Farmers run through my family tree like ants in a honey spill. My father tells me his feet are so flat because of all the plowing he had to do, today when I see him stomping along behind his walker, hunched and head down I wonder if he plowing in his mind. The old farm where the seven siblings grew up is sold, I'm not sure if it's turned into condos or government subsidized corn. I live on the left coast on the very edge of the continent, there are lots of farms here and lots of farmer's markets. It must a hard life, but the farmers I meet seem pretty happy. I feel indebted to each one as I pay for my vegetable purchases. In the backyard I have to grow something, I must to keep my thin family history alive. This summer I'm growing pumpkins for winter consumption. Something bright and orange to eat when the days are short.
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