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Trying to Work
Ronda Rich
Without nary a question, my work life is much easier than that of my parents and grandparents who all worked by the sweat of their brows and the callouses of their hands. I work by the click of my fingers with the thoughts that flicker both frivolously and seriously through my mind. Sometime last summer, I was struggling mightily with the weeds in a flower garden. They had grown deep and wide and proved quite stubborn in being removed. The sun was unbearably hot. I was determined not to suffer defeat so I fought them for hours until, at last, I was triumphant. After several hours, my back and hands ached and the sun had been my bitter adversary. I sat down on a stone wall nearby and thought of my granddaddy, Ance Miller.