Booker started small, and I mean real small.
Toothpicks and popsicle sticks and twigs.
He’d carve em up with that old Barlow he kept stropped so it’d shave a hair off a hair.
But them little carvings didn’t satisfy, so he moved on to planks, barrels, chairs.
He got it into his head that his wood needed to be living, so he got going on the trees in his yard.
Never mind an idiot knows a tree dies if you cut all the bark off.
Booker had other ideas.
Last I saw he was headed north to the big timber.
