Country Girl

There's something very satisfying about barreling down dirt roads in a giant four-wheel-drive pickup truck. I was helping my father move some farm equipment from point A to point B this afternoon, and I got to drive his farm truck.

I call the farm truck Sherman because it's about like driving a Sherman tank. You don't steer it as much as sail it within the banks of the road ditches. It's old, beat-up, and has a million stories linked to each dent. One of them was created by our old bull getting mad and rushing the driver's side door. It put a huge dent in the door. I don't remember the bull being even mildly unsettled.

Sherman also has a HUGE engine built for pulling cattle trailers and so forth. When it's in 4WD and you press the accelerator, it almost stands up on its rear tires. Driving it gives you an attitude. Suddenly, all bets are off and the urge to roll over those who offend becomes strong. After all, there is very little that can hurt Sherman. It's the only vehicle I feel safe going up to our farm in. My little Cruiser just isn't made for the types of rutted trails that Sherman can handle.

While Dad was performing the magic rituals that are required to get our oldest tractor to crank, I walked over to the pear tree that stands at the edge of the burned-down house where my mother grew up. It's ancient and was damaged by the fire, but it still bears hard, round pears every year. I love those pears. I don't know their specific type. They're not anything fancy like D'Anjou, but they are our pears from a tree that my grandmother and grandfather, that my mother and uncle ate from. The tree needs care and fertilization, and next year I'm going to go up and see if I can't get it to bear better. I ate two of the tiny apple-like pears while I waited. They were firm and juicy.

I also checked out the fig tree that was nearby. I haven't had fresh figs in years and years, but the tree was bearing. I picked them into the tail of my shirt to take back to the truck and ate a few standing there.

It was a moment of perfection. The constant sound of wind, the clouds skidding across the horizon, and the sweet rich taste of the figs all combined. Moments like this are the reason I moved back here. Moments like this are "home" for me. I suppose that no matter how much my mind lusts after the art and activity of larger places, in my deepest heart, I am just a country girl.