She walked a cat on a leash from the house, around a small, parked car and through the driveway. The cat wore a harness with some insulation and she wore slippers and a robe. The breeze had a chill to it but the weather had turned for the better recently. The cat led her to another entrance as they returned inside and we stood on this hill top where their home was perched on the edge of a nondescript town in Nagano. Small tufts of green leaves emerged from red stalks as the rhubarb began to grow again in his garden.

The farmer invited us inside their home to join his wife and cat. We sat on fold-out wooden chairs around a fold-out aluminum table next to a wood stove. A small wire drying rack with dozens of clothes pins hung from the ceiling above the old man’s chair. Four baseball caps, one tan woman’s sweater and other clothes hung. We were not introduced to his wife. She made tea for us and I sat close to the wood stove, my knees gradually warmed by its steady heat. Evenly cut pieces of wood were stacked next to me and a few small stumps were out of place on the concrete floor.

The train from Tokyo was early that day. The station was filled with people as the intersection between subway lines felt like navigating among schools of fish chasing bait. The smell of the bait must lure fish forward as the tide guides the flow of it all. A very fast train brought us to a smaller train, then to a trolley that climbed up inclines with a steady will and the occasionally moaning. Once outside the city the colder air was obvious and the leaves and grass were fragrant. This took time to get used to and all was rejuvenating.

As we drank tea, and the farmer talked, exhaustion blurred my mind. My eyes closed slowly as the warm fire assisted me to another place. On the train that morning an old man slept. Slumped over, breathing loudly he leaned his head on a young, well-dressed woman next to him. How would he know when his stop came? I wondered if they knew one another. The train stopped and she exited. This left him no one to lean on, he slept anyway.

The farmer spoke, his voice sounding as if his vocal chords had been worn away with a rusty rasp and some of the rust had clung to them. He was missing one of his front teeth. His clothes were the proper size for him but fit loosely on his thin body and you could make out the bones in his legs through gray pants, especially when he sat. The cold did not seem to bother him when we were outside, though he left his windbreaker on as we sat indoors and he spoke to us. His words were foreign but his eyes were clear and bright. When he looked at us it added to the warmth of the room. He pointed occasionally to a far off place and would form objects in the air with his hands when necessary.

Every ten minutes or so I would be updated on the content of his conversation in abridged fashion:

He worked for the post office for many years.

When he retired he was diagnosed with diabetes. So was his sister.

He was given one year to live.

So he decided to farm.

All of his health issues have disappeared in the years since he began farming.

He is struggling to make enough money growing rhubarb.

All the young people in town have no interest in farming, so they move to Tokyo.

He never told us his age though he looked to be close to 80 and his wife a bit younger. As for his cat, there is no way to know. Cats don’t show their age like humans.

After an hour we all stood, thanking his wife although we never were told her name, and drove in two cars to his rhubarb farm. Their house was on the border of a small development, on a hill near a highway with pavement all around. His farm was not far, but not very close, surrounded by woods and open fields ready to be planted. He had no fence, just rows of green pushing its way upward from small red stalks. He spoke more. His neighbor tilled a home plot with a wheelless machine that purred louder than softer as the breeze carried its song. The neighbor stopped his work when he noticed me watching and walked over to me with a potato in his hand to show me his intentions. It was still cold, though trees blocked the wind slightly and the green grass seemed to emit warmth as it held on to the morning dew. I walked to the edge of the woods and urinated. Thankful I no longer had to search for a stall somewhere in the crowded city.

Before we crossed the street back to our vehicles, the farmer stopped us once more and looked at me with his clear eyes again and he spoke.

Tell them I love them. I never even tell my wife this.

Then deciding he could get along without interpretation he spoke in English.

I love you, he said as he looked at me with those eyes.

We parted ways driving past more open fields ready to be planted.

Gazette contributor Chris Fischer lives in Chilmark where he operates Beetlebung Farm. His book, The Beetlebung Farm Cookbook, published by Little Brown, is due out in June.