It was probably Elinore Umber told Glenn, although it as likely might have been either Old Bob or Carmella Conroy, my more occasional than weekend and immediately northward neighbors whose shaded picnic table it in fact is that I occupy at Matins and whose power leaks out from the red pump shed.
Though I’ll be damned if I had any idea who it might have been then, pondering Boy Scrimshaw, and I am damned if I know now how they knew then I was a writer.