An Untold Story

Calloused hands lifted the shovel up once more as the farmer sighed; his hands were round and large, crooked from years of working hard, sunup to sundown. Setting his hands upon the cracked wooden shovel he turned towards me, I cast my eyes down, embarrassed, and studied the old shovel. It was cracked and missing the top of its handle, the metal bottom part was rust covered for years of use. I thought why not just buy a new one; why not just get something better? Bringing my eyes up to meet the man’s gaze I smiled, the smile was fake, just to reassure my self that I was doing the right thing. The old man’s eyes glinted in the fading sunlight as our figures cast long shadows onto the shoveled ground. The man’s face was wrinkled with old age and tanned to a soft brown from ages of working in the fields. The blue denim over-alls were stained with sweat and dust as was the patched shirt under them. I gingerly held out my hand as a hello and wasn’t too surprised when I received the handshake back and felt the cool gloved hand meet mine. “Hello miss,” the words shocked me and I jumped back a little out of reach. The voice was crystal clear and showed no hint of the aged man that stood before me. The vocal was solid, not of what I expected it to be. I was excepting a rough sandpaper voice, one that showed years of used and abuse, but that wasn’t it. I tried to mumble out a reply, but none came out. Blushing slightly I moved forward and tried again, “Hello, I’m Kate, the woman who called about your interview…” I left it at that having no more to say. The man nodded in comprehension, beginning to take off his gloves. The fingers of the man showed wear and age, I could see arthritis setting in, his fingers were gnarled and rough, calloused and worn from eons of working hard and ignoring the pain, the warnings of what might happen. “Follow me,” he said gruffly and motioned with a small hand gesture and started to walk down the drive towards the old run down barn. I followed, keeping my eyes down letting them trail the marks of the dragging shovel. The dust from the shovel billowed up- it hadn’t rained in days- making my eyes water as I had always been sensitive to it. The man had called me about an interview, I didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, but wasn’t about to let a good story go to waste. When we reached the barn he slowly sat down upon an old crate and motioned me to sit on the one across the aisle from him. I gingerly sat down after brushing the thick layer of dirt off. “Well you’re probable wondering why I called you,” he paused as if thinking about it, “I wanted to tell someone about my story, my life.” I stared at him for a moment trying to figure out what he was saying, “So you want to tell me your story?” I asked with a hint of confusion. “Exactly,” was the reply I got, so I reached in my back pocket and grabbed up my note pad and pen, waiting for the man to start speaking.

As he began a misty look came into his eyes a look that came from wonderful memories and great times, “I used to get up at four everyday, whether it was snowing, raining or deathly hot out I got up and did my chores. As you probably know, they were a lot harder then they are now, I actually had to work, not like these kids now who think dusting a piece of furniture is working. I got up everyday to feed and milk the dairy cows, then I had to collect the eggs from our hundred chickens and finally I would go inside and get ready for school - my parents wanted me to have a good education.