The wood of the windowsill is rough under my hands, as I hold it and look out across the land I've claimed as my own. Green sprouts are battling their way out of the earth I tilled myself with nothing but a wooden plow and the horse that contentedly munches upon oats in an corral of wooden slats braced against oak posts. I glance down at my calloused and perpetually dirty hands with something akin to pride - only a few years ago my hands were moisturized and manicured, fit only to grasp a pen or steering wheel, but now they have grown accustomed to the daily struggle to put food on the table for my wife and I. Smiling, I return to gazing out