Pocket Sextant

I found this odd compact brass instrument in the woods on Martha's Vineyard, 30 years ago, a well made thing. The workings unscrew from inside the case, then screw back on the top, lots of moving parts, mirrors, geared gauges, an amazing intricate device. No one had ever identified exactly what it was, but we all agreed it was a surveying tool of some type. It took James 10 minutes on the web to identify it as a Pocket Sextant. He says it could be worth money. I'd sell it, as I currently use it as a rock, to hold papers in a breeze. Made in London, 1917. Bet someone was pissed when they lost it. Trish was pissed at me today, because I ranted that anyone who really didn't like their job should quit and get a job they enjoyed. You'd think I would have learned to keep my mouth shut. A great day though, spent the morning in the basement, where I talked to myself, then, after lunch, James and I started photographing the permanent collection. We shoved the lunch table against the wall, with a sheet of ethafoam as background, and the table covered with a sheet of white paper, opened the vault, donned white cotton gloves, brought out and unwrapped 18th century silver services, salt bowls, 16th century Chinese vases. I love this stuff, I get to handle it, I'm the guy that unwraps the piece and puts it on its stand. The ultimate perk, for those of us that like to touch things. A transport of joy. We get a great deal done, James and I, arrange and photograph 19 things in just a few hours. He makes condition reports on the back of the cards. You could spend a large amount of time establishing the condition of anything. I thought about this for hours last night, how precisely you might examine something. George called from Charlotte, he mentioned scallops and I realized that I had eaten morels for 14 or 15 of the last meals at home. It's not a boast, just a seasonal obsession. Where are you, really, when the veils are torn away? A Pocket Sextant might be handy. I had started a pile of firewood at the bottom of the hill, days I didn't want to drive up, I could haul it later, and someone stole it. I can't believe we're drawn to this, that someone would steal my firewood. You could hear my mouth drop open. Direction is a matter of course. Unroll some maps, look at the terrain. I don't think morals is an issue, I think it's all about drainage. Trickle down. Ronnie and his horoscope. Hey, I don't know anything. I only write what I see; our worlds are obviously different. You probably believe something.