Opinion

OPINION | Lisa Kelley-Gibbs: FFA auction offers chance to tease city-boy spouse

‘Your people’ will understand


The 48th annual Piggott FFA Farm Sale was held on April 1 -- no foolin' -- and Uncle Ronnie and I were there as usual. We began texting each other about the sale in mid-January. While we enjoy the auction and camaraderie of the folks in attendance, I do believe the anticipation of the event is half the fun. My getting hitched to semi-city-boy Trapper John has also added fuel to the fire, especially since I fancy needling him about the crazy things I might drag home.

I started laying the groundwork early on with Trapper about how I thought a llama would be nice to have; how there would likely be an old school bus for auction that I could renovate into an RV we could live in; and how I could put all the other large, heavy, rusted hunks of metal I bought into the bus to haul home. "Win-win!" I told him.

Now, I knew full well that there would be no animals at the implement-only sale, and that the auctioned buses likely wouldn't run, much less make it the six-hour drive home. But Trapper didn't know that. What he did know was that his wife was apt to do any of these things on her own accord, and twice as likely when in tow with her uncle. He also knew that saying "no" was tantamount to a "double-dog dare," so he carefully gauged his responses to my needling for weeks. Maintaining a healthy level of fear in your spouse may just be the key to a happy marriage.

The Clay County Fairgrounds filled up early that morning with most of the same folks who are usually in attendance, and the majority of them were dressed in the same farmers' uniform -- blue jeans, boots, plaid shirt and a ball cap. At one point, I lost track of Uncle Ronnie and wanted to find him about a bid. The preacher asked what he was wearing. I told him -- and we chuckled as I described the appearance of nearly every man there, right down to the gut and balding head.

The cell tower was still down from recent tornadoes, so calling him did no good. That's when a fellow standing nearby offered an insightful word.

"You can always tell your people. Even in a sea of folks, from way off, when you see them, you'll know it's them. You can tell by the way they walk or carry themselves. You know they're yours."

I looked up to see Uncle Ronnie, leaning against a mule; his head tilted downward, listening intently to another fella. I smiled, noticing I was standing the same way, listening to the preacher.

On Easter Sunday, Trapper dropped me off at the church entrance while he parked the car in what seemed like Oklahoma. As I scanned the bevy of pastel sinners crossing the parking lot, I spied a silhouette with a familiar lanky gait.

You really can tell your people. Sometimes, you can even tell them you bought a llama.


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