Photo and Story
by AR NEAL
It is November; I and my family are preparing to travel to warmer climates, to new fields. Planting and harvesting is done here and it is time to move on. The children hate it, the moving, the change; they want to be like their classmates who stay in the same home all year. They want to go to school and stay in school. They tell mama and I to stay home when it is time for parent conferences because they are ashamed of our callused hands and poor language. I am a simple man who loves his children; I care not for formality but only for what is best for them. I too wish we could stay, not travel south to north and north to south, but that we could have a permanent nest like the blackbird who lives in the tree outside this home. He does not worry about his food for today but rests in the Lord for provision. I and many generations before me continue to labor for morsels, following the heat of the sun and the sprouting of the plants. My children don’t know but I have plans for them; this will be the last year we go. After this winter harvest, we will have enough to come back and call this place home.