He held me in his blue-denimed lap. He rocked me and sang to me, “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.” We laughed and laughed.
He held my hand as we checked his apple trees for apple-munching bugs. We scouted for clumps of grey cotton-candy-like stuff in the crooks of branches. If we found some, he’d take a long stick, wrapped at one end with a kerosene dipped rag, then he’d light that rag and torch the invader’s web. “Gotta save the apples for you and me.”
I loved Grandpa so much. He held me.
