My grandfather died before I was old enough to really remember him. His name was Ammi Whitmer, and I’ve never seen a picture of the two of us together. I do have a wisp of memory from inside my grandparent’s kitchen. I can see a hand pump on the edge of their sink in Jeffersonville, Ohio, and I’m on his lap.

It was like sitting on a slab of stone, after the years of manual labor and arthritis have worn away any possible cushioning. I remember an easy laugh, but no teeth. He wears a farmer’s work pants and a work shirt, as he does in many of the pictures I have of him.

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