Sweet smoke from Grandpa's pipe drifted through the tomatoes as stories of his horses filled my head. Grandpa Matt delivered ice to people when ice boxes were the refrigerators of the day. He liked to say he delivered road apples to people for gardens. With the orange sun setting behind the lilacs, he enjoyed smoking his pipe and telling me about the horses he knew. With his pocket knife and a flat stone he’d sharpened my pencils to a pinpoint.
The sight of tomato caterpillars would interrupt his stories. Directing me to pick them off our tomato plants - and to toss them over the fence into Mrs. Mattew's garden. “A gift of a butterfly,” he would say.
Watching the days end with my Grandfather were quiet. Evening birds were looking for beds to sleep in, baby bunnies were sneaking under the chickenwire fence to get to the Swiss chard. Bats, leaving attics, darted about and Mom would call to see if anyone was interested in the last pieces of apple crisp. She would come out with two slices and a cup of strong black coffee. Chasing the baby bunny away, Mom gave us a look and told us the time.
Grandpa and I sat quietly, watching the baby bunny return to nibble on Swiss chard again. Voices would rise in the distance of kids getting called in, and dogs answering those calls. Aurora, my town, was going to bed. Aunt Kay called to Grandpa that it was time to go home too. His pipe sits in an ashtray in my studio now reminding me of night skies and those stories of Nellie, his last horse, and women gathering up Nellie's road apples.
