A Captin-Hook-looking tool
The old man leaned back in the wooden chair that's been sitting around this kitchen in Ohio since the Civil War.
"I see you've got the blister," he said.
I look up from my hot saurkraut soup. It's snot-freezing cold out there and maybe it's messed with my hearing because I think he just said "The Blister." I look at him.
My coat collar is turned up around my ears and my hair is wild, stuck with hay and the sweat frozen to ice in my hair is starting to drip off and right when he said "blister" this large drop of thawed sweat hit the oak table. Kerrr-PLOP! Looking at the table, I notice that I can feel my toes, that the muscle in my forearm hurts when I lift my spoon and that my legs are starting to relax.
"We were loading hay from the Riverside barn," said his great-nephew, my friend. "I figure I've had a callous on the side of my finger for like six years."
"I've never used a bale hook before," I said.
"How do you like hay?"
"It's work," I say, trying to keep a little gaurded on a new job, until I figure things out.
"It sucks," he said.