Ron built half of the houses on the hill road and grumbled about every one of them. He had worked with his hands since he was fifteen and he had the thumbnail — the black one, from a hammer in 1971 — to prove it. He said a spirit level was the only thing in the house you could trust.
He fished the Grey most weekends, mostly for the sitting still. He would come home with nothing and call it a good day. He taught all four grandchildren to bait a hook and none of them to be patient, which he found funny.
He played cards on Thursdays for fifty years with the same three men, two of whom he outlived. He cheated, everyone knew it, and no one could ever catch him. He would have wanted that written down.
He went quickly, in the winter, the way he had always said he wanted to. The tools are still in the shed. Someone keeps meaning to sort them out.