Friday's on the farm were always hectic––harvest day. In the height of the season, they could start as early as 6:30am and go until dark, harvesting, then packing the van, eating lunch and finishing what tasks you could before nightfall. The next day we would get up at 4:15am, our bodies sorely protesting, and leave for Nashville around 5 for our Saturday morning market.
Ira was six. He'd spent his whole life in the forest, fishing, hunting bugs and lizards, swimming, constructing, deconstructing, and simply living a pretty ideal life for a six-year-old. And like many true country boys, he loved cars. One of these sunny Saturday mornings Ira was awake, and on our way down to Nashville he asked me about every car we passed.
"What's that one called?" A BMW.
"And that one?" That's a Scion.
"That one?" That one's a Toyota Corolla.
I was surprised by how many I knew, not being much of a car guy and all. He continued asking all the way to the Nashville and I didn't miss a single one, until we pulled into Richland park where they held our farmer's market he asked,
"What kind of tree is that?" and I had no idea.
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