I pulled over where the lane bends by the north pasture fence.
I got the wheelchair out of the trunk, opened it up and set the brake. Then I helped Daddy turn and get his feet down, and we moved him from the car seat to the chair the way the therapist showed us. Slow. On the count of three.
He was breathing hard when we were done. I tucked the jacket around him and set his hat straight. He let me fuss more than he usually does.
“You warm enough?”
“I’m fine. Push me down to the corner.”
I pushed him along the gravel. My arms aren’t what they used to be, and the gravel was loose. I had to lean my whole weight into it. The wheels crunched and threw little stones. Daddy held on to the armrests.
At the corner of the north pasture, there’s a big old wooden corner post. Cedar, gray as the barn, with a brace post leaning into it and the wire stapled tight.
I stopped him right beside it.
He reached out and laid his hand on that post. He just held it there, flat against the wood. The way you’d lay your hand on the neck of a horse you’d known for a long time.
“I set this in 1961,” he said. “Me and my daddy. Dug the hole with a set of posthole diggers and a tamping bar. Took us one whole afternoon.”
He smiled a little.
“Daddy said a corner post is the one you don’t cut corners on.”
He laughed at that, the old family joke. I’d heard it a hundred times.
Then his fingers started to shake on the wood. I saw his chin go. I had to look away across the pasture so he wouldn’t see me see it.
“Sixty-five years,” he said quietly. “And it’s still standing. That’s more than you can say for me.”
“You’re still sitting, though,” I said.
And he laughed again. And that helped us both.
That was when I saw Bobby.
He’d been feeding hay at the far end of the hill pasture, and he must have seen my car come down the lane. He’d parked his tractor up by the gate and was walking toward us on the gravel. Fast, for a big man.
Bobby Whitt is 60 years old and stocky, built like a feed sack. He had on a gray seed cap and his blue work coat. Even from a distance, I could see he was worried. The way you get when an old man shows up somewhere he isn’t supposed to be.
He came down the lane to us, puffing a little.
“Clayton? Teresa? Everything all right? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Daddy said. He put his hand out. “Good to see you, Bobby.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
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