Chapter One
Shannon O'Day stood looking into a big foundry type window in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was 1966. Winter would soon be here. Could it be that what this poet guy once had said, "When winter leaves, spring is next in line?" would not this be the full truth this year. Poggi Ingway wondered. Near Poggi standing at the parallel window, both but a few feet apart, was Shannon O'Day, an obese man with a small rounded head, short. Both stood there and looking at the fully operational foundry in motion. A frost covered the ground, and there were full storage bins alongside the foundry, items to be shipped soon. Before the great snowstorms of Minnesota came. The foundry workers would have to break open those bins, haul down those piles of casings to the Great Northern Railroad Station, load them on the flat-cars to take them away, to the automobile factories. Poggi Ingway looked throw the window as a cold wind blew past his face and chin, and neck, and when he breathed outward, his breath looked like he was smoking, the weather was so chilled he could almost make smoke rings, and on the outside of the window he made little circles. Poggi thought of San Francisco. Perchance it was the business of the workers that brought back such recollections of the untiring city by the bay he often thought of it, where he had spent sometime years ago. That one year being the happiest in his life. That was all history now; that and most everything else.
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