I doubt many people know what their last act will be before they die, but it amused me to think that mine would be as mundane as storing hay for a winter I’d never see, back on the same farm that I grew up on nearly a century ago.

I lifted another hay bale out of the bed of my ancient blue pickup, enjoying the fragrant smell of high summer coming off of it in the cool September air. Each square bale was about the size of a footlocker, and weighed a little over sixty pounds, which is pretty amazing for what amounts to a brick of dried, hollow grass. A single piece is too light to feel in the palm of your hand. A stack of it can kill a man.

I’ve never been a farmer. The grass grows and I cut it down, mostly because no matter how old I get, I still can’t let the farm grow wild and disorderly. My father instilled that into me over eighty years ago, and it’s no less a part of me today.

Being “not a farmer” was pretty much my entire self-identity growing up, when I spent all my time stewing in directionless anger and clutching my reflexive rebellion to my chest with all my might, just waiting to lash out at every opportunity.

If it hadn’t been for the war, I’d likely have run away and spent the rest of my life in jail or worse. As it was, when Pearl Harbor was hit, the whole country lit up like a live wire, and me right along with it. All that restless anger finally found a focus and became an obsession that eventually carried me halfway around the world. But that was all a long time ago.