Paulson braced our rickety, ugly bench and put it under the tree the kids like to climb, before they came again. It would make a fine sitting spot, plus give them a leg up—he’d not have to set up a ladder.

After they left, I said let’s keep it there. I appreciated the non ritzy effect. It didn’t look too arranged and park bench-y. It seemed okay for out in God’s nature. Paulson also got it into his head to apply his all-important Thompson’s WaterSeal.

After this weekend’s horrid heat, in the unbelievable cool of yesterday morning, gazing out the window, I thought the bench had gotten shat on. Huh? Oh. The white was just splatters from somebody on a project sloppily slinging their paint around, long ago. Now the sealer, in turning the wood darker, more oily looking, had thrown the splatters into stark relief. Who’d ever want to sit on what looked like milk of magnesia poops dropped from some nest?

We ought to screwdriver out those paint spots, I said to Paulson.

No, he said, that would be too hard. What? Hard? What kind of excuse was that? How hard could it be to dig around in the mushy, furrowed planking and knock that junk off? You couldn’t hurt the bench. It was already hurt, worn-down rotten.

I did it myself. I went out and whacked at the smears with some kind of scraper tool we keep in the closet, not an actual screwdriver. It took hardly any time at all.

Birds fed their babies, honeybees drifted, and the breezes blew over the land.

(That’s not dandruff, or pretzel salt. The sealer flakes as it dries. It’ll wipe off.)