Grandfather's Hat by the Water

Every summer evening, I find myself sitting by the same old watering hole where my grandfather taught me life's sweetest lessons. The water still mirrors the sunset just as it did sixty years ago, though my reflection shows more silver than brown now.

I remember the day his old bull — a massive creature named Brutus who could have flattened a fence with one misstep — stood patiently while Mama's barn cat, a tiny calico named Dusty, drank from the trough. Brutus lowered his massive head, nudging Dusty gently when she finished. The cat purred so loudly you could hear it over the crickets.

Grandfather tipped his worn felt hat back, watching with those wise eyes that had seen everything from the Great Depression to moon landings. "You see, Margaret," he said, "the biggest creatures and the smallest ones can find peace if they just give each other space. That's how families work, too. That's how communities work."

He placed his hat on my head that afternoon — it was enormous, smelling of leather and peppermint and him. "One day you'll wear your own hats," he'd said, "but never forget what matters most."

Now, watching my great-granddaughter skip around this same watering hole, her straw hat bouncing with each step, I understand. She kneels to pet a farm cat while our neighbor's young bull grazes nearby. Some things — kindness, patience, the way water and wisdom both run deep — never change. They just flow from one generation to the next, like this old watering hole that's quenched more thirsts than I can count, and held more reflections than I can name.