Clara had prepared roasted chicken, potatoes, carrots, cornbread, and three enormous pies.
Samuel carved the meat while the room filled with conversation.
At one point, a little boy asked why the table had a rose carved beneath the edge.
Samuel looked toward Clara.
She smiled.
"Because your grandfather has been trying to grow roses on this mountain for nearly forty years."
The boy frowned.
"Did they grow?"
Clara pointed toward the window.
Outside, the garden was overflowing with blossoms.
The child looked impressed.
Samuel smiled.
"Sometimes people are wrong about what can grow in difficult places."
Daniel heard him.
He looked toward the garden.
Then toward Samuel.
For a moment, neither spoke.
They both understood the deeper meaning.
Some families were wounded by the choices of their ancestors.
Some histories were full of things that should never have happened.
But even damaged ground could produce something better when people stopped pretending it had never been harmed.
The greatest test of Clara's strength came when Samuel turned seventy-one.
His health had been declining gradually.
Nothing dramatic at first.
He moved more slowly.
Needed help carrying heavy objects.
Sometimes forgot where he had placed his tools.
His knees hurt after long periods of standing.
And cold mornings became increasingly difficult.
Clara adjusted their routines.
She hired help for the most demanding farm work.
Moved frequently used supplies onto lower shelves.
Placed sturdy chairs near the porch and orchard.
And began insisting that Samuel rest after lunch.
He complained.
She ignored him.
One afternoon, he watched Annie's eldest son repair the barn roof.
Samuel stood beside the fence, looking frustrated.
"I could still do that."
Clara stood beside him.
"I know."
"He's putting the shingles on unevenly."
"Then tell him."
"I ought to go up there."
"No."
Samuel looked at her.
"Clara."
She folded her arms.
"Samuel."
He sighed.
"I built that roof."
"Yes."
"I know where every board belongs."
"Then you can supervise from the ground."
He stared at the ladder.
Clara took his hand.
"Darling, there's no shame in letting someone else climb."
Samuel looked at her.
Then at the young man working above them.
Finally, he nodded.
"I suppose."
Clara smiled.
"Very wise."
He glanced at her.
"Don't get used to it."
She laughed.
But later that evening, when Samuel sat beside the fire, he admitted something he had been reluctant to say.
"I don't like getting old."
Clara looked up.
He stared into the flames.
"I don't like needing help."
She set aside her knitting.
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"I've always been the strong one."
Clara moved beside him.
"You still are."
He shook his head.
"Not like before."
She studied his face.
Then gently took his hand.
"Samuel, when I first met you, you carried two sacks of flour as though they weighed nothing."