It's the 7th of July.
This time of year always gets me to thinkin' 'bout Gramp.
I suppose folks thought he was a bit peculiar, what with his quiet ways and predilection for carryin' oddities in his coat pocket like a three winged beetle.

A'course he wouldn't've called it a beetle, he'd a said, "This is what ya call a Northeastern Beech Tiger Beetle, rare indeed to find one with a third wing."
He was a smart fellow, just a bit misunderstood. Have to chuckle because I 'spect that was exactly how he wanted it.



He had a great cabin, tucked away in the trees out of sight of most everyone, except of course the occasional bear, fox and wild turkey. He built the whole thing himself late one summer after having a none too pleasant experience with a woman by the name of Annie MacDougall. Never did tell me exactly what happened, but any time the subject came up he'd get a look about him that let you know you should hold your tongue or else. Then off he'd go to chop more wood.




Didn't bother me any, the thing 'bout Gramp was that even at his most sour, he was the best company I'd ever known. I used to sit on Gramp's porch and just listen to the crackle of the fire and the sound of his ax as he brewed the barley wort and chopped wood for later in the season.




It was actually early in July the year I turned 9 that he first let me take a pull off the jug he used for his ale. Gramp is long since gone and ale has never tasted quite so sweet as it did that afternoon under the hot July sun.
But I'll tell ya, knockin' back a dacker by the fire comes pretty close.