August 7th, 2015 Snap Shots
I planted small four food plots over two mornings in August 2015. I had prepared the ground, somewhat, using a little four-bottomed plow, a 7-foot cultivator, and a homemade drag made from two steel I-beams. Working by myself, hooking chains, driving tractor, seeding seed of various sizes using a hand-powered broadcaster; leveling the little fields, picking 'grub' (roots, stones, etc) I spent those mornings in peace. They were beautifully cool, for August.
Now, here at the toy factory when things get crazy and my patience wears thin with people and my station in life at present, I think of those mornings, the little snapshots of doing just those things, and I think myself out of this stress: it works, even if I can only write about it.
As I work in the food plots barehanded, I recognize the coloration of my hands resemble my father's. They're not as big as his, for he was a strong big-boned man than I am, but sometimes in just the right light, I can see his hand at work gripping a chain, a wrench, or using the gear shift lever of my old Toyota's manual transmission.
I think of the Reynolds men before me who farmed for themselves or as labored for someone else; walking, cutting, digging, driving a tractor or a team of horses; lifting, pulling, straining with sweat on their brows and temples; hands soiled by ground-in dirt and grease; blistered, cut and bleeding wounds; bandaged with hankerchiefs, rags, bandaids; wrapped with electrical, masking or duct tape; scarred, disfigured, maybe a few fingers less; smashed, pinched, and broken. And always cleaned-up for breakfast, lunch or dinner.
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