My Great Uncle Wayne, my fathers uncle, my grandfathers brother, wrote once, "...it is seldom that a man truly has time, to sit, and contemplate himself..." These words, from a working man, like every man in my family, have continued to inspire hope and dilemma since I first read them the day I first heard "Taps" played and we placed his body in the dirt.
Does the laborer above all hold the greatest philosophy in that the task to be completed in a day make him the master of the day? His hands are his tools, and with his tools he is master of movable and touchable things. Intelligent less than innovative, these are the men that led us from caves. Or does he toil and torment without reason, because that is his chore, so that others may have their way, and move freely in lives of gratification without instance?
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