She was more valuable than she knew. She could reach the little blossoms on the bottom that the grown-ups would leave. She followed along behind them with her sack, picking up stray blossoms here and there, often leaving little bloody fingerprints on their perfect white fluff. The foreman wouldn’t give her gloves – they wouldn’t fit even if he did.

She was five. She was my mother.

We’d sit around after family dinners and listen to her stories about growing up poor in the South. We were always amazed how normal she seemed. Living without indoor plumbing, moving around with the crops that needed picking, it all seemed so… so… agrarian and ancient.

We didn’t realize how quickly the world had changed. For us it had always been cars, convenience and comfort. We’d never known hardship, bitter cold, hunger or an ache we knew would never go away.

We always forgot those lessons until the next family dinner, and mom had had a glass of wine or two and started telling stories.

We made sure we always had wine.