He turns off the interstate onto a dusty two lane 'til he comes to a ghost town bearing the family name. There's not much left but some run down old shacks, a few boarded up shops and some overgrown tracks. His granddaddy's Texaco still sits on the hill twixt the IGA store and the old lumber mill. Not much left of it either a crooked sign in the breeze, couple of rusted out pumps and the old cooler, he sees. Granddad stocked it with Nehis he and his pals drank for free while granddad told tales as each boy took a knee. Tales of monstrous fish and rasslin brown bear which grandma overheard and muttered "I do declare!" He pulled up to the house, climbed rickety old stairs onto the old wooden porch still dotted with chairs. He rubbed dirt off the glass with the heel of his hand, peered through the old window, his face leathered and tanned. The damn mice made a meal of grandma's old rocker, still sitting in the room next to granddad's walker. He tried the doorknob, was surprised when it gave, stepped over the threshold to see what he might save. Up the stairs slowly so as not to fall to his pops' old room at the end of the hall. He swung the door open and stepped back a few years his rheumy old eyes full of nostalgic tears. The room was untouched since pops moved to the bay, just a layer of dust no one's home to wipe away. He gathered up treasures befitting a young boy with a heart full of song and an old man's joy. Blue ribbons for show pigs, trophies for playing ball, trading cards and rocks, Dodgers pennant on the wall. He found an old wooden box, laid pops' things in with care. Didn't matter to him they were worse for the wear. He knew a young boy who'd treasure them the same a grandson with his eyes and the same last name. Back down the stairs still cautious in stride, he placed the box in his car and continued his ride.