On the Grandma and grandpa’s farm, there was a wooden chair

that spent about half its life outside and the half on the back porch.

It had no varnish or paint left on it.  It wasn’t worth the trouble to make it look good.

My grandma sat on it when she plucked the chickens and when she sorted the eggs out into sizes.

She took it out into the barnyard when my grandpa was late and sat perfectly still on it (praying I suspected),

waiting to hear his tractor coming.

It wasn’t special or was it?  its usefulness was beyond measure.  It was replaceable and not especially attractive, but it was part of the farm, and I honored it my fellow part-time worker.