tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8810604.post-1138625453170312262006-01-30T04:49:00.000-08:002006-01-30T04:50:53.180-08:00They never got along. It was as simple as that. The boy knew the old man didn’t like him because he was from the city, he was scared of his own shadow, and he’d refuse to do some of the things the old man asked of him. They were never big things, just little tasks that any normal, likeable grandson would be willing to do if asked.<br /><br />Yet, they tolerated each other. Years later the boy would admit to admiring the old man for his unending doggedness at beating life at its own game, never failing to push the envelope to test his ability to get things done his way.<br /><br />Their last time together as grandfather and grandson before the boy took the last step into manhood was a disaster for both, and more so for the boy who was after all still a boy who thought as a boy, saw himself as a boy.<br /><br />The day dawned clear and brisk, the previous night’s snow still encasing the power lines along the road. The old man didn’t work any more, having given up the farm’s responsibilities to his son, but he still tried to be involved in everything, needing to keep his mind active, his body fit. The task was meaningless, actually. Something thought up on a whim, contrived over a bowl of oatmeal.<br /><br />“I’ll need you to help me today,” the old man said tightening the laces on his boots.<br /><br />“You know I’m on vacation,” the boy said buttering the last piece of toast.<br /><br />“I have some lumber down in the barn that needs to be moved to the shed.”<br /><br />The boy wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to decide if strawberry jam would be better than quince jelly. Strawberry jam could be bought anywhere. Quince jelly only came from his grandmother’s kitchen. He took more than he needed spreading the clear, golden jelly to the crisp crust of the bread.Carl Holidayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16768352005574221784noreply@blogger.com