When I went with my son Peter's fifth grade class to Kentucky two years ago, I saw this man at the Shaker Village near Lexington. He reminded me of my grandfather - who died in 2000. From his big, thick hands to the wrinkled skin and wry smile, I could see him, like my grandfather, picking tobacco, working in the fields, weathering the storms of the Great Depression and two world wars. My grandfather loved to tell stories of his younger days.
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