My grandfather kept a red canoe behind the shed in Camden for as long as I can remember.
It was scratched up, heavy, and probably should have been retired years before he finally stopped using it. Every summer he said it still had “one more good trip left.” He took us out early, before the roads filled up and before anybody started asking for anything.
He worked at a hardware store and fixed half the neighborhood’s broken screen doors for free.
The canoe is gone now. I still look for that red shape whenever I pass water in Maine.