The other evening, while partaking in a weeklong arts workshop, I and a fellow participant were invited to share the blazing fire of a glassblower. He was winding down the evening with an element he knew well. A welder, a man in his seventies, soon joined us.
Our discussion was made up of disparate threads.
The welder came from a small steel town in Pennsylvania. He and his buddies, while still in their teens, would go to dances with the intention of getting close to the girls. One week, unaware, they headed to a Mennonite community. After paying an admission fee, they entered the dance hall. He was told, along with his friends, that a pillow was to be kept at all times between him and the girl. The boys had not pooled their sparse resources for such little reward.
Their request for a refund on their entry fee was denied. Disappointed and poorer still they headed home.
The pleasure of sitting by a fire listening to tales told is all too rare.
