Russet apples were the jewels of my grandfather’s garden. They came in the autumn and left him poor in the winter – a feeble caretaker of hollow timber. My grandfather was a jovial man, as men often are when they grow old and bury their wits. He would mumble and grumble with the airs and graces of an inventor or a prophet, despite inexperience in either profession. There was wisdom to him though – wisdom that comes from dead acquaintances that whisper memories in his ear and goad his tongue to flick and click and speak truths. He would look upon us with eyes that were not his own and stone us with old wives’ tales and stoic idioms.
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