A Jar of Preserves Never Opened
The plow stands in the west field where it was left on the morning of April 14, 1933. Its iron share is buried six inches in the gray soil, the soil that was once red and is now the color of ashes, the soil that no longer holds water or seed or promise. The wooden handles, hickory brought from Missouri in 1919, have split along the grain, their varnish long since peeled away by wind and sun....
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