“The others used tractors now to go between the rows, harvesting, pruning, planting. His land was not so big, his work not so much that he needed a motor. His mare would do for him awhile yet. He worked the yellow foaming soap into the crevices of the harness with his thumbs, kneading and digging into it. Jean-Luc had not married, he had no children. There were some in the village who were not aware of his occasional trips to Marseille and would say he was un pédé. He was glad to let them say w...hat they would. He had never cared, nor did he care now for the wagging tongues of village idiots. His solitary life had suited him well. No responsibilities, no time owed to any but himself. And when he died, his land would go to the state. His only living relative was his middle-aged niece who would have no use for it.His eyes followed the gently undulating rows of vines as they clung to his little hill. He thought of the years of work he and his family before him had put into this ground so that it would someday belong to a stranger.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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