“Busia and I entered the forest. She and I went alone, nearly a century apart but also together. … We disappeared into the dense forests. She wore a cape. I wore a mackinaw jacket.”

Oscar Noble was standing in the big front room, his gray hat on his head and his red mackinaw buttoned up tight around his throat.

Stepping over to my father, I buried my face in his old mackinaw coat.

In the fall he burned brush piles and raked leaves for Virginia Gatewood, a stick figure at twilight in cloth gloves and a threadbare mackinaw coat ragged at the elbows.

A young man in boots, corduroys, and a red and black checked mackinaw climbed out and strode near.