At a later point in my life, I came to fully understand. As a young man back then, it may have been the beginnings of my understanding.
It was a few minutes before 12:30 when Grandfather and I descended the stairs from the library. A man we took to be Ernest Robinson was sitting on the stone bench where we had eaten lunch. He wore blue overalls over a similarly colored tee-shirt. The name “Robinson” had been stitched in orange along the upper pocket. His work shoes were ordinary but stood out in the size of his feet, at least a 14, I guessed. In his thirties with black hair already graying at the temples, he was solidly built, just over six feet, and perhaps 240 pounds, with large hands and shoulders.
As we neared, he rose to greet us, and after ascertaining our identities, we shook hand
