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and an old wooden bridge that had collapsed into it. From the looks of it, the bridge had been out for a while. Beyond that was a vast open field where Abraham’s small house stood all alone, surrounded by wooded hills that spread upward from all sides of the quiet valley.
    “Well, I was almost out of gas anyway,” said Paul as we brushed snow and glass off of our clothes.
    We began the half-mile walk across the white field toward the house, leaving footprints in the snow behind us. There was light in the windows and smoke rising from the chimney in a thin white ribbon that dissipated gradually as it reached the sky. The old man emerged from the door and stood on the front porch puffing on a corncob pipe as we approached. He was bundled up warmly, and under the beacon of his red nose was a huge white beard through which I perceived a sly grin. A short distance away was a stable, and I could hear horses uneasily rustling at the sounds of unfamiliar voices. Two dogs ran from the side of the house and greeted us, barking and jumping excitedly.
    “Whatchyu boys want?” the old man called to us. “Y’all junkin’ up my prop’ty? Damn city kids.”
    “What’s the deal with the bridge, Abe?” Paul asked as we stepped onto the porch.
    “Don’t use that driveway much no mo’. Got riddama truck.”
    “Why?”
    He raised his eyebrows and looked past us at the carcass of Paul’s truck lying on its side. “Unreli’ble,” he said. “An’ Tennessee Walk’n Horse don’t need no gas.”
    Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Listen, Abe, we moved our families out to the farm.”
    “’Bout time. Don’t see folks too much no mo’.”
    “Well I expect you’ll be seeing quite a bit more of us. We’re running low on food, though. This is my friend Joe. We were hoping you could help us out.”
    Abraham smiled and shook his head.
    “Oh, you city kids gots lotsa learn’n ta do. But da good Lode blessed me wit’ mo’ den I need here. I think I can help y’all out. Come on inside.”
    Abe never asked why we had all moved out to the farm. I still don’t know if he had any idea what was happening in the rest of the world. He probably figured that regardless of our reasoning, we were better off, so the
why
didn’t matter. He took us to a series of underground storage containers with straw bedding where he had stocked away more than enough produce to last through the winter. The yields of his harvest were divided and stored by type. He had potatoes, cabbage, spinach, carrots, broccoli, celery, onions, beets, winter squash, and varieties of nuts and grains. They were kept separate not only for the sake of organization, but also to maximize the life span and quality of the produce, as different varieties have different shelf lives. It was an underground smorgasbord of commodities from the garden, orchard, and vineyard. Some were fresh,some canned, and some juiced or dried for preservation. There was no way we were going to go hungry.
    Abraham helped us fill sacks with his produce to take back with us. He told us that his surplus at the end of the winter was normally the first stock on the tables at the local farmers’ market when they opened in the spring, but that was only so it wouldn’t go to waste. He didn’t need the money, but he kept on harvesting his crop season after season and year after year, simply because the farm was his life. It always had been. It gave him purpose. He would deliver his produce on a wooden cart pulled by a pair of his horses, which he then graciously loaned to us so that we could deliver the same load to our own families for no compensation.
    Once the cart was filled and the horses hitched, Abraham pointed us in the direction of a new path back to our farm through the woods. The horses knew the way, he said, and he would be over later with some chickens, milk, butter, and various other items that we would need. We thanked him and set off.
    In the months that followed, I realized that my