It was late August, when leaves have turned their darkest green and hang heavy from the trees, spent, dusty, all but lifeless. Each year this island swells with oppressive salt air humidity and summer residents who press the limits of capacity, of parking, of patience. The single-lane, shoulderless roads crowd, ever more treacherous, with yet more cars, cyclists, and pedestrians. It's the season of my hibernation, as I long for September and the world to turn quiet again.
That year, however, I was tucked in an old old barn with eleven strangers, studying instrument making. I would spend six intensive days on that lush farmland as we gradually shaped instrument bodies, carefully shaved tuning pegs, and rummaged through scraps of exotic wood for just the right detail. The workshop, originally scheduled for five days, had been expanded to six, and even at that we worked fourteen-hour days, racing the clock to completion. Our rushed, anxious looks at one another regularly said we doubted we'd finish. Workbenches were still strewn with disassembled elements on the day Lieutenant John Ferris came home from Afghanistan.
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