“The same way he’d have to drive into yours,” Butch said. “Slow. With your hat in your hand.”
Then Butch said one more thing. I’ll come back to it.
“I asked your dad twice for that east eighty. It lays right up against my ground. I’d have paid him fair both times. He said his father bought it in 1961 with hog money, and he wasn’t going to be the one to sell it.”
Butch straightened up off the fence wire.
“I’m just telling you. That offer never went anywhere.”
I was greasing the feed truck that evening.
It was past eight o’clock and still light out. That long June light that makes everything look better than it is. I had the grease gun on the driveline when I heard tires on gravel.
It was Dad’s pickup. The blue three-quarter-ton with the cracked taillight.
