I sat there on the log, thinking about what Grandpa had told me. I pondered over his words for a right smart while. In my heart, I knew that what he had said was the truth. I also knew that I might have jumped to conclusions about my father. Finally, I stood up and stepped over the log. "What about you, Grandpa?" I asked. "Does your love have legs, too?"
Grandpa reached out and pulled on my ear. "What do you think, grandson?" he replied.
I looked up at the old man who stood beside me in faded denim overalls and sweat-stained hat. The creases on his face looked like the furrows in the garden that my father and I had dropped the cut potatoes into, just a few days back. His pipe hung from his lower lip, like a wooden hook, its bowl, polished and black, from years of use. His eyes, dark in the dim light of the forest, sparkled like blades of grass after an ice storm. "I think so," I replied. "They are just like Dad's."
Ahead of us Mulberry Ridge loomed in a dozen shades of green. Mountain laurel bloomed on the ridgetop, while rhododendron budded in the dark ravines. Wood thrushes called out "whittle-ding, whittle-ding," from the hemlocks, and the tapping of a pileated woodpecker rang out in the deep woods, its echo rebounding from the ridge to the cane-choked river bottom, and fading away in the distance.
I slung the four catfish over my shoulder, feeling the coldness of them soaking through the straps of my overalls. Grandpa had said that I was a lucky boy, and he was right. I was lucky to live in a place that was filled with pretty places to catch fish, like the mouth of Mulberry. I was lucky to have a warm bed to sleep in and more food than I could eat at one time. I was lucky to have parents who cared more for their children than for themselves. I was lucky to be part of a family that lived on through the stories that were told about them. I was lucky to have a father who believed that every boy should spend time with his grandparents. But, most of all, I was lucky to have a grandpa who would never lie.