James worked his whole life on the family farm. His hair was gray around the edges and his skinned lined and leathery from the sun. His hands scarred and calloused for years of work ached with early stages of arthritis. When he walked he preferred his right side. A suspicious fall from the barn loft as a teenager leaving him slightly lame. He was at his best in a large group, telling tall tales about his farm, his life.
He lived in an outbuilding on the far end of the bean field. His parents still occupying the main house. And when January came and brought the snow he would walk a half mile through deep drifts to the barn where he would catch a ride with one of the draft horses the rest of the way to the main house...and the driveway where his car was parked.