We make the dusty trek from the house to the old mink sheds, just he and I. My small feet follow him as he pauses at his garden, taking me down each row to show me his latest production. He bends down with his arthritic knees and picks a few ripe tomatoes, a cucumber and then a of couple handfuls of beans. He puts them into a plastic sack for me to take home. I love eating things he's grown, they always tasted better than store bought stuff. We venture out of the garden and head towards the sheds. The mink rapidly bob their heads in and out of their cages, as if to see who's there. Grandpa helps me up onto his feed truck, already filled with a sloppy unattractive mixture. He climbs on and we ride from pen to pen dumping food into each trough. Once feeding chores are through we head back up to the house. We talk about things. When Grandpa tells you a story he seems to really get right down on your level, as if you were really his best friend and not just some little kid. He...