Well now, I was just rememberin’ a thing that happened down in a little mud-brick town in Alabama, a place so sleepy the dogs had to bark in shifts to keep up appearances. The season was that grim, gray period betwixt Christmas and New Year’s, when a man’s spirits are as low as the water in a drought-struck creek.

There was an old fellow there named Bill McKay. Bill was a watchmaker, or had been, before his eyesight took to failing him and his hands got to shaking like a wet dog in a thunderstorm. His shop was a dusty museum of time, filled with the silent corpses of clocks and the still hearts of watches, all waiting for a touch that Bill could no longer provide. He was a proud man, Bill, and wouldn’t accept charity, which is a fine principle until your belly is as empty as a politician’s promise.

Now, directly across the street was a young man, name of Tony. Tony was a tinker, a fixer of pots and pans, a fellow with clever fingers and a quiet nature. He’d watch old Bill sitting in his shop day after day, the doorbell never ringing, the old man growing a little thinner, a little more faded, like a photograph left in the sun.

One evening, Tony saw Bill trying to thread a needle under a guttering lamp, his hands trembling so he might as well have been trying to catch minnows with a pitchfork. The sight of it stuck with Tony. It festered in him like a splinter.

So, Tony set to work. In his own cluttered shop, amidst the solder and the scraps of tin, he began to fashion a thing. It wasn’t much to look at, just a bit of whittled wood, a spring from a busted clock, and a clever little hinge. He worked on it for nigh on a week, late into the nights, his lamp burning long after Bill’s had been snuffed out.

On New Year’s Eve, with a wind coming off Terrapin Creek that could skin a cat, Tony wrapped his contraption in brown paper and marched across the street. The bell on Bill’s door jangled like a skeleton’s teeth. The old man looked up, surprised to have a visitor.

“Evenin’, Mr. McKay,” Tony said, his voice softer than usual. “Found this out back. Reckon it’s for you.”

Bill took the parcel, his gnarled fingers picking at the string. He unfolded the paper, and there it was. It was a simple needle-threader. A little block of cherry wood with a gentle clamp, and a spring-loaded lever. You put the needle in the clamp, slid the thread into a fine hook, and pressed the lever. Snick. The thread was pulled through the eye, neat as you please.

Bill stared at it. He picked up a needle from his bench, fumbled a length of thread from a spool. He fitted them into Tony’s device, his shaky hands no hindrance at all. He pressed the lever. Snick. The thread slid through the eye, swift and certain and perfect.

He didn’t look up at Tony. He just stared at that threaded needle, his old shoulders perfectly still. A man like Bill McKay, you see, he could face down poverty and loneliness with a stiff spine. But a little piece of cleverness, a gift that gave him back a piece of the skill he’d lost, a thing that understood his pride and sidestepped it entirely… that was a different kind of assault.

A single, fat tear welled up in the corner of his eye, navigated the dry riverbed of his cheek, and splashed onto the cherry wood.

He cleared his throat, a sound like gravel being poured. “It’s a clever thing,” he said, his voice thick. “A mighty clever thing.”

“Glad it’s of use,” Tony said, and he turned and left, the bell jangling behind him.

Now, some would say that was a small gift. It wasn’t a fortune. It wasn’t a feast. But it was a sight more. It was one man saying to another, “I see your trouble, and I have, with these ten fingers, built you a bridge across it.” It was a piece of respect, hammered and whittled into wood and steel.

And I tell you, that little snick of that lever did more to warm that dusty old shop than any fire in the hearth. It was the sound of usefulness restored. And in my book, there ain’t no gift more heartwarming than that.

*****

And, you know, with Christmas just around the corner, I shouldn’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays, a very nice Christmas stocking stuffer, is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon. Get yours today!