Rising at dawn to the ever so punctual crows of Mr. Jekyll; the family rooster belting his morning melody. Grease popping in the pan sends the scent of bacon gliding down the dusty hallway.
He throws his feet on the floor, shakes his head awake, and pulls on the worn out Wranglers laying on the wooden floor, still lingering the sweat and dirt from yesterdays toils. Life's not easy, even in a small town. Stepping out into February West Texas air, its hard to leave the comfort of his warm brick house, the warmth which was lain brick by brick by his great grand-dad in the early nineteen tens.
The day is anew and crisp, not fully woken yet by the majestic mother natures beaming bright rays. His boots; layered like a fondant wedding cake, are cold are sticky from the past afternoons of thundering downpours.
" 'Bout damn time" the farmer would say.
His leather Justin boots soak up all remaining warmth, even down to his tiniest of little piggies; for not long ago was it that they were nestled toasty under the layers of quilts that comforted this farmer through the chilling nights bite.
He throws back his head and hollars "after while". His kiddos yell back their I love yous, as they slurp the remnants of saturated Cinnamon sugar milk through their pink and blue bowls with the connected straw molded through the side of their cereal saucer.
A swarm of hungry kitty-cats, porch dog, guard dog, and 'who-the-heck-knows where he came from dog' scurry around the farmers big thudding feet as he heaves himself toward the pickup. The broken door handle, turns getting into his dusty 4x4 a tricky maneuver. Comfort of a lit cigarette in hand warms the jaded farmer; from the tips of his fingertips down to the core of his habitual heart. Unconditional love.
Life's not easy for this man, even in a small town. 'Where to today?' he wonders. Which water needs changing? The 7.8 mile stretch into town will grant him time to consider where to toil his labors today. Turning off Highway 70 he roars down the dirt road- speeds way to fast for this unmarked cleechy country course. Down about half a mile, veering down the turn-row, cotton tails jump from ditch to ditch. There's no placement on the smell from a fresh worked field. Gods dirt. You won't see this farmer praising hymns in a pewter cloth pew at the First Baptist Sunday sermon. But he prays. He prays everyday. A good sow, a good crop, a good rain, a good reap.
Life's not easy, especially in a small town.
