and old woodsmoke from the kitchen stove.
Dad rested his hickory cane against the mudroom doorframe, its worn rubber tip dry and quiet on the linoleum threshold.
He moved between the iron stove and the counter, his replaced hip stiff from the bitter early air.
He set a heavy cast iron skillet on the front burner and cracked three brown eggs into the hot grease.
“He was parked down by the lane before six,” Dad said without turning around.
“I heard his diesel engine idling through the trees,” I said.
“He brought two rolls of woven wire and a hydraulic post driver in the back of his Ford.”
“Did he ask if you needed help with the herd?”
“No,” Dad said, shaking a pinch of salt over the skillet. “He just put his leather gloves on and stood by the machine shed until I came out.”
Dad slid a blue
