How does a brood of brothers arrive at tongue biting, rowdy, fighting assurance? What is it like to plow a field, baking heat, sweat foamed mule dropping his load in the sandy loam? You are twelve years old … about the age of my children now and you sweat. Rows never ending. Beatings and fear. No one to talk to. Nothing to speak if there were. How do you laugh when barefoot you grind through the hunger of poverty? The oldest responsible for all those behind. How do you learn and grow in the frigid snow, thin soles soaked through? Feet blistered from the cold. Must feed the animals. Must be a man.