The sugar is in from the store and the new table is lying in pieces, half of them stained, on the front porch. One set of side railings and the bottom platform are stained and drying, slowly, in the chilly breeze slamming in from the north-northeast.

We are south of the ice line, which, tonight, is going to hover somewhere near Nashville. Here, we will have nothing but chilly winter rain.

My hands smell like wood stain, but several pieces of tight-grained, pale wood now bear a golden-brown color some company or other has chosen to call "golden oak." The grain, originally little more than freckles or dashes in the wood, now contrasts as a darker brown against the gold of the rest of the wood.