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The variety of personalities in the cellar made for interesting stories. Some of the characters there were rough and some were highly refined, but I learned that each person’s heart was much the same. Some didn’t even know the Pauls, but came to help, overcome by thought of what it would feel like if the tragedy was their own. In short order the harvest was in and the machinery moved back to the farms from where it had come. Farmers who had brought it still had to harvest their own fields, for they had chosen to help a neighbor first. It was late at night, while our small group was finishing the feeding, when the lights from a car turned into the driveway. Mr. Paul emerged and approached us to thank us for our work. “How’s the family?” someone asked. Mr. Paul looked down in discouragement. “Not well, but some other relatives came so I could come home and try to get the harvest in.” Another member of our group put his hand on Mr. Paul’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should look in the cellar.” As Mr. Paul stepped into the cellar and flipped the switch, shining the lights on the huge mounds of potatoes, this tough man with work roughened hands started to sob. 11