Memories of a Farm Boy (was it really a Dirty Job?)

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I grew up on a Farm during WW2. Prices were good, we had 2 hired men, and everyone helped with the chores around the Barn. Even my Mom helped milk the cows. My job was cleaning the Pig-pen. At that time farm kids seldom wore shoes, and rubber boots were unheard of during the war. There is something special about going bare footed that's not there when your feet are encased boots, a feel for the earth under your feet, a unique connection to Mother Nature like none other. I'll not soon forget the sensations that came from my feet, as I stepped into the Pen with the Pigs. A cool, wet, sentience spread slowly up my legs as my feet settled into the straw, and the moist, slippery, manure oozed up between my toes. I shoveled the sticky odoriferous mixture out the open window, and onto the manure pile. There were Flies everywhere, so thick I couldn't open my mouth without getting a mouthful. The pigs were sleeping off their last meal and didn't want to be disturbed. I enjoyed the rasping sound of the shovel scraping along the wet cement floor, while the flies buzzed, and the pigs grunted. Soon, too soon perhaps, the job was done, and it was time to wash my feet in a pail, at the well. Oh! That water was cold!