In early June I visited my grandmother on her forty acre farm to help with the little things she could no longer do. Every moring she'd get up at five a.m.
to go feed and milk Bess, the farm's only cow.
At six I would get up with the sunrise to go feed the hens and the rooster - who I fondly called Sir Lancelot - then we would both go about our chores.
It was like this until late August, when the heat was near unbearable at noontime.
It was during this heatwave that my grandmother began to act differently. She didn't sleep; her rocker was always quietly squeaking on the front porch, even in the early morning hours.
It was on those nights I heard her talking about her past.
On those nights she spoke of things I had never heard about before, she spoke of secret wars and testing facilities even the president didn't know about. She spoke of things that horrified me.
In the late afternoons of August, while drinking a glass of tea, I'd ask my grandmother about the secret wars and testing facilities she spoke of.
She always shook her head, and told me to make sure that I turned on the old radio before the sun fell. "It keeps me quiet," she'd say.