The folk art revolution. Dad on porch, beercaps and a pair of cutters. He fashions the two stars. The sacred seals. The one triangle rises from the ground and points upwards, the other reaches down from the sky, striving to touch earth. They meet in the middle, the pass through each other, they find perfect balance. Dad's beercap stars are not platonic forms. They are crude, maybe even misshapen and unbalanced. Yet they hold the essence, the mojo, the soul of souls. I know. I have held them. And the skies churned with heavy water overhead.