Ted and Tammie got into the pickup and Al drove. He did not speak because he was thinking too busily to talk. A father, if he was worthy of being a father, showed his children the right path. But it was always better if he could guide them into doing their own thinking, instead of leading them along the path—and sometimes that called for subtle measures.
Two miles up the road, Al came to a clearing. A little less than an acre, it was a jungle of yellow-topped golden rod. Here and there a milkweed raised its spear-shaft stem and showed its silk-filled pods to all who passed. In the center was an old building with all the windows broken and part of the roof fallen in. Sun, wind, rain and snow had exercised their own artistry on the unpainted boards and tinted them a delicate shade which no brush could possibly achieve. There was a little patch of summer apples and two small bucks, stretching their necks to get the wormy fruit, moved reluctantly away when the truck stopped.
Al got out of the truck and Ted and Tammie alighted beside him. Al looked at the tumble-down building.
"My gosh! It ain't possible!"
"What isn't?"
Al grinned ruefully, "Seems like yesterday I worked here."
"You worked at the old Hawley logging camp?"
"Yep. Chore boy. Got up at four every mornin' to feed and curry the horses so they'd be ready to go into the woods. You wouldn't think fifteen men, or fourteen men and a boy, ate and slept in that old house, would you?"
"It's big enough."
"By gosh! Seems like a person gets born, takes six breaths and gets old. That old house is still good, though. Those boards are really seasoned and I bet they last another hundred years."