There is a farm, a small family farm, in the rural South where time seems to be standing still. Time moves on, of course, but here, like small farms everywhere, little changes. The sun still rises over the pasture across from the house just as it has for decades. It traces its arc over this little farm and sets each evening in the backyard, just as it always has.The mockingbirds practice their song repertoire, a dog barks in the distance and an occasional car passes by on the gravel road. As it was yesterday. As it will be tomorrow.
Farm implements and old vehicles from days past, scattered here and there, seem to have taken root and become part of the landscape.
John, a widower now, no longer able to plant the corn and soybeans as he had for years, leases most of his land to a cattleman. But he is still “farming.” As he drives the aging pick up to the cafe at the four-way stop for breakfast he mentions how sleek the heifers look and “Oh, there’s another new calf.” He makes a mental note of a section of fence that needs mending and that the lawn needs mowing this afternoon. The talk at the cafe is as you would expect. “We sure could use some rain” and “I don’t think soybean prices have been this low in years.” The farm report is on the old TV hanging on the wall and the waitress, with pot in hand, asks “How would you like them eggs darlin’?” and “You ready for a refill?”
Time seems to move slowly here, that’s for sure. And for me, that’s a good thing.