That’s Gramps tending to his field corn, a variety used primarily as livestock feed. The date is no later than the summer of 1930, for that is the year he died. He was only two years older than I am now, which gives me pause to think about my own mortality.
With a single-shot .22 rolling-block varmint rifle, he once headed off a band of desperados trying to make off with a carload of his corn, while his hired hand blocked any possible retreat with a shotgun. After that, some of the neighbors tried to get him elected to sheriff.
