It began with a slow whine
and built to an angry roar.
On this day it might have been Menno Shelly
shoveling the ears of corn on his truck
into the metal jaws that swallowed
then tore apart cobs and kernels,
transforming them into what
was called simply "chop."
It happened daily at the feed mill
where my father worked. Eight years
of age made me old enough to be
there to watch and marvel at men
who lifted and carried hundred pound
feed bags, handing out good-
natured insults to each other, often
shouting them over the ear-blasting
noise of the hammer mill.
More than anything
I wanted to grow up to be one of them.
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