Redneck Speaks to My Condition

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My folks had a chicken farm in rural Robbinsville, NJ in the middle 1940s.

I know what it is like to use a burlap sack as a sunshade or umbrella and pick potatoes out of the ground all morning. The Sun is brutal. After I started crying, my folks put me in the barn where I could harass the kittens. I was four maybe. And they went back to picking.

My parent's grew Tomatoes for Campbell's Soup in Camden and Eggs and Chickens for all comers.

So even though I am an immigrant's Pole/Wop child from New Jersey, I claim honorable redneck status. I know about ridicule because you talk funny. I know about living off the Earth and reading books. Jeffersonian. This man speaks to my condition.

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