Even though it’s a rainy day, I want to take a drive out to Ohio farm country, specifically to drive by our old house. I expect it to look the same — a little, two-bedroom farmhouse surrounded by mature trees. I had to have that house when I saw the 200-year old shagbark hickories and enormous oaks, the woods, the barn, the long cement driveway lined with peony bushes, the bird houses atop posts planted along the creek that divided our property from a soy field, farmed by a man who goes by the name of Wiley. Just Wiley. Like Cher, but 300 pounds, drives a combine the height of a two-story building and the width of the road, and wears only one outfit: a Carhart, t-shirt, overalls and boots. All the farmland that made up most of the radius of our view belonged to Wiley. [Please continue reading HERE]

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