Shoo, y’all, I been burning up the road between here and home. Yep, I’m still at Aunt Dumpling’s and yep, it’s planting time. So I am high-tailing it to the farm and back to the city almost ever dam day.
City doesn’t change much from one season to the next but the farm does. I got onions and beets in last dark of the moon then got spring greens in last light of the moon. Now it’s dark again and I’m putting in carrots and parsnips and ruterbagers and such.
Hay is looking good. Grateful for the rain.
On the farm, the dogwoods are blooming up a storm and the orchard is full of blossom and bee. Never seen so many bees in many a long year. Reckon it is a good sign.
In the city, things are heating up at the book club. And we are pretty mad about Raleigh and all that horse manure down there. I wish it was horse manure–then it would be good for something.
So they are messing with education–again. They are messing with abortions–again. They are messing with taxes so that me and my sister had to actually pay extra this year. They think it’s important to squeeze the last drop of blood from these old turnips.
And I got no faith that my vote is going to make a lick of difference. They are people all around me–my own people–who will vote for any goober who claims he’s “godly” whether he is or not. And then they hunker down and tough it out–again. And take some sort of sour pride in how tough they are.
Hell, we are tough and we can endure–haven’t we proved that time and time again? But how their hearts break when their young uns and especially their grandchildren have to go off the mountain to get any work. Then they grieve and pray–and won’t life nary a finger more.
I say–and Daddy said–the Lord helps them as helps themselves. I reckon we got to fix this old mountain pride and muleheadedness and look to the future of our families. I want mine to be better off than I was (and am) and I want them to do it here at home.
Because I reckon the snotnoses down in Raleigh think we’re part of east Tennessee.
Shoot, why not? I love the Vols.