When I get out into the rolling farmland I am often overcome by a sense of peacefulness. Deep green arms flag as I ride by.
“Heyyyy there, Miss Fuzzy,” waves the corn.
“Hi, corn. Lookin’ good. Lookin’ good.”
And so it goes, rambling along going nowhere fast. Roads like this one make me feel grounded and clutter-free.
In the perfect, romantic story that I write in my mind about these rural areas, everyone is happy, their lives are never hard. They may not have a lot of luxury but my imaginary farm people are satisfied with what they’ve got. They drink iced tea from mason jars, play cards at the kitchen table and swing on the porch looking out onto the fields as fireflies flash their lamps to signal the end of the day.
As I rode along this rambling country road thinking about my perfect farm people, I caught a glimpse of something on a garage-type building I’d ridden by.
“Was that…?” I thought and pulled a quick u-turn.
Apparently Bigfoot knows how to party!
I guess my perfect farm people are a little warped