On most of those Sunday visits, I would spot Chad standing up on that elevated deck.

He would lean against the dark railing in a plush bathrobe, sipping from a ceramic mug while frowning down at Dad’s vegetable rows.

He seemed particularly annoyed by the sweet corn.

The corn grew especially tall that summer, reaching over seven feet high and blocking much of his panoramic view of the lower valley.

“He really does not seem to like your garden very much,” I remarked to Dad one morning while watching Chad through the glass window.

Dad merely shrugged his shoulders.