It is 27 degrees f, and people mill about the rear of the Amherst Historical Society drinking mulled wine under propane powered space heaters
I sit 20 feet away on the shaving horse shaping large maple spoon blanks with a draw knife. A child stands near by me observing. His mother is standing back further, looking at her phone. Dusk is approaching.
They are talking to each other in another language, not one I recognize with certainty. It sounds beautiful to me, and I imagine what they are saying:
“The man making spoons. Look at the wood shavings mama. That’s like grandpa. OK, It’s cold, come now time to go. Mama, look.”