I don’t believe that for a moment. Although it’s a frequently-expressed opinion from a man I used to respect.
No more. For I know that:
He. Is. Wrong.
Let me explain. I live on a farm. I’m a widow and on my own. I’m almost 67 years old. I’m increasingly dependent on friends and neighbors for support and effective motion in a forward direction. And I’m sincerely appreciative of such help when it occurs..
I gave up, long ago, on self-pitying and circling the drain in terms of how sad, miserable (splutter splutter), disgusting, any “boo-effing-hoo” awful all of life is.
Do your worst, sad trolls. I don’t really care.
Because I’ve met Samuel (not his real name, but, yeah, an equally Old Testament and worthy appellation).
He’s the young man who has sheared my sheep in 2021, my year of pain.
A year in which I’ve overcome widowhood, family issues and a number of other physical challenges (fingers requiring surgery, knees requiring surgery,) in my attempts to survive and prevail.
A young man who’s appeared when promised, and who’s got the job done.
He’s fourteen years old.
His mother has to drop him off, and pick him up, in my driveway, because he’s too young to deliver and remove himself.
This year, I’ve paid him double his requested fee, and included some additional spiffs.
God Bless the USA!