"Who are you calling 'Over The Hill,' buster?"I liked George, he had a quick wit, and for a kid a good work ethic, always the first one on my crew to volunteer for the tough jobs like digging a ditch, or unloading the eighty pound bags of tar patch we used in filling potholes.
Delia was up front standing with a group of friends, her long brunette hair in a braid halfway down her back.
I'd known her for quite some time, an acquaintance from work. She took care of Dispatch for the Highway Patrol, occasionally calling us with a request to put down salt, or to deal with limbs blown onto roadways during a storm.
I'd introduced her to George almost two years before. She'd lost her first husband to a roadside bomb, and George's brother had died at the hands of a sniper in Afghanistan. Should have known better than to play matchmaker, minded my own business, but being me I'd invited the both of them to my annual crew Bar BQ. They became instant friends, by the end of the evening were sitting together on my porch swing watching the stars, whispering in hushed tones about shared pains most could not really understand.
Six months later sharing a beer at Farley's, George had confided his love for her, asked if I would help him pick out a ring. Two weeks later they were engaged, plans already in the works for a spring wedding.
Nine months from the day they said, "I do" they'd given birth to Heather, the apple of her father's eye, the gift of life healing wounds as this loving couple blossomed right before our eyes. Delia invited my wife Rosemary and I over for dinner one Saturday night. Over pecan pie and coffee in the living room we were asked to be God Parents.
Two days ago, rain turning to snow had made the roads a slippery, treacherous mess. We'd been called out to remove a fallen tree. As he always did, George had grabbed the chain saw.
"Get out of the way old man."
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