I do not even own livestock anymore, just one old barn cat. But Brenda apparently found the smell of damp earth and alfalfa offensive. I ignored every single letter. I threw them in the wood stove.
I figured if I gave her zero oxygen, the fire would eventually burn out. That was my first mistake. Patience, to someone like Brenda, is just an invitation to push harder.
The crown jewel of my property is a massive, 200-year-old oak tree that sits on a little ridge overlooking the valley. It is beautiful. It is the kind of spot where you just want to sit with a cup of black coffee and watch the sun come up.
It is about a quarter mile from my house, but it backs right up to the edge of the Whispering Pines subdivision. It was a Friday morning in late September. The air was crisp, the sky was that deep, endless blue, and I had a long list of chores.
I drove into town to pick up some parts for the baler, grabbed a sandwich, and spent a few hours talking to the guys at the feed store. I got back to the farm around 2:00 in the afternoon.
As I drove up my gravel driveway, I looked toward the ridge. I stopped the truck. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. There was a tent. Not a little camping tent.Pickup Trucks
A massive, gleaming white marquee tent with peaked roofs and little flags snapping in the breeze. I put the truck in a park and left the engine running. I walked up the hill, the dry grass crunching under my boots.
The closer I got, the worse it became. There were 100 white folding chairs set up in perfect, symmetrical rows beneath the oak tree. There were floral arches wrapped in pink roses.
There was a portable dance floor being laid down by a crew of four guys in matching polo shirts. And standing right in the middle of it all, pointing and directing traffic, was Brenda.
She was wearing a beige pantsuit today, holding her trusty clipboard, shouting at a teenager carrying a stack of linen tablecloths. I walked right up to the edge of the dance floor.
