I wasn't quite eight years old when my maternal grandfather passed away. John H. Price was 82. He was found one cold fall morning slumped against a cedar fencepost with a pitchfork in his hand. As usual, he had gone out to tend to his dairy cows and failed to come in for breakfast. After the funeral services, his descendants, including my mother, gathered at the old homestead to discuss the disposition of his property and meager possessions.