•December 4, 2019•
By Jerry Ginther
NP Guest Columnist

My kneecaps were raw and bleeding slightly from being rubbed against the front of the old wagon as I did my best to steer the mule team.
I was eleven or twelve years old and had been allowed to drive the team to and from the hay field some distance behind my Uncle Frank’s dairy barn. The weight of the heavy lines and the force I had to exert on them to turn the mules necessitated my bracing against the front of the wagon. The turns in the lane were tight, and the lane was uneven, making the wagon roll slightly from side to side causing the rough wood to work like sandpaper on my knees. Perhaps wearing shorts on that day was not the best choice of clothing for working in the hay field.     Login or Subscribe to read the rest of this story.