Chapter 1

Bryan was digging into the soil of a garden bed when a feeling of déjà-vu struck him. He grasped a handful of loam in the palm of his right hand and bunched it into a ball, squeezing. He noted that the soil compressed easily and without oozing out between his fingers, indicating near-optimum moisture content. He took the wad of matter and broke it cleanly into two pieces, noting that the appropriate amount of "crumble" occurred. He smiled upon the reflection that his hard work had paid off in constructing the correct soil structure.

Reflecting that he had seen the same action repeated countless times in his lifetime, he looked at his hand. He raised it, fingers outstretched before his face in wonder, then the other. He turned them over before him in wonder looking at both the backs and the palms. Often the partial phrase "like the back of my hand," had passed Bryan's lips as a description of familiarity. However, he noted ironically, that the hands at which he looked seemed almost foreign, but yet familiar. They didn't belong on these arms ... the dirty fingernails, the wrinkled knuckles, the calluses and scars ... they belonged on a man much older, a man whose features were chiseled from the same material, yet by a different sculptor.

"I have my dad's hands," he said aloud. "When did I become my father?" In his mind's eye he could see the gnarled old hands, looking so much like his own showing him how to test the soil. A sad smile crept across his face, as he thought of the old man walking along the field's edge reaching down to scoop up a handful of dirt and see if there was a chance that he could start planting.

Bryan sat down on the ground and smiled broadly. Another old trick his father had taught him was that if he could sit on dry ground for more than two minutes on a bright spring day without getting soaked or cold then it was probably safe to plant corn. Bryan smiled in reflection that his father would likely shake his head in wonder at the things Bryan planted and wonder how a man could live off of fourteen acres, let alone how he could provide for a family.

"Well it isn't with corn, I'll tell you that," he mused aloud. Looking around, even in the early spring, before the April flush of green that would infest the countryside, there were signs of life everywhere. Every direction he turned there were perennial food plants, in various stages of dormancy. Down the hill a few yards was a plot of wheat which characteristically yielded more than times the best yield recorded in the area. "The secret is the rabbits," he said aloud, again speaking to himself, or perhaps to the memory of his father so clear in his mind. "Well, maybe the poultry has something to do with it too."

Bryan had two such plots laid out and grew his wheat crops on a two year rotation, leaving one field fallow at all times. In the late summer, after the wheat had been harvested from the active patch, the clovers tended to come in with a flush of growth that rivaled the spring. Upon that he would cage hundreds of adult rabbits in movable cages and move them daily. The rabbits would decimate the clover and turn it into the finest fertilizer known to man.

The following season the field would grow weeds and clovers. In June when the vegetation got to be almost a foot tall, he would bring out portable chicken pens and rotate those through the plot, making sure that they were out by the first of July. Following the late summer growth, the rabbits were returned and the step from the previous season repeated.

A few months later, in the spring when the frost had not left the ground he would sow the seeds heavily and rake them in, covering them with bits of residue to protect them from the cold and birds. By the end of April the ground would be covered with the greenest carpet, so thick that it choked out any weeds.

By Mid-august he would go cut the straw and gather it in piles and then take it into the granary where he would thresh it in a home-built machine. The straw went to serve as bedding for the livestock, and the kernels were collected and saved for grinding into flour as needed throughout the year.
He would pick the best plants prior to harvest which had most productive traits and segregate their seeds to serve as seed stock for the following year. By doing just that he had served to grow a more productive crop which was best suited to the two plots that he used alternatively every other year. By being attentive to his crop, he was able to produce more on half an acre than row-crop farmers could grow on 15, per the local average.

Bryan was started out of his reflection by a whistle followed by a voice "Hey sexy!" Turning and getting up, his eyes landed on the sight of his wife Silver coming down the hill. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, his Irish complexion burned to the surface with a flush, and a broad smile flashed upon his lips, baring his teeth. "Takes my breath away every time," he whispered.

She was beautiful: medium height, brown hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips with a killer smile. She was always complaining about her weight but she carried every ounce flawlessly, mostly in her ample top half. She was every man's dream, and yet she was all his. Painted nails, crimson lips, big hair done up just right, and plenty of flash and bling adorned her fingers and neckline. She walked down the asphalt trail toward him dressed in such a way that only she could pull it off: White skirt, black high-heeled boots, her skirt swishing around just enough to show a bit of milk-white skin above the calf of her boots. She wore a flowing orange top with short sleeves which might have been the appropriate color for hunting, but definitely not the appropriate cut. Walking among the bushes and shrubs, stepping over rocks and around a garden bed she might have looked a bit more out of place on the moon, but not much.

Bryan laughed as she got closer. "Sexy eh?" He laughed. "I think you have me mistaken for someone else on this hillside."

She shook her head in reply and strode up, and without a word wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezing him so tightly that he briefly saw stars. Then backing up slightly she brought her lips to his and the fireworks in Bryan's mind went off in salvo after salvo. After a few seconds, a chill which crept down his spine, and a coat of lipstick later he stood dumbfounded looking into her eyes.

With a chill he shivered, gazing into her eyes. "That never gets old." he mused. The wicked smile that she shot back preempted a comeback. "My color looks good on you," she said wiping the lipstick off his lips with her thumb. "That's better." She put her hand on his cheek and they stared lovingly into the eyes of one another for a moment.

"To what does the peasantry owe this visit by such a royal beauty?" Bryan asked flamboyantly waving his arms in mock theatrical gestures.