“Hang on. It’s going to get bumpy.” On the eastern side of my Poppy’s place is an old logging road that goes up a steep hill to a ridge. I remember once Poppy had my mom in the truck with us, and he said, “Hang on, it’s going to get bumpy.” Then he went off the road up a crazy steep hill in the woods over rocks and down trees, bouncing us all over the cab of that Ford truck.