This Rose Has No Thorns
I wake my tired eyes and lift my head up to open the screen of our tent. The zipper makes its usual way down the flap and opens our beds to the bright new day. This is the first sunny day in two that I haven’t fallen asleep and woken to the percussion of trickling drum beats of rain. While falling asleep I’ve taught my mind to think of hearing a variety of different sounds; bursting packaging bubble wrap, cracking eggs, firecrackers, popping corn to cow mud pies dropping. What crazy dreams I’ve had!
These days I have accomplished more than I knew how to before this adventure. The past few day have been filled with finishing numerous odds and ends on Guy Rose’s farm. This man of 73, is always dressed in his predictable matching tan grey pans and shirt. The few old holes in them are worn proudly beneath his suspenders. Those elastic straps ride high on his shoulders, but not as high as his red flat brimmed mesh truckers cap that seem to rest atop his glasses. Beneath the bridge of his nose is a youthful toothless grin that he constantly wears makes me smile even more and accent his personality proportionally. Guy had Chris and me ride in a front end loader to the side of a muddy hill to remove four tires from a truck. The day before I planted two young apple trees into some fresh manure atop the hard clay mountain ground. Someday these trees will bud and keep shade over the crops and create some scrumptious red apples. Guy is so gracious for the help he receives and thanks us with his great stories and insights into life. His voice soothes even the most upset child and drifts me off into a peaceful slumber.
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