His first inkling he knew he was a farmer was when he could smell the rain before it came. The dry ground held down by rows green, providing for the village the sustenance it needed to thrive and with it he grew his small patch into a house and sizeable farm. What once was a grassy hillock and small mosquito-ey pond had become more than he thought he was capable. His house, a ramshackle affair front yard littered, fences beyond atrophy, had been re-built by his hand into his home. He knew the soft curves of the stair case, saw the straight lines in the crooked wood, and had befriended the squeaks. It was home.
He threw the last bushel onto the flatbed truck, and taking off his gloves he walks to the cab, checking the lines and making sure the weeks harvest survives the ride to Saturdays market. The truck rumbled to a start, diesel engines belches black smoke and revs. Opening the door he sees his cousin, hands gripped on the wheel, foot on the brake, waiting for the word. This was his first time at the wheel of what he thought was a behemoth rolling down the road. The door slammed. “Lets Go” he said throwing his gloves on the dash and pointing down the road before slouching against the door, hat pulled low.
He had been coming to the town market for what seemed a lifetime. His mother had dragged him down the muddy lanes, basket under her arm and a sack over his. She ran a boarding house, and Saturday nights supper was almost as good as Sunday Lunch. The boarders were the usual folks who came through, all in their cars, a life’s story carried in battered suitcases. Her place was known for clean sheets and hearty supper, at a reasonable rate. There was no Liquor in the rooms and smoking only on the back porch. Curfew was ten and they stood behind their chairs and said a prayer before every meal. He grew up knowing he wanted to be a farmer.