He took off his reading glasses, folded them carefully, and placed them into his front shirt pocket.

“Well, somebody around here obviously does not think so.”

My father is seventy nine years old, and his name is Bernard Callahan.

He was born right in this farmhouse on this exact piece of land in 1947, just as his father had been born here before him.

He worked for thirty four long years at the regional paper mill down in the valley until it closed down for good.

After that, he worked another twelve years driving a yellow school bus before finally retiring to do what he loved most, which was growing things in the soil.