Sitting quietly on the worn-out wooden stool, Arthur Sinclair leaned his head back and exhaled the contents of his lungs toward the barn roof.
Tracking the dull, blue cloud of smoke as it slowly made its way past the hay loft, Sinclair watched the ghostly mass effortlessly change shapes until it finally disappeared into the cold January air.
Moving his gaze to the frozen dirt floor, Sinclair slumped forward and gently rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.
“Goddammit anyway,” he thought to himself. “What kind of man can’t afford a decent pair of shoes for his daughter’s senior prom. It just ain’t right.”
Heavy-hearted, Sinclair was once again feeling the sting that inevitably accompanies being poor.
“A hard working man ought to have enough to provide his family with the things they need–I shoulda seen this coming. She’s been looking at those shoes for months now. I can do better than this–a man’s got to do better than this for his family…a whole lot better than this.”
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Sinclair took one long, last drag and flicked the butt onto the floor. Pulling his coat tighter, he stepped on the smoldering cherry-red ember as he headed back to work.
The winter of 1935 was a long one for Nebraska farmer Arthur Sinclair. Unable to provide his daughter with new shoes for her senior prom, Sinclair carried the regret of his daughter having to go without until the day he died.
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