When my grandmother became a widow, she had two sons. The oldest was three years old and the youngest (my father) was two.
A couple of years ago, on a rainy evening, after my nephew’s little league baseball game, my dad drove me by the house where my grandfather died. It’s a small, white bungalow, on a corner lot, on top of a tiny mound of earth in rural Virginia.
One evening in that house, while my grandmother got the two boys ready for bed, my grandfather was getting ready, too. He was looking forward to a hunting trip he had scheduled for the next day. He went into the bedroom to get some stuff together, and he never came out.
He passed away from a brain aneurysm. Just like that. The year was 1942.
At the time of his death, my grandfather was employed as an agricultural extension agent for the county where he and his young family lived. His income kept the family afloat and his death left a gaping hole, not only in the hearts of his young wife and boys, but also in the practical aspect of putting food on the table. And so, my grandmother went to work…
The incomparable Emily P. Freeman invited me to guest post at her place last week. It was so much fun! Click through, right here, to read the rest of the story.