This one is in honor of my dad, Herschel. I know you guys think a horse drawn walking plow' is something out of the 1800s, but it's actually something I grew up with on the farm in Kennett.
When I was probably 4 or 5, I rode a mule named Red to guide him while Dad worked the iron and wood, one-man plow. We'd cut a furrow and turn around at the other end. When we got to where we started, there was a galvanized jug of water, wrapped in wet burlap to keep it cool. I'd slide off the mule and we'd have a drink, then Dad would put me back up on him and we'd do it all again.
It wasn't hard work for me. I'd just sit there on Red and dream. But it was damn hard work for my dad. He'd come in at the end of the day dirty, sunburned and beat.
He never complained though. He was always willing to do whatever it took to provide for us - farm, work for the WPA or drive a truck in a steel mill for 25 cents an hour - and I've always been incredibly proud of him for that.
-GIB SINGLETON