On an early Thursday, to the sound of the morning rush hour, a plain-looking fellow sets up a tent in the parking lot of a strip mall. He is average build and height, but the texture of his skin and the raw size of his hands tell a story — for those interested in hearing.
"I'm a third generation farmer," says Thomas — who asks that his last name not be printed. "I'm dedicated to the work. Heck, it's all I know." Within a few moments, the tent is pegged and tethered. Thomas then pulls a folding chair out of the back of his flatbed, sits down in it, and smiles up at me. The twinkle in his eye says I should have remembered to bring my own seat. (click here to read more)