I think of Sembatu as my second mother and it is only through lack of any direct genetic link that I do not call her my first. At the time I knew her, she was an Ethiopian widow in her forties that my family had hired to perform domestic duties. She was given a small room connected to our house in which to live. By Ethiopian standards, such accommodation was considered lavish. Down the street from us was an olivewood shop where beautiful wood objects were made. From our house, you could smell the delightful fragrance of the wood as the proprietor worked his lathe making polished bowls, plates, spoons, and all manner of artfully contrived objects. And boxes. Polished olivewood boxes about one foot on a side and six inches deep with lids attached by intricate, shiny, brass hinges, and secured with scrolled clasps. These boxes were quite expensive. And yet he would give them to Sembatu for free, no questions asked, no words exchanged, and here is why. Sembatu was a great artist, although she would not have known the meaning of the term. She would take the boxes, and by a process known in the art world as wood inlay Marquetry (not to be confused with Parquetry), she would create masterpieces. She would scrounge around for hours, on her hands and knees in the fragrant scrap woodpile in back of the olive wood shop and meticulously select bits and pieces of wood. The proprietor knew she was there but said not a word. At the time, I did not understand this, because I had seen him stomp his feet, and shake his fist, and yell at others who dared venture into his scrap woodpile. I scrounged around with her and would proffer to her pieces of wood I thought were pretty. She would accept a few, but most she would decline with a kind smile and a shake of her head. Gradually, from the pieces she accepted, I learned. The texture must be just right. The grain must flow like oil on water. The coloration must starkly contrast. With endless patience and care, she taught me about beauty. At night, after her domestic chores were through, by the light of a clay oven she had made by hand, she would work her magic. She would fashion Sembatu’s boxes. On a block of Ethiopian sandstone, she would meticulously grind each carefully selected sliver of wood to fit a pattern held only in her mind. Unceasingly, throughout the process, she would softly chant Ethiopian hymns, that I still hear to this day. These hymns were like breathing. Interruptions were part of the natural flow. If I wanted to speak, she would stop the chant, respond, and then resume the chant. Over a period of weeks, a masterpiece of intricate wood filigree would emerge. She would take days polishing the completed box with the fur side of a square piece of gazelle hide. No varnish was needed. The completed work assumed the luster of glass. When Sembatu was finally satisfied, I would tag along as she took the box to the olivewood shop proprietor. The proprietor would brew strong, thick, sugar laden Ethiopian coffee (which he served in tiny olivewood cups) and the bargaining would begin. Sembatu would state her price. The proprietor would assume a grief-stricken countenance as though such a sum would mean his ruination. Sembatu would point out intricacies in the box and show her scarred hands. The proprietor would wail about the cost of his shop and bemoan scarcity of customers. In the end, Sembatu would accept a price of about ten Ethiopian dollars (about three dollars in US currency). The proprietor would then offer her a pristine new box which she would haughtily, with profound dignity, decline. And she would sing happily all the way home. And upon arrival, beside her front door, there would be a pristine new box, awaiting the ministrations of her artistic touch. Created in Ultra Fractal