Jason Needly found his father, old Ab, at work at the age of eighty in the topmost tier of the barn. "Come Down!" Jason called. "You got no business up there at your age." And his father descended, not by a ladder, there being none, but by inserting his fingers into the cracks between boards and climbing down the wall. And when he was young and some account and strong and knew nothing of weariness, old man Milt Wright, back in the days they called him "Steady," carried the rastus plow on his shoulder up the high hill to his tobacco patch, so when they got there his mule would be fresh, unsweated, and ready to go. Early Rowanberry, for another, bought a steel-beam breaking plow at the store in Port William and shouldered it before the hardly-believing watchers, and carried it the mile and a half home, down through the woods along Sand Ripple. But the tiredest my daddy ever got, "his son, Art, told me one day, "was when he carried fifty rabbits and a big possum in a sack on his back up onto the point yonder and out the ridge to town to sell them at the store." "But why," I asked, "didn't he hitch a team to the wagon and haul them up there by the road?" "Well, Art said, "we didn't have but two horses in them days, and we spared them every way we could. A many a time I've seen my daddy or grandpa jump off the wagon or sled and take the end of a singletree beside a horse."
From Wendell Berry’s book Leavings