This young man stopped the ancient Ford long enough for me to snap his picture in the late afternoon shadows yesterday. It's not unusual for one to come across any number of folks doing the hard manual labor called farmwork here on Pecan Lane. It takes a village to raise a crop, you know?There's a big old herd of cattle following the leader from shade to pond and back again during these hot summer days, swattin' flies with their tails, oblivious to the tags on their ears that identify them when market time rolls around. MoooOOOO! There's field corn on all sides of us and some GOOD lookin' cotton down the lane past the dairy barn to the right and left of the kudzu heap. That's where the climbing begins if you're hoofing it up from the main road to the house. Over on the right there's mimosa trees showing off their pink furry heads to the ones who slow down long enough to look. One of my favorite memories as a kid was sitting in a mimosa tree with buddies at my daycare, stripping off those tiny little leaves and wearing the blooms in my hair.
The horses? Well, heck...they're just spoiled dang rotten. Nobody ever rides 'em so they enjoy long days in the pasture and cold winter nights in the barn where they feast on sweet feed and hay and the trough NEVER freezes. It's good to be Trapper and Pride.
Growing up on this farm I thought it was the most isolated miserable place to be for a town-girl wannabe. No neighbors. Nobody to play with but bratty brothers and assorted wildlife. A funny thing happened when I moved to town though. I wanted to come back to the farm to raise my daughter with all the perks that I had known as a country kid. We're still here, and we won't be leaving until they send the sheriff to pitch us out.
Can I call y'all for bail money if that happens?