So at the next storm, in January, at four in the morning, there was a knock on my back door, and it was Hector’s son Jonah, fifteen years old in a hoodie and his dad’s boots, with his hands jammed in his pockets.
“My dad says you’re teaching me to plow,” he said.
“Your dad is right.”
I let him drive the circle once in low with the blade up. He did better than I did the first time. He backed up too far at the Lindgren place and took out the same reflector stake.
The Spiral Notebook
The truck is back in my driveway, same spot, same oil stain. Nobody on Juniper Court has said one word about it since.
That December morning, when I finally got home after Grant’s driveway, I sat in the cab with the engine running, the way Jim used to before he came in for his eggs. I picked up his notebook off the dash. His last entry was in his tidy carpenter’s pencil from the March before he died. 6 inches. Started 4:05. Did whole court.
