“Well,” he slowly allowed, “Horace was a blacksmith. He and I worked together in that old barn;” as he nonchalantly, but with a certain pride, pointed to a small, rust-colored weathered barn just across the road from where we had parked the car. “If you’re looking for Horace, he’s in the old cemetery just up the road toward town.”
He resumed peeling his potatoes. I wondered if he just kept those same potatoes in the pot and pretended to peel them every day until someone had the curiosity to stop and ask him what he was doing. But, I had no real reason to doubt the old man’s story, or the integrity of the potatoes for that matter. What really made the day complete was my son’s comment once we reached the car: “Dad, I can’t believe it! I really didn’t believe all those stories you told us, at least not until today, about all those ancient New Englanders who never seemed to travel too far from their homes. He’s just like the guy in your story!”
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