by Martin Wile @LinesFrom God
Rarely did the speedometer register over twenty-five miles per hour in any old pickup he drove.
As long as I knew him, my maternal grandfather—Pappy we called him—never got in a hurry. He didn’t have to punch a time clock—he was a farmer. But he did have somewhat of a schedule. He got up at five every morning, dressed, drank a cup of Sanka instant coffee, and went to the wrap-around porch of his old farmhouse—the house he and my grandmother had once rented, but now owned.
