Usually (though not always) I’m out of bed before Deb. Smudge is my alarm clock. This morning the pup let me sleep a little longer, and around 7am we ventured out into the steady rain that had been falling overnight.
Trees around the homesite were cloaked in mist. The sky was beginning to brighten at that hour, but it remained dim enough that the lights we strung in the cedars behind the picnic table still glowed.
I opened a cabin door and followed the happy Heeler inside. Rain tapped softly on the metal roof, the first I’d heard that wonderful, soothing sound in that space. I looked out through the windows, past droplets at the rocks and woods we call Home.
Simple. Glorious.
Returning to the RV I made coffee, sat down and considered how some folks might’ve greeted a wet, gloomy morning — pull on a jacket and a hat, dash outside with the dog and dash back in.
Not me. With wake-up temps in the low 60s, I walked outside and let the cool rain fall on me. No hurry.
I embraced the weather and reveled in the moment.
Peace overwhelmed me. It lingers.
Almost eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning and we had the roads to ourselves — we passed not one single soul in either direction ’til we reached the state highway. We’d gotten a bit of a late start on our day, the weather perhaps influencing our pace, but we didn’t beat ourselves up over it.
We executed planned errands efficiently and without the slightest urgency. Take trash to the transfer station. Fetch Smudge’s food at the feed mill. Retrieve packages from the post office. Wash clothes at the laundromat. Swing through curbside pickup at Walmart.
From that list of uninteresting to-dos, a couple of things are worth recalling.
I heard brush rustle downslope as I walked toward the shed to gather the week’s trash. Seconds later, a young whitetail buck burst from the woods and leaped across the driveway in front of me.
They’re coming closer every day.
When I refer to “the feed mill,” I’m talking about Marion County Feed & Farm Supply, part of family-owned Powell Feed & Milling. Every stop at that place whisks me back 60 years, to all those times I accompanied my father to the local mill for horse feed, dog food or just to visit.
This Yellville operation could be a page torn from my childhood — small store, narrow aisles, shelves jammed with potions and wares useful to ranchers, farmers and homesteaders. Next door, the mill itself and a warm, shadowy warehouse smelling of processed grain and sweet feed.
Dusty pickups in the dusty parking lot. Overalls, feed caps and Stetsons. Men who all know each other.
This morning, standing on the dock waiting for a young man to bring out a 40-pount bag of puppy chow, I chatted with a local farmer about the weather (of course), the economy, the success he had with this season’s clover and the relative wisdom of planting wheat this year.
This is where I come from — America at its best and most honest. It’s where I belong. During my time at the feed mill today, I could feel the Country in my chest.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB