Chapter 4 - Grandpa's Rules
"Sit down, Mr. Carter," the judge said. "Your attorney can make an objection when there's something to object to."
Dad lowered himself into his chair. His fingers stayed clenched on the armrests.
The affidavit was dated three months before Grandpa transferred the property. Tessa asked the clerk to authenticate the recorded copy, and the judge permitted her to question me about the surrounding facts.
I told him about the kitchen table with the burned edge. About Grandpa's hands, thick from forty years of machinery and work. About the day he set a page in front of me and asked whether I knew what a power of attorney meant.
"It lets someone act for you," I'd said.
"Only if you choose them," Grandpa answered. "That's the part some people forget."
When my first long deployment orders arrived, my father cornered me in that kitchen.
"You're going to miss the planting season again," he said, although Grandpa had rented the fields to a neighbor for years.
"I'm not farming them, Dad. The tenant is."
"That's your problem. You want to own something without being here to control it."
Grandpa stepped between us with his cane. "I asked her to own it. I didn't ask your permission."
Dad never forgave either of us.
In court, I didn't tell this story as proof of my father's wrongdoing. Memories aren't deeds. I told it because Bledsoe had suggested Grandpa couldn't have understood what he was signing, and I had seen him personally review the map, tax parcel, and description before the closing.
"He knew the north pasture flooded in March," I said. "He caught a misplaced digit in the acreage description. He made the lawyer correct it."
Mom whispered, "He never told me that."
Dad snapped, "He was confused half the time."
Judge Simmons turned to the affidavit. "This document may help us evaluate that claim."
A few rows behind us, Mr. Hanley cleared his throat. He'd been the second witness at the deed signing. I saw him put one hand flat over the folder on his knee.
The judge read the introductory paragraph. Then he stopped and asked Bledsoe whether his clients were willing to stipulate to the fact that Grandpa had signed it.
"We can't," Bledsoe said after a strained consultation.
"Then we'll hear the witnesses."
May you like
Mr. Hanley rose, and my father whispered a word I hadn't heard him use in years.
He sounded afraid.
