Kevin sold some old bales of hay taking up room in my parent's barn to the woman down the road that owns a service station. This morning, he loaded up 6 bales into the truck. He had to stay at Mom and Dad's farm to help Eli with the barn project.
"Are you OK with taking those down to Ma Barker's?" He asked. "Because, I can take them down there later."
"Come on, it's 6 bales," I scoffed. I am used to handling much more hay than that, and I am good at it. In fact, it has been suggested that I am even better at handling hay than my brother who shall remain nameless.
Off I go to Ma Barkers; pull up next to her fall display area, and begin unloading.
Next thing I know, a tall young man, late teens, strides out of the store, walks up and says, in that unmistakable North Carolina accent:
"Ma'am, are you in need of assistance?"
He was wearing a John Deere cap, well used Carhart coveralls, and work boots. Obviously, he was into farming. (Those people who wear Carharts or Aussie gear as a fashion statement make me wonder. Carhart and Aussie, in my family, are work clothes. They're not meant for "looking cute" as Dad says. "This isn't about looking cute, it's about building fence!" I can remember him saying....)
For a split second, I considered saying no. After all, I am a country girl. I do this every day of my life, practically. My husband does it for part of our living. Did I look like I needed help?
But I reconsidered.
"Why, yes," I said.
The young man hoisted the bales like they were nothing.
"Thank you," I said.
"Have a nice day, Ma'am," he said, and walked back into the store.
I could just picture that young man dumping peanuts into his glass bottle of Coke, leaning on the counter, and chatting with the clerk about deer season, getting the tobacco harvest in, and the very unusual cold weather we've been having in these parts recently. That kid had no idea he was going to star in a blog post today.
I drove home with a huge grin on my face. And I thanked God once again that I live int he rural South.