On Saturday afternoon, the temperature in the Twin Cities hit a hundred degrees, unheard of in Minnesota this early in the summer. Reasonable people turned on their air-conditioners and stayed inside. What was I doing? Helping to build a playground at a transitional housing facility for women and children in need of shelter. I’m 70 years old. I did this kind of labor for a decade when I was a much younger man, wanting to experience all I could in order to be a writer, pursuing a different kind of education than I believed college would offer me. I’m 70 years old now, and I admit, the day took its toll. Afterward, I spent half an hour under a hot shower to get my muscles uncramped, then took some ibuprofen and threw down a couple of gin and tonics to help ease the pain. But ask me if I’d do it again, and I’d have to admit I would. Because it wasn’t just the pain I felt when I’d finished. It was the sense that I’d been a part of something that would make the world just a little bit better for everyone. And isn’t that what we’re here for?