I was four years old when I met the old man. His name was Lenney, and he was very kind. My parents had taken me on a vacation to the countryside, rosy with joy at the news that they were expecting another child. They got so caught up at the inn, planning this and that for the baby, that I got bored, and decided to explore.

At that time, Aja was still working at the Winery- although I didn't know her then- and Saibara hadn't come to blacksmith in Mineral Town yet. So that little chunk of town that I first remember seeing barely resembled the town I know today. But just as they are now, the people in Mineral Town were friendly. I felt safe, free, and very much at home.

When I wandered into the old man's farm, I had started to get very hungry. Suddenly, I became worried that my parents wouldn't find me. (Convenient how the minds of children work, huh? I think all of our minds work that way, opportunistically. Only children are more honest.) I started to cry. The old man emerged from the farmhouse in as much confusion as concern. He found my phone number where my mom had written it on the cover of my sketchpad, called my parents at the inn, and consoled me in the meantime with the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut diagonally.

It took my parents a long time to reach Lenney's farm, but that's not how I remember it. The old man let me ride on his cows, play with his dog, and harrass his chickens in what apparently was a whole hour before my parents arrived. I know, it's embarrassing- now that I'm fully grown, I don't really want to acknowledge it.

Lenney had written down his address in my sketchpad, and asked with smiling eyes if I would write him sometime. I was so excited to have found such a friend. My father took my hand and hurried me back to the car. Lenney waved, his poofy beared obscuring much of his face. All I can say for sure is that his eyes were lonely. His dog followed me all the way to the gate.

The following spring, my little sister was born. They named her Diane. I remember being fascinated by her, inspecting the boxes of newborn diapers and smelling the top of her head. I wanted to carry her everywhere, but my parents were afraid that I wouldn't be able to support her head. When she could crane her neck around, I still couldn't feed her, or help my parents give her baths. Although I never wanted to change her.

It got worse when my parents found me peering into the crib one night. I just liked to watch her sleep. She looked so calm, so happy, so soft. But it really creeped my parents out. They said I was smothering her. So I got to do less and less with Diane as a baby.

I started kindergarten that fall. It was the beginning of a long and unsuccessful academic career for me. Although writing to Lenney made me a good writer long before the other kids could print, everything else just refused to settle neatly in my head. Reading was wasted on me. Math was painful. Math used to make me cry, which would frustrate my mother.

As my sister grew, it became obvious that she would be everything I wasn't. She was walking and talking at exceptionally young ages, and she was an alert and happy baby. My parents were certain that she would be a bright child. For the first few years of elementary school, they hired a tutor for me, but I showed little improvement. Then they got fed up.

"Your sister does her homework on her own," they would say. "You're going into middle school! You need to get it together!"

But it was different for me. Diane knew that. As a little girl, just six or seven years old, she would hold my hand after one such dinner conversation, and tell me, "It's not your fault, Jack. I think you're a great brother, even if you're not good at school."

And that's what really killed me. I wasn't a great brother. I wasn't even really a good one. Diane excelled in school, and I was jealous every time she came home with an A+. One time I went so far as to rip her quiz off the refrigerator and crumple it up. She cried and cried. Sometimes I even took her completed homework and hid it or threw it away, hoping she'd get in trouble. I know! It was awful. But she was so smart. She would complete it again the next morning when she got into school. It may have even made her smarter, doing the material over and over again.

Come high school, I had given up. I just didn't see how I could possibly catch up to my classmates. They put me in remedial classes. My parents and I fought over every grade I got. If it was bad, it was bad; If it was good, it wasn't as good as Diane's. I threatened to drop out, and even tried to run away. The police knew me by name, that's how regularly they picked me up on truancy. I often think of this one cop, Maria, saying to my mother, "He's a troubled kid, but not a bad one. I think he might be looking for some attention."

When I wrote to Lenney, he was understanding. He said that it was hard being young. He said that I deserved to be listened to and to catch a break sometimes. His words empowered me. Even if my parents didn't see things my way, I knew that I deserved to be respected. And that changed the way I did a lot of things.

The last sets of fights started over college. I didn't want to go to one. I simply refused to go through any more school. My parents were worried that I wouldn't amount to anything if I never got a degree.

"How will you make money? Do you wanna flip burgers for the rest of your life?"

No, but it wouldn't be the worst thing, would it?

My parents got sick of my attitude. I barely managed to hold on through graduation. Then I moved out. I left Diane a letter, because I wanted her to know that it wasn't her fault. I don't remember if I told her that I loved her, but I hope she knew.

At first, I crashed at a friend's place while I looked for an apartment. I worked in a supermarket and a convenience store and saved money for the security deposit on a tiny sublet. When I finally had the money together, I wrote to Lenney. He wrote back with a few thousand dollars! His letter said,

"You work so hard! Here's a little something to help you through a few months of rent and groceries. Make sure to spend a little on something fun."

I worked and saved for two or three years, switching from job to job to job. I've worked in coffee shops, as a school janitor, as a hotel receptionist, as a pizza delivery guy... you name a part-time job, I probably did it. Every few months Lenney would send me money. Sometimes he was congratulating me for working hard. Sometimes he was consoling me after I broke up with a girl or a girl broke up with me. Once he remembered Diane's birthday when I hadn't, and he was the sole reason I was able to get her a present that year.

Then one day the letters stopped. I don't know if you knew Lenney, but he didn't forget things, and he didn't procrastinate. When I mailed him a letter, I knew I would get a response in two weeks. Well, two weeks came and went. Then a month. Then two. I had last written to him as autumn was ending, and as the year was ending I decided to quit both my jobs and come and see him.

I arrived, as you remember, on the first day of spring, this year. Lenney had died as the last leaves were falling with virtually nothing to his name. Grateful though I had always been, I had come to take Lenney's life-giving gifts for granted. I never thought to myself, hey- where's a man as old as Lenney getting all this cash?

The first thing I did was peek into the barn to see the old dairy cows I remembered riding. Every stall was stripped bare. No cows. No straw. No manure. Livestock hadn't lived in that barn for a long time. I raced to the chicken coop. The story was the same. I ransacked the old farmhouse, eventually finding a shoebox full of receipts from Barley's under a loose board next to the foot of the bed. Each was from the sale of a different animal, and each date and figure corresponded to a letter and a gift that Lenney had sent. When I took out my old letters, rumpled and frequently reread, I started to cry.