Ten. Maybe twelve. I don’t know. Somewhere around there. And so the shaving mug is a good fifty years old. I say shaving mug, but my father never used it as such, because it was too small. It was so narrow inside, his round Colgate soap couldn’t even rest on the bottom. What he needed, and what he already had, and had been using for years, was a heavy coffee mug, as wide almost as it was tall, with ample room for vigorous brush-action — ah, that sound, I remember it well. Anyway. That’s what I gave him that year. He liked it well enough for its form, though, and who wouldn’t, really? A mug with an old Ellis Island sort of face, part Greek, part Norwegian, a little French — he could be one of the family. And is. Do you understand me? No worry. No matter. He’s here among my books, atop two old smelly German volumes published in the 1830s, looking at me, through me, and beyond, out the window, down the street. Waiting? Content? Both. That’s it, Pa. Nice. And easy. Oh, how I love your dear mug.