-From City to Farm-

I was in the city when I was contacted of my father's death. My father. He was a strong man, in his early 60's. In fact, he still ran the family farm. After my sister and I had moved away, he stayed with our mother. She was always a small women, but near the time we moved away she began losing weight. At first it was hardly noticeable, but the next time we visited she was as skinny as a stray cat in the Big Apple's alleyways. We stayed there for the next two weeks, and were by her sides, holding her hands when she passed away. Her funeral was a hard thing for Dad to overcome, but he finally did and worked the farm by himself.

It has been 6 years since my mother's death. Now my father was dead. I had to contact my sister. She lived in Virginia. I realized the best way to break this to her was to visit her in person. So I packed my things and headed for her home. Her home was a few hours away from mine. It was on the other side of New York. When I told her the terrible news, she burst into tears. She, being the oldest, had been much closer to my father than I had. I stayed the night at her home with her husband and my nieces.

Now that I've mention it, I might have to tell the truth. My sister is the successful one in the family. She always has been. She's 24, I'm 19. She has a family with a husband and two adorable little daughters, Emily and Dakota. I'm still single, living in a small apartment. Sarah (my sister) has a large home and their income combined is more than $1,000,000,000 a year. Mine is less than 60,000 dollars a year. Pathetic, I know.

Anyway, back to my story. After both my parents died, I was a little depressed. But then one day, when I went to get my mail from my mail box, inside was a large brown envelope. I looked at who it was from. There was no name with the return address, but it was addressed to me. So I took it back up the stairs to my apartment and ripped open the brown paper. Inside was my father's will. It said that when he died, the farm was to go to me. I couldn't believe it. A farm? He expected me to run the family farm? I immediantly was taken by surprise and put down the envelope. I knew right then and there I wasn't going to take over the farm.

The envelope sat on the counter of my small apartment for weeks. It seems though I never said anything to anyone or read the rest of the will, my thoughts were on it the rest of the week. I fought battles within myself, taking an aspirin everyday because of the headache I got when I thought and thought and thought about it. Finally I urged myself into the chair and read the will. The farm was going to me, Craig, it said, because "you are my favorite and only son". I hate to admit it, but I cried silently. I hadn't taken the time to spend that much time with my father, and even though he didn't often tell me he loved me, I realized how much he loved me when I read that will, and the letter that was attached to it made me cry harder.

At that exact moment, I realized something. I was going to take the farm. That was what was left of my father, and he had passed it on to me. He passed it on to me, the failure, not the big success. He could have given it to my sister and her husband, but he chose to give it all to me. His son.

In a few weeks I had sold my apartment, bought a car with my savings, and sold most of my furniture for extra cash. I set out on my journey soon after visiting my sister to say goodbye. I told my little nieces, both in tears, that they could come visit me whenever they wanted. I told them all about my life growing up and told them they would both love it.

The farm was in Vermont. It had a beautiful pale yellow house on acres upon acres of meadows and fields of corn, potatoes, cabbage, turnips. Every vegetable and flower imaginable grew on our farm. There were horse fields that were fenced in. A stable for the horses, a barn for the cows and sheeps, and a chicken coop filled with chickens. I remembered it all from my childhood. It was a beautiful farm, but I had always dreamt

of the city. That's why I moved. As I realized I was going to be moving to the farm again, I was happy. I loved the farm country. The images of the fields and beauty were filling my head when I arrived. I got out of the car and looked around. It was not what it was.

The pony field was overgrown and the fence was pretty much collapsing. The stable, chicken coop, and barn needed staining. The farm house needed a new coat of paint. The growing field had become a dump for any rock or fallen tree limb. Everything seemed it needed to be cleaned up. As I stood looking around, a middle aged man approached.

"Are you Craig?" he asked. His red-brown mustache quivered when he spoke.

"Yes. May I ask who you are?"

"I am the mayor of this valley." He replied pleastantly. "I understand you are Tom's son. Am I correct?"

I nodded.

"Well, now that you are here, would you like a tour of the house?"

"I grew up here, so I already know my way around. Thanks for asking though."

"Oh, right! I forgot. Well, tools are in the box by the door when you go in. We hope you stay here and try to work the farm again. It seems it died over the last few years. Let's resurrect it, why don't we?" he said with a smile. He turned and strode out the farm gate.

As I walked through the door of the farm house, my childhood years came back to me. How I loved that house. The floorboards creaked when you walked on them and you had to duck your head when you went up the stairs. Everything about the house was exact the same, yet it was completely different.

When I was growing up it had been full of delightful smells and friendly racket. Now it smelled of mold and was silent. That's when I realized why it felt different. It felt the same to the touch, but completely different because of the atmosphere.

Either way, I knew right then and there that I was staying to carry on the family name….as a farmer.