THE WEIGHT OF A DAY WELL EARNED

A hammer on steel. A saw through wood. The scrape of boots on dry earth.

I grew up hearing those sounds. My dad, my granddad, my uncles—men who knew their work, men who didn’t need to say much because the proof was in what they built. Fence lines stretching clean against the sky, barns that stood through every kind of weather, cattle tended, land worked, sunup to sundown.

The world hums now, soft and sterile. Work is done behind screens, hands smooth, backs untested. But I remember what it was to watch a man roll his shoulders at the end of the day, to see the dust settle on his shirt, sweat streaked through sawdust and dirt. A man who aches at sundown knows what he’s done. Knows what he’s worth.

Some still know. The proof is in their calloused hands, their steady backs, in the way they wipe their brow and nod at a job done right. No need to talk about it. The proof is in what’s built, what lasts.

When I think of praiseworthy, I think of that. I think of them.

PHOTOS BY: P.KLOS AND DVP