"I work everyday in these fields, I am ankle-deep in mud, all I smell is pattume , and in a couple of hours il vento will blow dirt and debris in my face. Next month the rains will come; they will soak me through, and I will have to carry those wet sprout sacks up and down these muddy rows. I work ten to twelve hours every day for very little money. My young son is sick and I cannot pay the doctor. My young wife is pregnant and our second baby is on its way. Where will I get the money to feed another mouth? I promised my beautiful wife an easy life in America; all she got was hard work and desperate times. If there is a God up there, why doesn't he show himself? Why doesn't he make my son well? Why doesn't he help me? I need more money! O God, if you are up there, why don't you wave your hand, and make things better for me?" Not really expecting an answer, the rancere lowered his head and with his shavola slowly returned to working the soil. Then from out of the thick, eerie mist, he thought he heard someone, perhaps a woman, say in a soft and gentle voice: "O rancere mi. Don't you know? You live su per la costa not Heaven."
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