He died in the summer kitchen while he was changing the brine on some pickles. No one knew which change it was, but the pickles came out OK.
He had two sons, Dave the cop and Denny the teacher. They didn't live far. The funeral was simple. A handful of people at the service.
Back at the house they did coffee and doughnuts then it was all over except for emptying the old house and getting it sold. Neither Dave's nor Denny's wife would live in it.
They took a lot of good stuff to the dump. Two beds, a chest of drawers, all worn out. No one wanted them. There may have been dealers in the Cities who would want the old hutch with its layers of worn off paint, but no one they knew wanted it. Dave took the bible, Denny the milk glass. His wife took the canned goods and she packed the half done pickles into mason jars. ``His pickles were the best,'' she said, ``I'll try and finish them.''
Dave's kid Tommy found the Indian stuff. Blankets, moccasins, a pipe. Parfleches and beaded pouches. It was all packed with moth balls in a chest in the spare room.
``That's worth money,'' said Dave.
``That's worth a lot of money,'' said Denny.
``Its mine. I found it!'' said Tommy.
``Its the Indians'!'' said Dave's wife Arlene.
``It would have been bought and paid for,'' said Denny.
``Its mine. I found it,'' said Tommy, ''you would have taken it to the dump. There was old newspapers and a broken crank shaft on the top. You would have tossed it all.''
``It could go to a museum in his name,'' said Arlene.
``Its mine!'' said Tommy.
``Why do you want it?'' asked Denny.
Tommy looked at the indigo striped blanket. The pipe, all worn and dirty at the grip. The stone paint pot still red with vermillion inside. The stuff was dancing at him, trying to tell him stories.
``I want it because its cool,'' he said.
They argued long past dark. Sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating left over doughnuts. Outside a heap of old furniture and personal belongings smoldered and sparked.
``How many times did we sit at this table?'' asked Dave.
``I sat at this table three times a day for twenty-four years,'' said Denny.
``That's three times three hundred and sixty five times twenty-four plus three each leap year,'' said Tommy.
They turned and looked at the boy.
``Its time you were in bed,'' said Denny.
``Its late,'' said Dave, ``what if we let the kid have the stuff for now - long as he don't sell it? He'll have to work it out with the other grand kids later.''
It seemed the easiest way.
They loaded the kitchen table and chairs and Tommy's trunk into the pick-ups and packed the last dishes in a box and left them never to return.
The fire smoldered itself out.
In the summer kitchen two dozen dusty mason jars sat on the lid of a rusted tin box that no one had thought to open.