A customer brought in a lamp and asked whether fixing it made any sense when a new one cost so little. The repair was straightforward. The deciding part was that his mother had bought it, which he only mentioned after we had spent ten minutes discussing the price. I've been thinking how often I answer the wrong question because I know the technical answer immediately. Sometimes people want permission to keep a thing, sometimes permission to let it go. I can't sell them either, really. Gave him the cost of parts and let him talk. He wants it fixed. The new lamp apparently wasn't nearly as nice anyway.

The youngest called from a college visit with more news than I could keep straight. Buildings, people, something funny that happened finding a room. I was glad to hear that much excitement, kept asking questions so the call would go on a little longer. Then it ended because there was somewhere else to be, and I stood in the stockroom with the phone still in my hand. Proud, certainly. Also not especially eager for the house to get quieter. At supper my wife asked what we'd talked about and I found I could remember the sound of the whole conversation better than any of the details she actually wanted.

Went down to the river before supper and stood where the water only comes partway up my boots. Didn't catch anything worth bringing home. The nice part was standing still without a counter in front of me, shifting my feet on the stones until I found a level spot. My shoulders quit wanting to lean forward after a while. Could feel the cooler air on the backs of my hands and the evening getting into my shirt. By the time I climbed the bank I was hungry enough to quit without calling it defeat. My wife asked how the fishing was. Told her the fish had an excellent evening, not one complaint.