The Inheritance The sunlight glistened near the spider web distorted and magnified by tiny droplets of water that fell softly to the ground, from the wells hand pump. My gramps painted the pump, policemen’s blue every year. With a wire brush and scraper he would remove the loose paint. So meticulous he would paint. It always looked like the first time it had been painted. I could feel a warm breeze, and almost hear his voice, “This is the best dang water this side of the Rockies”. He would say. I’m glad Martha is here to hold my hand. A silent tear rolled down my cheek, the U-Hal, in the background. Gramps passed away six weeks ago, and left me this farm. This is my home now, maybe it always was? Bill Dodenhoff 7-27-1994
Posted on: Sun, 29 Sep 2013 04:10:10 +0000
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