on the second porch step with his legs sticking out into the driveway gravel.
He was wearing his dark blue church trousers and a plain white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled twice at his wrists.
His black leather dress shoes were unlaced, and his heels were kicking rhythmically against the wooden riser.
My father’s blue farm pickup was parked on the grass beside the pump house.
Duane sat on the top porch bench beside the screen door, wearing his tan Sunday jacket and dark brown dress trousers.
His hickory cane rested upright between his knees, both of his thick hands clasped over the polished curve.
“Mason refuses to let me tie his shoes,” Duane said as I walked up the gravel path.
“He claimed my back bends too slow for his liking.”
Mason kicked his heel against the pine board again, making a dull thud.
“Grandpa’s knee made a
