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One of my fondest memories of Grandpa goes as far back as påtgon mayute’ days. This is around the same time my cousins and I always smelled like sun and sweat from full days of boonie excursions. Weekends meant visiting Grandpa in Yigo. It meant waking up so early you could hear the roosters’ first crows and feel the dew from grass in between your toes. Time stood still at the ranch. Mom and I walked up to the screen door of a dirty kitchen he built from the ground up. She raised her voice just loud enough
Breakfast was usually steamed dågu or nika, mendioka or some root vegetable variation grandpa had harvested earlier that week. I drenched those suckers in maple syrup and stuffed my face silly, turning the lazy Susan around for seconds, often thirds. Pancakes couldn’t compare. Sometimes we had fresh eggs and I thought, eee, these still have dirt on the shell . But sunny side up, the yolks were more vivid than school bus yellow and they tasted richer than the top one percent. A spotted, stained shell exterio
Afterwards, we dumped all our leftovers in a red Ace Hardware bucket with a homemade wooden cover, you know the one… or you might be more familiar with its second cousins, old ice cream container and empty Country Crock container. I helped Mom and Auntie Annie wash dishes while Grandpa put on his long sleeves and rain boots. Then I would trail behind him hauling the bucket of pig slop in both hands. We walked across a pebbled and potholed street, just narrow enough to fit one car so that when a neighbor was
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