Gastone heaved the forty pounds of compost from the back of his truck to the little shelter where patrons could purchase the rich soil for their gardens. He was worn out after a full morning of unloading the bags from the big semi to his truck. This was one of the products they sold that they didn’t actually produce themselves on the farm. The compost soil, the eggs from the Amish farm, and the canned goodies like salsa and spaghetti sauce that the old woman Martha cooked down the street. She’d give them canned goods to sell, and she’d make a profit, which was much needed for her. The small organic farm had been in Gastone’s family for several generations, and he was the youngest one involved with it. The only reason they made money was that they sold to the public, and their produce was a novelty, being a small farm in the world of big grocery stores and big mass-production farms. It was a flash of the past that many glommed onto, and they profited as a result. Local people liked buying from them because they were family-run, the food was organic and fresh, and they loved the atmosphere because they also had a petting zoo of sorts with goats, sheep, chickens, and a few cows.
There weren’t many farms like them around, so the local neighborhoods would flock to them and buy produce they grew that was way overpriced, but no one cared. Everyone loved coming to...