The 45th annual Piggott FFA Farm Sale was held this past Saturday, and as usual, Uncle Ronnie and I were there before the first bid. In fact, he and our beloved tag-a-long, Lizzy, were there before sunrise to hand out tickets and work the front gate.
I, however, do not go anywhere before sunrise. Should I rise before the sun, somebody better be dead -- and if they aren't, they're about to be.
I arrived at a respectable 7:45 a.m., got my bid number, and took a sashay through the pasture to see what loot lay in store. This year's sale was the same in many respects as the previous four decades of sales -- hundreds of farm implements and items handcrafted by the FFA students; concessions with cheeseburgers and Cokes (called such be they Pepsi, Mountain Dew or Coca Cola); and a gaggle of farmers bidding and telling tales.
But a few things were different. Last year, it was 30 degrees with snow; this year, 76 degrees and sunny. By midday, folks were shedding clothes and perfecting farmers' tans. Coming-of-age Lizzy, who is usually in tow with us, barely gave us a second glance. A young boy trailed after her, pulling her hair and vying for her attention, which she gave more readily than Uncle Ronnie and I cared for.
"I'd sure hate to put an end to a young fella this early in the morning," he said under his breath.
"Wouldn't bother me a bit," I muttered, catching his grin.
And never before had we ended the day chasing a horse.
The story of how Katie got loose -- whether the boy didn't have a hold of her or whether Lizzy hadn't secured the bridle -- remains a bit unclear, but the result was all the same. Though Katie has 40 acres on which to roam, the grass never looked as green as it did down the long driveway toward the road with oncoming traffic. When a neighbor's dog took after her, too, I couldn't tell if my heart or the horse was racing faster.
Lizzy stayed at the gate while Uncle Ronnie and I pursued in the utility vehicle. "You got the bridle?" I asked, glancing around.
"Naw," he said.
"Lead rope?"
"Naw," he shook his head.
"OK," I probed, "what's the plan here?"
"Wellllll, I don't know."
I laughed. Then I realized he was serious. That's ridiculous, I wanted to say. We need a game plan! We need defensive formations! I bit my lower lip, but my expression already revealed I thought him three pickles shy of a quart.
"I just think it'll work out," he assured.
It's his horse, I tried to remind myself; his horse, his way.
Sure enough, after a bit of cajoling and cutting off at the pass, Katie trotted back to the pasture and the comfort of her favorite tree.
Young love, unbridled mares, and quick tongues are hard to rein in, but I guess sometimes you have to learn to hold your horses.
NAN Our Town on 04/11/2019