Forty years ago my dad would often stroll back and forth across this land. He would be wearing a black silk outfit and would always have his hands clasped behind his back. Just as he went out, he'd tell my mother, "I'm going out to take a walk around the property."
The moment the workers saw Dad strolling around his land they would hold their hoes with both hands and respectfully call out, "Master."
When my dad went into the city, all the city people would call him "sir." My dad was of very high social status, but every time he squatted down to take a shit he was just like a poor man. He never liked relieving himself in the house on the chamber pot next to the bed. Just like the animals, he liked shitting out in the open. Every day as dusk would near, dad would let out a belch – the sound was almost exactly the same as that croaking sound that frogs make. Then he would step outside and slowly walk toward the manure vat.
When he got there he'd be annoyed that the side of the vat was dirty. He'd raise his leg and climb up, squatting on top. My dad was old and his shit was getting older with him; it was harder and harder to force out. Our whole family would hear his grunting and groaning coming all the way from the vat.