We knew everyone’s name. 
Each one had a story to tell, except me. 
They were real men, farm kids who had 
survived the Great Depression and WWII,
a fact they held with high honor.

We met in the old feed store. Granddad,
uncle Lester, me, my father, twelve farmers, 
wooden floors, sacks of Purina cattle feed, 
men in overalls sitting around a coal-fired 
Franklin stove drinking coffee, jawing,
spitting into a brass spittoon in the corner.

“Life is easier when you wait on the Lord.”

At age six I had no idea what the old men
were talking about.

“The quickest way to double your wealth
is not to get divorced.”

I remember the timbre of the words,
the reverence of the listeners,
my father with tears in his eyes saying,
“Son, I am so sorry I never protected you from
your mother.”

The men ignored his tears and kept talking,
lost in the maze of their own stories.