ben went into the back workroom.
He was careful to avoid nicking the beautiful wood of the box as he pried out the bad hinges. The wood filler was out on his workbench from a project the day before, and he took his time filling the holes, ensuring that every last air pocket was accounted for before using a soft cloth to wipe up the excess and then place the two halves of the box on his drying rack. This was the kind of work that he loved doing, setting everything to rights, bringing out the beauty in an old craftsman’s work. It was a kind of meditation to him, finding all the cracks and filling them, refinishing wood so the stains wouldn’t show, making each piece beautiful and tidy.
Since his son had not called out to him, Ben went to his odds-and-ends shelf and started poking around for a set of hinges that would work with the mahogany and pine tones of the box. It took him another five minutes to find the ones he wanted, a set of brass hinges that had been too small on the tea caddy they had originally closed. Tossing them on his desk to attach to the box in the morning when the filler had dried, Ben returned to the front of the store.
His son
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