I’d worried that losing her would destroy Dad’s spirit.
Instead, he’d planted more vegetables.
Far more than one elderly man could possibly eat.
Once, I’d asked him why he needed hundreds of pounds of beans and thousands of tomatoes.
He’d merely smiled and answered, “For people.”
At the time, I assumed he shared the harvest with neighbors and church friends.
I never imagined how much those two words truly meant.
Our new neighbor, Brent Hollis, had moved in several months earlier. He purchased the property beside ours, demolished the old farmhouse, and constructed an enormous gray mansion with black-framed windows, a three-car garage, and a second-story deck overlooking our backyard.
Brent had money, expensive clothes, and an immaculate lawn.
Unfortunately, he also had a problem with my father’s corn.
The tall stalks obscured part of the valley view from his deck.
Every Sunday when I visited Dad, I noticed Brent standing outside with his coffee, glaring at the garden.
