I grew up thinking my grandfather was the definition of simplicity. A man of few words, with sun-browned skin, weathered hands, and boots that smelled of diesel and hay. He wore the same faded jeans every day, shirts patched at the elbows, and a jacket that always carried the faint scent of tobacco. To most of the family, he was distant—closed off, hard to read. But to me, he was something else entirely.Continue reading…
