Just a year

On Sunday, Robert went off to play bridge after spending hours writing down all the bidding conventions he uses.

The director of the local tournaments, who had found someone named Emilio as his partner for the afternoon, had warned him that they weren't quite on the same level; but Robert took it the wrong way.

Robert has, after all, played against Bill Gates and his hired-gun partner in national tournaments and come out quite well, thanks very much.

They came in fourth out of seven, and I know Robert too well to think very highly of Emilio.

But while he was off bidding and such, I was going around the house. It was a year to the day that Ref had died, and I was finding him in every corner.

Possibly most here, in the guest room upstairs, where Ref fretted as much about ceiling angles as Robert frets about no-trump openers. He told me endless stories of builders who had invested in factory-made roof trusses, only to lose thousands of dollars when the built goods met the architect's specs, but didn't fit the house.

So Ref made our roofs by hand, and it was on this one that I last saw him swing a hammer with vigor as he laid in the last of the plywood. Within weeks, he was bedridden. Weeks later, he died.

His sister, Dollie; his brother Shawn; and his Uncle Arnold were here to comfort the heart and complete the house. But Reffard . . . This is his house and will always be.

I saw the gold glinting in his smile as I looked at his handiwork and gave thanks.