We were driving to church for my cousin’s wedding when Daddy pulled off the highway and stopped the truck. “What are you doing?” Momma asked, even though she knew the answer. Riding anywhere with a farmer meant factoring in lots of extra time. Daddy drove slow enough to watch cotton bolls open from the highway.
“We’re gonna be late,” I moaned and applied another coat of strawberry lip gloss. I hated to be late for anything, plus I was in charge of the guest book.
Daddy grabbed his hoe from the back of the truck, ambled across the shallow ditch, and waded through rows of knee-high cotton. He wacked down the annoying weed wearing his new sport coat from Westbrook’s.
All the Tate girls had been trained to scan the horizon for johnsongrass. Teasing and waving in the breeze, the offensive plants were easy to spot, a different shade of green standing taller than the crop.
Daddy had some of the cleanest fields in Mississippi County. Everyone agreed.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Lord I Hope this Day is Good, Don Williams