I exaggerate some stories about my dad, but the one about the nut on the rusted cultivator bolt absolutely is true. Before cancer cut him down in the summer of 1968, Dad was a bull-strong farmer, tall and broad-shouldered with forearms bigger around than my biceps. He could pitch hay or shovel corn from dawn to dusk, stopping only to drink water from a glass jug wrapped in a gunny sack held in place with baling wire.
If the songwriter had been working on the tale of a dry-land farmer instead of a steel driver, my dad could have been the big man instead of John Henry. He was born for physical labor and he thrived on working the land and herding the cattle. As a young boy, I loved to watch him wash off the dirt and grease at the back-porch sink after a day in the field or the corrals.
He would peel off the worn leather work gloves, fill the sink and start scrubbing his hands, arms and neck with a bar of coarse Lava soap. The water in the sink would turn gray with suds and dirt as he rubbed his hands together over the soap. Sometimes, I would pick up one of his gloves and turn it over and over in my much smaller hands, running a finger over the rips from fencing, rubbing the places worn smooth from grain scoops, steering wheels and pitchfork handles.
Although he bought the largest size in the store, the seams in his gloves began to fray not long after he bought them. A leather-gloves manufacturer should have hired him in quality control to test the durability of their products. .
