We did not pass a sign that said, “Pecans for Sail.” But that’s what my friend Bill supposed. Tom, Momma and I were driving through the country. Bill knows that while the weather is nice, during this sentimental pre-holiday season, I’m trying to get Momma out on little road trips frequently. This week, while we were on the trip he texted what he thought we were up to:
“Tom is driving and chittering about things on his mind that make him happy. Your mama’s looking out at old homesteads and farmhouses that have escaped the encroachment of planted pines. When she sees a falling-down tenant house with the kitchen attached, she muses what it must have been like when they were getting ready for Thanksgiving. She knows. Maybe you will pass a sign that says "pecans for sail.”
I think it's funny and sweet that Bill was on his farm, imagining what we were up to. Bill was mostly right. But he left out the stop at our favorite sweet potato farm (yeah, we have one; more about that next week) and the stop to see Daddy and my Farmer relatives in the graveyard.
This little trip was a success; cozy and connecting.
Back on the farm later, I was supposed to make supper. But after the road trip and end of day task, I told myself I was too tired to cook. I made the trip into town to get a frozen pizza— 45 minutes of unpleasantness. That’s how long it takes to run to a grocery and back—45 minutes of stark, sad contrast to our day in the country.
Driving back from the distant grocery, I had the windows down, my cap off, my t-shirt blowing, I thought of something Janisse Rae wrote this week. In an essay on the fragmentation of our modern world and lives, she begs us to ask daily, “which action of mine would cause the least harm.”
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