White oak being worked.
When I was a little kid, a wonderful, big Irish cop, Mac, lived up the street. He was building a boat in his basement. If his bulkhead was open, he was usually working on the boat, I was always welcome to wander in.
Sometimes he’d take a scrap of word and cut out a little toy on the bandsaw for me. Other times he would get himself a cup of coffee and one of those wonderful 6.5 ounce bottles of Coke. We’d sit on the step and talk about stuff. It was pretty magical. This great big policeman paid attention to this little boy.
The smell of white oak brings me right back there.
Kevin G
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