Field Hands My father asks me why I'm so dirty. I say it's because I played in the field with Becky. I won't tell him I worked from two until suppertime helping pick potatoes with the Hammons in their field. I won't tell him how warm and rich the earth was when Mr. Hammons plowed through, leaving dry ripples for us to dig our hands in to fish for potatoes. Or how … [Read more...]