I never met my grandfather.  My parents were together for life. A snap judgment ties it all together.
In 1966 my grandfather, Bill Wilkinson, stood at the edge of a small stream that cut several feet into the Scottish countryside he had returned to after a forty year absence, judging. Eyeing the width of the stream. Testing his sixty-year old frame, confident that the legs that had propelled him across the English Channel just before his departure for America would lift him over the gully that now impeded his progress.