Laying out his winter clothes, the woodcutter drives his all-terrain vehicle across hilly acres to locate fallen trees. With a gas-powered saw he lops off the branches and then cuts logs to the appropriate size for woodstoves and fireplaces. He loads the lumber in his truck and transports it to some sort of drying shed where it will be stacked to age for a year.
The following autumn he advertises locally for delivery at $65 a cord. When a customer responds, he loads the bed, stacking accordingly and drives to the agreed-upon address to unload his goods, unstacking accordingly.
The woodcutter must pay for the land, the vehicles, the equipment, the advertising and the fuel before he receives a dime. He gets no breaks on his expenses regardless of his meager profit. He sweats, aches and gets filthy before getting publicly lambasted for not paying enough in taxes.
He is much like the laborer, the farmer, the waitress, the unskilled and the struggling workers of this country. Yet, he must clothe his kids in Keds and buy corn flakes, cars and computers, just to keep up in this world, at an extremely high percentage of money compared to the income he makes.
The woodcutter goes home with a buck two-eighty in his brown paper sack, barely enough for a decent can of beer.
No one wants to hear my story because I am such a poor boy and I’ve squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles griping about the so-called American dream.
Such are promises, all lies and jest. But I’ll sing my song anyway because it’s all I have in my little brown bag.
A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest, but I was embarrassed by the presidential television debate. It shames me that the champions of the free world must resort to the performance of talking heads to choose a leader.