It was 1975, I think, when my dad grew his beard. He was sitting there at the head of the dinner table, or was it the tail. I was sitting on the side to his right, as I always did, I suppose. He hadn't shaved and we took notice and somehow it was communicated that he was growing a beard, though I don't remember that he said a word.

In the summertime my mom would brew iced tea and we could have it with lemon and a little sugar. We drank it out of those smoked green or gold glasses, sculpted with thumbprint-sized indentations around the bottom half. With ice from the metal tray that frosted up around the handle and stuck to your fingers if you had no patience and tried to crack the ice before running it under water. The sun set so late, we left the lights off and let the sunset seep through the woods and through the picture window, through the kitchen window and the door.