Earl for forty years.
He was seventy. A widower. His wife, Ardis, died of cancer the same year as Grandpa. They never had children.
I’d known Vern my whole life. He came to every one of Grandpa’s birthday parties. He sat in the second row at Grandpa’s funeral. He had a white beard and wore bib overalls and a seed cap, and he had a way of saying very little that made you feel like he’d said a lot.
He answered the door in his stocking feet. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
“Jessie Morgan,” he said. He looked surprised. “Come in. It’s cold.”
He sat me down at his kitchen table. He poured me a cup of coffee without asking. It was strong enough to stand a spoon in.
“How’s nursing?” he asked.
