Bennet Wimmer rose early as was his custom. He glanced downward at his wrinkled trousers and made a half hearted attempt to smooth the horizontal lines. He reminded himself that his appearance was not as important as it use to be. He was ambivalent about that as well as the decision he had made to return to his Mother's home, and assist her as her health failed. She was gone now for several weeks and he missed her. He also missed his old life as a professor of Botany at the Mosswood College in Littletwig, Florida.
Bennet stood before the bathroom mirror in his Mother's home and realized that it was his home now. He was not entirely comfortable with his inheritance, and felt like a child who had been given a set of hand me downs, and was expected to be grateful.
That was not exactly true,Bennet thought to himself. He loved it here. Truthfully, the property where he had grown up was almost sacred to him. The inspiration for his vocation had come from climbing in the trees, eating the wild raspberries and pruning the apple trees. There were so many things to be sorted out, not the least of which was the direction of his own life in "Retirement."
Bennet slipped his feet into his walking shoes, and headed out the door to survey his property. It was time to make some decisions about where to begin his new life.
The spring had come and was about to exit into full summer. He climbed the gently sloping yard to the field beyond. It had once been plowed and produced a great deal of garden vegetables; tomatoes, corn, and squash. He made a mental note to check the seed catalog for short season vegetable seeds. A hawk called over head and Bennet looked up. He watched the bird glide to a distant tree and light there, looking down at him. He hiked his long legs across his field in the direction of the trees, and hawk and the fence to his neighbor's property. The hawk called noisily from the tops of a maple, as if to summon him . "I am coming," thought Bennet as he crested the slope. He wondered momentarily at this thought, fanciful as it was. "I remember this place," Bennet said aloud. He climbed the wide gate that joined the ends of an old stone fence. The fence had crumbled in some places but was largely intact. It neatly hemmed an emerald patch of pastureland. The morning sun illuminated the green and it seemed to glow golden. Bennet Wimmer, stood like he did as a child, with his feet on the bottom rung of the gate and looked at the northern pasture of the Tenderstitch farm.