The grass and natural hay drying beside the road smelled sweet and warm. The day, another hot one, had to be pushing ninety degrees. An old man, with a straggly stubble of salt and pepper sparsely covering his wrinkled face, was gathering up the weeds the State Highway Department had deemed should be mowed down two days before. His long sweaty hair covered a dirty, frayed collar and stuck to his forehead in the muggy stillness of a July noontime.

The pitchfork the man used had a bent tine that he’d taken the time to straighten, before finally giving up after the third time, allowing that another rock would only twist the weakened metal again. The sweat of calloused hands well used to physical labor blackened the fork’s handle. The old man pushed the stringy hair out of his eyes as he squinted in irritation at his companion.

“When’s it your turn with the fork?”

“We’ve talked about this before; I do my share.”

“Yeah, but my back’s hurtin’.”

“Sorry. We won’t go much further. The wagon’s almost full.”

“Seems like there oughter be an easier way.”

“Sure, there is. But that way costs money. Have you got money, Johnny?”

Johnny didn’t answer.

Butch knew he didn’t have money. Knowing he’d irritated his old friend he added consolingly, “Your daddy was a good man and he did it this way. If it was good enough for him, then it’s good enough for you. Right?”

Johnny was silent as he thought this over. True, it had been a good enough method for his father. Not being vain or prideful, he knew he was no better than that good man had been. And, even though it was hot, tiring work, it was something that had to be done, and rewarding enough in a simple, basic way. Winter was coming. If you didn’t take advantage of the pleasant weather the good Lord provided during the summer, you would suffer greatly when it turned cold. And you would only have yourself to blame. He put his back and shoulders into the work, throwing the loose hay into the wagon, piling it up high, then pushing it down, tamping it down to make room for more.

He was so engrossed in his labor that he didn’t notice at first the two men across the country road, sitting on mower tractors with roof canopies to give them shade. Side by side, they were eating sandwiches and drinking coffee from thermoses that had seen better days.

Startled, Johnny looked quickly down at the ground. They’d seen him! His heart sinking, he knew they’d been watching the whole time as he’d rounded the corner, gathered the grass and piled it in the wagon.

“They’re looking at me!” he hissed, afraid and shaking in his tattered shoes.

“Keep your head down and do your work. Don’t pay them no mind.”

“But they know what I’m doing! What if I get into trouble?”

Butch’s voice was resigned and he sighed as he said, “I’ve told you this over and over. You won’t get into trouble.”

“But they cut it down!”

“So? This is public property. You have as much right here as anyone else.”

“It’s theirs!” Johnny said, knowing they had all the right to the hay and, in his mind, he had none.

“Johnny! Think about it. They don’t want it. Have you ever seen anyone pick it up? No. I think not. Only you. You’re the only one that wants it.”

“It’s the Government’s,” his voice reflected the awe he reserved for anything he considered to be of a higher order than himself, which was most things.

“You’re part of this country. Our government was put into place by the people, for the people. You’re one of the people. You have a right.”

At that moment a singsong chant could be heard coming from across the road.

“Crazy Johnny Hawkins, he’s always a talkin’.”

Coarse laughter followed.

And then a second voice sang, “—But he ain’t a’walkin’!”

More raucous laughter made the old man’s ears burn. He glanced fearfully at the two men, before again dropping his eyes and throwing a last forkful on top of the precariously balanced load. He untied one end of a rope that was attached to the cart and, hurriedly, wanting only to get away, threw it over the pile and secured it. He repeated his action with the second rope, forming an X over the loose hay, holding it fast.

“I know them boys,” Johnny whispered to Butch. “They used to throw rocks when they ’uz little. I don’t like those two. They’re mean’uns. We best hurry before they throw something else.”

“Yes, hurry. I don’t like them either,” Butch said, remembering, as he began a slow trot, heading in a beeline for home.

The two highway workers roared even louder, as they watched Johnny scurry back the way he’d come, looking like a whipped dog. It was amusing watching the old man stumble and the fear in his eyes when he looked their way. Ridiculing the less fortunate was always good for a laugh. And the memory they shared from when they were children was pleasant and unexpected.

“You knew that song, too? I remember hearing it when I was only four. All the kids on my block used to sing it,” one of the men said to the other. “You know, that old man has been around forever. I don’t know how, ’cause he sure ain’t bright. He’s pretty much dumber than a box of rocks! In fact, I’d swear his horse is smarter than he is!”

“You’re probably right. The horse sure knew it was time to get out of the hot sun, didn’t he?”

Johnny and Butch rounded the corner, out of sight of their tormentors. Only then did they slow down and resume a more sensible speed, both looking forward to the rest and peace of home.