I was fourteen the night he picked me up to haul hay. He’d spent the day building a sewing room for Grandma. He was tall, lean — alive. We talked a lot that night, lifting bale after bale; I had to tilt my head to the sky to see his face and toothy smile.
There was always a piece of straw between his teeth, always fresh. Most days were spent in a granary off Main Street, most nights at the farm managing water. Back then, we talked about water: when it was getting in, who would help it along, and how we’d survive until it came back. He never seemed satisfied with how those conversations went, but the crooked smile underneath his crooked hat never faded.
“Only thing complaining does is make a bluebird turn yellow,” he’d say. It was hard to argue when he put it like that.