A southerly wind was blowing through the Northwoods. Strong and steady, and unusually warm for mid-May, it swept along the back roads of Pine County. Beyond the railroad crossing it shook the branches of the great white pine that stands towering over an old sign painted red and reading “Al’s Forty.” The sign points across the gravel road to a small frame house and four outbuildings painted the same dark red.
Mama, Dad, and I were gathered outside the toolshed. Mama sat on a worn lawn chair and Dad on a straight-backed wooden chair. Scissors in hand, I stood behind him trimming his white, windblown hair. It had covered his ears and curled on his neck when I began but took a great deal longer than necessary to cut. I’d been at it for the better part of an hour. The wind blew his hair about, so I had to smooth it down continually, but that wasn’t the reason it had taken so long. No one was in a hurry. We were enjoying the sunlight as only Northerners, who year after year endure the dark endless winter, can.
