My father, General Walter Hensley, sat with his ankles crossed on the footrest, a heavy red library book in one hand.

He looked up over the rims of his wire reading glasses as Sadie kicked off her boots by the rug.

“Did Mrs.

Bennett accept the rations, Major?” he asked in his deep, resonant voice.

“She took all twelve of them,” Sadie said, trotting across the woven rug to sit on the little upholstered footstool right next to his knee.

“Good work,” he said, turning a heavy page of his book with a dry thumb.

“You always have to keep a solid supply line open to your closest neighbors.”