We had been knee deep in pig shit for at least three hours when I finally asked Gramps for a story. The old man had been mostly silent that day, save for his grunts of effort while refilling the trough or corralling the hogs in and out of the different pens. I couldn’t say that I blamed him - helping Uncle Russ on his hog farm was one of the more physically intensive jobs the two of us ever undertook, and we’d just gotten into the worst part. Shoveling shit. Wasn’t much to say anyways and the longer you kept your mouth open, the more you’d start to taste it. I was shocked Gramps could still put in such a productive day of work in his increasing age - but the truth was, at nearly 70, the old man heaped pounds of manure into the compost pile even faster than I did at 17. Gramps was a large and powerful man, Father Time be damned. Gramps liked the work though. Good honest labor was all the man had ever known, and he was gonna help his son in law on that farm whether
Stories that are collected from the depths of the unknown or spawned from the deep recesses of my mind...