Ed Boyce

I'm working this week from my father-in-law's farm in Maryland. It's a beautiful place, deeded to his ancestors by William Penn, nearly two hundred acres of rolling pastures and fields, and a summer home to fifty Holstein cows. Whenever I visit here, I bring my freelance work with me, but generally trade in blogging for mending fences, cleaning the barn, rewiring lamps, etc. It's good for the soul.

The father-in-law, Pop, is ninety-three. He's in great health, sharp as a tack. A couple of days ago, he told the story of his best friend, Ed Boyce. Ed was a flashy guy, standing in sharp contrast to Pop, who is a quiet introvert. Pop always admired Ed, though, and wished to follow in some of Ed's fancy footsteps. For example, Ed had a way with women, which was never Pop's strong suit.

Ed Boyce died of cancer at forty, having only one request: that his ashes be spread over the farm. Being a recreational pilot, Pop did just that, dumping the remains of Mr. Boyce from his plane.

A week later, while walking down the quarter-mile lane to his house from the mailbox, Pop saw a glint of reflection in the gravel. He found some of Ed's teeth.

Yesterday, when my wife was cleaning out one the cluttered closets in Pop's bedroom, she found a metal jar on a shelf behind a stack of shoes. When she shook the jar, it rattled. The label on the jar said "Ed Boyce."