The ­old man from Maine carried on a one-way conversation with Cindy as I unloaded the truck at our local dump. I could overhear snippets as I emptied the garbage cans:

Commenting that every president who does a stint in the White House comes out gray-haired: “I bleach my hair blonde; otherwise, it would all be white.”

On a piglet his family raised as a pet when he was a boy: “Well, then my mom named her Sally, after my dad’s old girlfriend. She’d stand outside and holler, “Fat Sally, Fat Sally,” with a smile on her face, until that fat sow came waddling up from her sty for a meal. That pig would follow us into town. We had this summer kitchen outside with a couch where Sally would rest, waiting for the scraps, when Mom was cooking. Finally, one day we came home and Sally was gone. My parents never told us where she went.”

On Hurricane Carol in 1954: “Hurricane Carol blew the whole crop down — 4,000 Macintosh apple trees. Dad called up his friend at the cider mill, and his friend said, “Jim, I’m firing up the mill right now. Get those apples to me.” We kids picked up apples off the ground all day and all night, I’ll never forget.”

He finally sputtered to a halt, overcome with that memory, as I finished unloading the truck. I climbed back in the cab, then said our goodbyes and headed back to the farm.