The Lumberyard Every Saturday, men congregate here to buy wood for remodeling the basements. They keep buying wood but the basements never change. My father used to wait in line for a least two hours. Sometimes my mother came looking for him, fearing he was dead by the side of the road. Once he got some wood, though, you could see a difference. He made me a big bookcase and desk with a drawer under it that opened fast and easy. Another time, he cut out a heart from some wood and put plastic bags in for chambers then pumped red and blue water through it for my science fair project. The lumberyard always smells like possibilities. It’s the sawdust piling up that measures all the good intentions people have for fixing things.