MORNING SERIAL
OF all the times that I rowed into the bay, for me the best were in the evening or on those moonlit nights. It reminded me of Grandfather’s silver tube, and I wondered if there were enough herrings in our bay for a catch like that to be possible. Father had told me that Grandfather always set his nets in seven fathoms, forty-two feet of water. How did he ascertain the depth, and how did he know when the herrings would be spawning there? As I came towards the end of Grandfather’s log, I was able to think more about this and other problems. I had still not scattered Father’s ashes for various reasons, most importantly the wording of the will, but also because I had to be sure where in the bay they were to be deposited. I had to get it right.
In between times I continued to seek pebbles for the box by the wall and was getting quite good at it. Soon it would be full. What I would do then I did not know.
The last time I went into the shed was when I worked on the winch, before I started to write Grandfather’s stories. I remembered cleaning the silver paint off the small brush after I replaced the oil and grease. Now I remembered noticing an odd coil of rope hanging from one of the hooks. I had meant to look at it more closely at the time, but other things occupied my mind and I forgot.
When I left the shed, I hung the small paint brush on a loop of string on the outside door handle when I locked up to remind me to look at the coil of rope.
When I went to get the key from where it was hanging under Grandfather’s picture it dawned on me. I have said before that I am sometimes slow at figuring things out. This was another of those times. Father had given me the key. It was held out to me as a parting gift in his hand when I found him. He wanted me to look in the shed, but in the past every time I picked up the key it seemed that he discouraged me from doing so.