It finally happened. Like always, just when you don't suspect it, it happened. We got up early, rushed around putting baskets together and packing milk for Saturday delivery, and made it to Nashville only 10 minutes late, which is in reality early for me. After chatting with customers and guzzling Tandy's coffee (City House), we headed for home close to noon. We arrived after 4pm. I'm still not completely sure what went wrong.
According to Wendy it all started last Thursday, when the smallest bladder in the world (Carleigh's) began screaming for relief as they drove home from Nashville. The closest exit was #37, so Wendy pulled off, and there it was - a small sign that just said "Raspberries". All I heard for 2 days was how pretty that little sign was, how cute the lettering, what nice colors the people had picked out for it, and on and on like e-i-e-i-o. Slow to pick up on things like most men, it never really occurred to me what was likely to happen next.
Fast forward to Saturday, and after I had blown past exit 37 without stopping, I realized (was reminded of) the error of my ways a few miles further south, jumped the median and went back. Silly me, I had thought I was on my way home. The sign was still there, in all it's radiant glory, proclaiming that there were berries just a mile or so down the road, so off we went. A half hour later, armed with all the berries the very gracious ladies had picked, after sampling their blackberries and with Wendy clutching a bag of cherries, we waved goodby to our new friends and headed even further away from home searching for a cherry/peach orchard they told us about, you guessed it, just a couple miles on down the road.
When we got to the dead end, a very nice young woman insisted upon searching the local phone book for "Forgies", calling them, and getting directions to their orchard. Of course she also learned that they were between cherry and peach crops, and had nothing for sale. But intrepid traveller that I am, I valiantly drove past the orchard, turned around and drove past again, to indelibly stamp the sight and location in the feeblest (is that a word?) part of me. The time? Oh, maybe 2pm.
Now I did have to get some money from the machine and go pay for the last load of hay we'd put into the barn, and of course the debit card was at home, so I'll have to admit that we did go straight home at that point, but we immediately left again, so I'll claim it as a pit stop only. We weren't home even 15 minutes, and off we went, first to the bank, and then on to Lonnie's house with cash in hand. We almost got there. There's a fellow whose retirement plan for over 20 years has been to buy antiques at estate auctions and store them in various places. He has a flea market that is right between the bank and Lonnie's house. Fortunately for us, most of his stuff is really antique, not just cute junk, so we didn't find any got-to-haves there, but we looked for a while. And to make it worse, less than a half mile further there's a true junk market that we'd been eyeing for a while. No more luck there than at the first place - this one was truly junk.
We finally made it to Lonnie's, paid him and started home. By now my hands are twitching, because I forgot to mention that in the brief time we were at home, our new hoes had arrived, and all we got to do was look at them, caress the handles, and jump into the car. I had a good head of steam worked up, and was headed for the house when I saw something that instantly made me 14 again. Right by the side of the road was a grove of wild plum trees, and that thing in the middle that was bright red was not a bird. It was a plum! If you have never had wild plums, go get in your car and drive south until you either hit salt water or find plums. The house and job will still be there when you get back. It's worth the trip. I won't say that I'd kill for plums, but to be on the safe side, don't block my path.
What could I do? I did the only thing a man in my condition could do. I started knocking on doors. The cherub-faced little Amish girls sweetly informed me whose property the plums were on, but no one was home, so I trudged on back empty-handed. We did stop at one more flea market on the way, but my heart wasn't in it. All I could think about was those little Amish girls with a step ladder picking plums that were meant for me. Wendy was a lot of help, though. She kept hitting the Heisman pose and suggesting that's what I'd look like stiff-arming the little girls as I grabbed a bonnet full of plums from them and ran. The idea that I'd stoop to stealing plums from children! Still, I'll bet I could outrun them, at least to the car.
Home again, home again, jiggity jog. Yes, we took our hoes out for a spin. Yes, we actually got to sweat some before dark. Yes, the house was full of fresh cherry pits. But there was no joy in Mudville, mightly Casey had struck out in the plum quest(with apologies to Ernest Thayer-don't ask who he is, just go read the poem) . I'll find some plums, but I won't share. Go find your own.
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