I also am farmer.

On the way home from church, we stopped by Wal-Mart for a couple of groceries. I accompanied my mother into the store, wearing my simple black suit and fedora. Mom picked a watermelon by appearance, but I hesitated before putting it in the cart, lifted it to me ear, and tapped on the rind. After I had placed in on the bottom of the shopping cart, a man in checkered shirt and full, straight, gray beard came up behind me and with knowing look in his eye and Eastern European accent, tapped a finger on a watermelon and said, “I know. I also am farmer.” I feel like the man peered into my soul.