From the west the late afternoon sun was resplendent on the grass, reflections shimmering in waves, comfort oozing in the land.

“The moon loves you, Dad,” says Jasper James (“Jeep,”) who was practically born in a seat of an old ’56 Jeep relegated to the farm, which is where Jasper got his nickname.

When we fished the Pine River, Ed LeBlanc, Walter Ruszkowski, Brother Bentley and I, for thirty-some years, coffee was the glue, to be sure; the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we’d often unearth our six-packs of beer from a natural cooler in early evening, a foot down in damp earth, away from animals on a night out, dread scroungers on the move.

One day in 1943 a telegram came from the War Department about my friend Joe Berrett who I last saw throw a football 95 yards on Stackpole Field.

It was the mother I first noticed, not the daughter, no more than 3 or 4, at her heels.

The letter came on a Saturday morning delivery and lay unopened for two days of rushing around, special errands, preparation for a graduation, a grandson’s varsity football game, a dance at the club.

They had gathered in a sequestered section of grass, the flock of Canadian Geese, in East Boston’s Suffolk Downs Race Track.

The carpenter ants at the union hall read the posters on the opportunity board and massed for the task. George the Squirrel had asked for a contractor’s team to do some steep remodeling work as half his tree home had been bruised seriously by hurricane winds.

His wife Millicent had cheated on him and she would pay, but to Everett Harley it was much deeper than being unfaithful;

Mother Sow, setting up a birthday party at the back of the barn for twin piglets, said she’d send out for a pizza delivery. “Six ought to do us,” she said, “and we’ll order the big size.”