We all need a John
Maybe it’s the time of the year, or maybe it’s the time of man, but I find myself reflecting on childhood memories more and more these days. My earliest memory—I couldn’t have been more than 4 years old—is of my older brother, Steve, shaking me awake one Saturday morning, saying, “We’re getting a bar!” I popped out of bed and raced with him to the kitchen, where Dad and another man were reviewing plans for a dining-room addition to the house, which included a breakfast bar. (I was so disappointed. I thought I was getting a candy bar!) Next thing I remember, I’m driving nails into the kitchen floor, “helping” a man I’ve always called “Carpenter John,” who was assisting Dad with parts of the remodel. I can’t imagine I was very…
