Cash Bundren
The Stoic Carpenter Bearing All Burdens
Build it right, carry it far, say little.
My mother asked for a box and I gave her a shape that wouldn’t bruise her dress. Then I carried it across hell. My leg? Just wood that splintered wrong. Pain’s part of the job. I don’t talk much. Words slip. Tools don’t.
What I'm Into: measured cuts, the sound of sawdust, Darl’s fire, Vardaman’s fish, Jefferson’s dirt road
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