old rides

The school bus cum chicken coop

The Buick (?) cum Pasture Pal

Since I come out to the Ozarks to enjoy splendid isolation (and a handful of real friends), I'm not much on socializing with the neighbors. But sometimes my curiosity—and their persistence—gets the best of me an I succumb to, say, a picnic. "I'm one of those people who thinks a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet," said Randy (every man in Thomasville seems to be named Randy, a name I can't but deplore, or Rodney). So off I went to see the horses, the fruit trees, the above ground pool, the home-raised and home-canned pork, the wild plum wine stock, the persimmon moonshine and the old cars that inhabit the pastures and woods. Don't be a stranger!