I have done my share of dead end jobs, but most of them pale in comparison to the work farmers do every day.

Back in the summer of 1969 I was driving west to California with a college buddy. We stopped for gas in the middle of the night somewhere in Indiana or Illinois, farm country. We saw a big DX gas station sign and pulled in to fill up. The pump jockey was an older man, obviously a farmer. He wore bib overalls and his skin was leather-like from decades in the sun and weather. What struck me was his hands, missing at least three fingers.


NRA Endowment Life Member, G.O.A supporter