"In other words," Cunningham interrupted him, "no. Neil?"

"Yes?"

"Don't spend the weekend at the museum. Promise?"

"I promise."

He stayed away, in fact, Then, on Monday morning, another miracle happened. A man bearing a gift appeared at the museum. Herman Glucklischsman came in and handed Neil a check for a substantial chunk of money, given in memory of his father, Herbert Glucklischsman, "a patron and staunch supporter of The Museum of the Year 1912 in his time." Herman stipulated that, as his father had been "a printer and a designer and a maker of books," his contribution would be earmarked solely for use in developing the special collection, 'The Art of the Book in Camperdene."

Neil's growing plans for the collection included having, beyond representative bindings, also samples of handmade papers, marbled papers, works of calligraphy, and so on. He'd already begun to gather, in file folders, information about Camperdene's book people, as he liked to call them -- including papers donated to me by each of them. He supplemented this with purchases of books illuminating calligraphy, typography, printing, and bookbinding. Camperdene's book artisans were beginning to be more eager in contributing to the Collection. Neil was working on having each boookbinder re-bind one or more of our most valuable but cover-damaged books -- each as he or she saw fit.

The whole project had begun in Neil's head -- just an idle scheme, really. A big concern of the book people was that their works would not be cared for in the unknown future -- in the absence of a curator or anybody else who might give a hoot about keeping the collection intact. But Neil was thrilled and just went forward with this scheme. He got it through -- or past -- the Executive Committee of the Board of Trustees of the Association, and now Herman Glucklischsman had appeared from out of nowhere, a generous donor securing the collection's existence and to sustain its growth.

There was much to celebrate. Beyond his enjoyment of loving, and of the pleasure he had in the progeny that had come of their loving, Neil had also made a few close friends -- decent colleagues and associates living in this community otherwise densely peppered with unhappy people -- wretched, cranky, angry, mean, vile, misguided people. But not everything that happened was ridiculous or insane. All in all, Neil felt quite blessed. He went along, lighthearted mainly.

The Camperdene Garden Club decked the museum's rooms beautifully. The Annual Holiday Celebration drew more than a hundred children and nearly forty adults. There was singing and there were stories, and then St. Nicholas arrived -- silver-bearded Friends' President and bookbinder Nick Wentworth seated by the fireplace in gold-trimmed purple velvet robe with shining satin sash, delivering a bouyant, cheering reading of Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales. Neil's boy, Mark, would still be singing Jingle bells and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer come April and May, so strong were the impressions made that day.

On Christmas morning, while snow fell, the Wrights merrily cooed and sang, lighting candles and sparklers they'd placed in their tree. Then they opened their presents. Mark got his prayed-for red wooden wagon. Jillian got about a dozen pairs of Winnie the Pooh pajamas from well-wishers all around the globe. There was nothing sweeter to Neil than hugging and tumbling around with those two kids in their flannel pajamas that Christmas morning. A few local people had sent Christmas cards. Oddly, Carla Spagnoli had telephoned with Minna on Christmas Eve, wishing the entire Neil family their just desserts and so forth, putting a damper on any festive mood Minna might have been in prior to the call.

Neil sent out Happy New Year greetings to all Museum Association committee members, setting dates for first-of-the year meetings. He was eager to get the ball rolling. He would raise the dead, if need be. He was up for it -- anything -- bring it on.