In the early years I knew Bob and his brother as California imports who made custom sheepskin jackets. In those days young folks who wanted and could afford such jackets required the secret little pocket inside, by the armpit, to hold a few joints for the day’s hiking, skiing or whatever. Shortly the brother returned to California and Bob picked up some additional skills; metal sculpture and building with stones.

Bob drank a lot of bourbon and smelled of it. Women, beyond the occasional bar pickup, didn’t find him charming, nor did he try. His talk gradually withdrew from the wider world into his own world of stones and the mojo that he found within himself when he built with them and lived within them – alone, always alone. He lives here; no, don’t go through the second door, turn right just past the first door and you’ll find him in the dark corner mumbling and reworking some stones. Squat and listen for a while, leave a bottle of Black Jack, and back to the daylight.