My father thrives on physical work and even at 91 hes out clearing brush, even if it means sitting down on the ground to do it. The work gives him a sense of accomplishment and helps him sleep. The young man who helps Pop sometimes marvels at how he can work so steadily. Pop's helper says he learns what work really is by working with Pop. This is at my fathers core: work. Work is his holy grail and hes never had to search for it.

While visiting my father in his world, I go berrying in the hayfield behind the seckle pear trees in the hay field I know so well from haying here as a child. So itchy, haying is. Berrying means putting the softest in my mouth while thorns impaling my own soft flesh in an unprotected moment.

In the midst of black berry paradise at an edge of a field my cell phone rings and I arrange with Cousin Cynthia to attend the Lion King matinee Sunday at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Then my cell phone rings again as my insurance agent checks in. The contrast between worlds could not be more stark.

Back in the Big Brown House I putter with household matters while the boys hog brush. We eat out on the screened-in porch which catches the natural breezes. My father eshews air-conditioning because he feels it makes him soft for outdoor work. A cousin is framing out an office for my niece in the White Cottage basement next door. That makes five for dinnerwhat we call the mid-day meal in the country: my brother, Pop, his helper, my cousin, and myself. The berries have made their way into a pie and we simply gorge on my brothers red ripe tomatoes which make any meal complete.

My father was raised on this homeplace founded in 1863 by his grandfather. How rare it is now-a-days to raise your children, care for your parents and see them die, and then live out your last years there yourselfin one place.