It was 1972. After working on the kitchen table for several months, I rented an upstairs studio apartment in Carytown, a retail district in Richmond, Virginia. I was above the Daisy shoe store and across from the Byrd Theater and New York Deli.

If you walked down the opposite side of the street, you would see some of my lamps lit and hanging in the upstairs windows. On my side of the street, one could see my sign to help solve the mystery of what was happening upstairs.

I thought that if one was an artist/craftsman, one should make one’s own sign. It would not need to look like a commercially made one; it would just need to look more authentic.

Interestingly, I had only been in business for six months, and I was already promoting myself as the maker of the finest lamps and windows.

As I have gotten older, I’ve often noticed that those with the most elementary skills tend to exaggerate them, and those who are more seasoned don’t need to say much; their work says it all.

So now I don’t have a sign here in Bremo Bluff; my road number, 765, is on our mailbox post.