My Appalachian ancestors were as rugged as the land they tamed. When Dad was not pulling the "money stick" at the sawmill, he followed a mule drawn plow through fields turning fertile ground into straight rows. Resounding plow commands of GEE! and HAW! echoed about the home place.
He was quiet, tall and lanky, dressed in baggy, bibbed overalls and work boots. Sawdust settled between the leather laces and on his sweat-stained hat. The dusty hues contrasted with jet-black hair and chinquapin eyes that darted about with sharp glances. His smooth, shaven face was tanned, but roughened by mountain elements. His long-term commitment of love and responsibility fueled muscle and sweat to feed, clothe and shelter the family. His diploma was calloused hands.
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