She flips the pancakes and quickly hands me my favorite water bottle, already filled. It’s dark green, like moss, with a silver twist-off top. Leave it to Miss Betty to always have my back.
“I will. Thanks for breakfast. And please, tell Pop I said good morning and that I love him. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a great rest of your weekend.”
“You too, sweetie.”
I carefully step over Earl and chuckle as the dog stretches with a grunt, black paws flexing in the air, exposing his tummy.
“Who’s a good boy?” I give him a quick belly rub before I leave.
There’s a pep in my step as I hop down the back porch steps. I enjoy Saturday mornings on the farm when Kip and the otherworkers are off and I have the entire stretch of land all to myself. When the grass glistens with dew and the sky looks like a giant watercolor painting in broad strokes of sweeping pinks and orange.
When it’s just me, my kingdom, and the promise of a new day.
I’m a simple man who doesn’t need much. Unlike most folks, I’ve never wanted to get rich and buy fancy cars, clothes, and all the world’s lavish things. I’m quite the opposite.
I love backyard chickens, and fresh eggs, gardenia bouquets cut from the yard, and Ms. Betty’s pancakes slathered with lots of butter and warm maple syrup. I love getting my hands dirty in the flower fields and learning how to grow my own food. A morning commute that doesn’t consist of an hour in the truck to the city, but a slow walk to the barn to let the hens out for the day.
Instead of designer clothes, I prefer overalls, cowboy boots, and a trip to the agricultural store, not a big city mall. For me, a night out on the town involves fishing at the pond until dark, the summer cicadas and night creatures performing their twilight symphony for an audience of one. Slow days filled with picnics in the grass, lying on my Grandma Rosie’s old tattered quilt passed down to me and watching in awe at the star-filled night sky, my body aching from a good old-fashioned hard day’s work.
I live off Paradise Road and often think I’m one of the lucky ones who knows the true meaning of being rich.
But today isn’t about where or how I’ve lived. Nope. Today is all about manifesting and running into Madison again. If she drove by my roadside stand going into town to stay at the Wild Daisy Inn, she’d have to take the same route going out of town when she leaves, right?
I want to jump-start my day in case she’s an early riser. I assume most city girls are. I imagine her painted lips and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as she drives to meet me. The way her hips sashay in her tight skirt, calves taut in her high heels. Her feminine scent wafting under my nose and the slow-motion effect of her taking off her sunglasses to lock eyes with mine in a friendly greeting.
I sigh, realizing I’ve been standing in one place, daydreaming about Madison again.
Gripping my thermos a little tighter, I walk toward the barn and run my free hand along the tops of the blooming gardenia bushes lining the path.
“Good morning, Grandma Rosie. I love you,” I whisper like I do every day. My smile is cockeyed when I add, “Send me good vibes today. I’m gonna need them for a certain city girl.”
I can almost hear her response in the slight breeze. She’d remind me that there is a purpose in everything on a daily basis and that it often helps a person become who they’re meant to be.
To this day, I’m still not sure who I am or why I’ve been put on this earth. But that hasn’t deterred me from looking forward tothe unknown, hoping there might be something extraordinary in my future.
Especially today.
At the end of the row of gardenias, I pause and pluck a dove-white bloom from the thick bush, bringing it up to my nose and inhaling deeply. The creamy, sweet fragrance immediately conjures up an image of my Grandma Rosie: her wrinkled skin, baby-soft hands, and the kindest, bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.
Gosh, I miss her so much.
Funny how a tiny flower can smell like a memory. Grief is sneaky like that. A sound. A scent. A song. My eyes begin to water, and I will myself to move on.
Tucking the fragrant flower into the front pocket of my overalls, I start my morning chores. Within the hour, I slam the lift gate of my truck closed and rumble across the gravel toward Paradise Road, leaving a plume of dust in my wake.
With my arm resting on the open window ledge, I relish the summer breeze wreaking havoc through my hair. I’m a huge fan of Saturdays, when I’m all alone and free to take my sweet time gathering my wares for the roadside stand. When the back country roads are deserted and I can drive a little faster, one hand sticking out the window.
Sometimes, I bend and dip my fingers, pretending to fly with the noisy black crows soaring high above the open fields. When I don’t have to worry about Kip Johnson reprimandingme for a chore I’d forgotten to do or adding more repairs to a growing list just because he likes to look important in front of the other farmhands and my grandfather.
But I know I’m important too. I have the same last name as my grandparents and the farm. Kip doesn’t hold that legacy. In reality, the bully of a man is just a hired worker.
On the farm, I am king.
With the roadside stand set up and running in no time, I stand back with my hands on my hips and survey my work. The oversized utility buckets overflow with color, and the produce boxes teem with ripe vegetables ready for purchase.
“That’ll do.” I grin. I know the pretty flowers and perfect rows of crated produce might impress Madison if she stops by.
A steady flow of customers keep me busy all morning, cleaning me out of lavender, squash, and most of my tomatoes. Business is booming. During a lull, I take a large swig from my water bottle and stand in the shade of the shack. I stare at the road with hopefulness.
