“22nd day of rain with no break, how’s a man suppose to farm like this.” Everett sat at his table in his new to him small shack he inherited from his grandfather.

After 15 years working as a CPA for a large legal firm Everett had made the leap from desk jockey to amateur farmer and right about now he was regretting every bit of that decision. He had just planted organic parsnips a month ago but has not been able to get into the field since due to the consistent rains. Thankfully it wasn’t enough to spoil the crop, but was enough to keep him out of the field and unable to control the weed pressure.

He gripped the letter his grandfather had left him in his hand and held it under the table with his forehead firmly set on the edge of the table.

The letter read: “My dearest Everett, remember your days as a child running here in the sun and being recharged by the people and whimsy of this friendly town? How it breaks my heart you have left to chase dreams of wealth in the city. I cannot blame a man for ambition though and I want the best for you. If you sell the farm I understand, but if you should decide to keep it share the joy it will bring you. As I look at the end of my life and giving you the farm I have no regrets save letting you know I have always wanted you to care for this place. Bumper crop or drought year there is no greater joy than providing for your community with your own two hands in the dirt. Wherever there is rain the roots will grow, where ever there is light the crop will find it, wherever you are make sure you grow.”

Everett sobbed. Sunlight slowly trickled through the window.