The Farmer's Son

Chapter 23 Annabelle

An ocean of swaying pale yellow wheat stretched from horizon to horizon to meet a dome of clear blue sky. Smack dab in the middle of that ocean was Geary's sprawling homestead, the barn red house flocked by multiple building, including a six-bay garage, two sheds, and large greenhouse out back. At three o'clock the big red truck cruised along the large hardpacked dirt driveway, passing dozens of cars and jeeps and trucks already parked on the sides, headed towards drunken laughter, loud music, firecrackers, and sweet, smoky barbeque. It was time to celebrate the Fourth of July, where children ran amuck, and by the end of the night, most of the adults would, too.

Parking about halfway up the drive, the Walker men and Ray got out of the truck to walk the rest of the way to the house.

"Last I was here, I didn't really appreciate how much land the Geary's have," Ray said. He was dressed for the occasion in a crisp black shirt tucked into dark jeans, with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, and had shined the scuffs out of his black boots. Moving around so much, he really didn't have "nice" clothes.

"This here's one of the oldest farms in the area," Noah said, walking a few steps ahead of the two young men. He was dressed in a navy-blue shirt, with red and white embroidery on the shoulders and sleeves, tucked into medium wash jeans and his best brown suede boots. He had also worn his best straw hat, a brand new one in fact, with braided straw around the rim. "Been the host of every Fourth as far back as memory goes. Used to be just a handful of families back then; now it's all the farm families in the area."

"All the families that are left," Alan said under his breath. He wore light wash fitted jeans, tan boots with black laces, and an open, long sleeved tan shirt with four large pockets on the front over a crisp white t-shirt.

The memory of the Dalton farm, dilapidated and abandoned to the crows, flashed in Ray's mind. Up ahead, Noah's head turned slightly. If he heard his son's comment, he said nothing.

"Boy," Ray said loudly, "does this remind me of weekend dinners on the ranch." A nostalgic smile spread across his face as they approached the sprawling one-story house surrounded by a wraparound porch. "Everyone gathering in the barn, turning on the twinkle lights, old man Jonhson pulling out his ukulele. Almost makes me regret not wearing my hat," he finished, reaching up to tip an imagery brim. "On second thought, that might not have gone down so well."

"You can relax here," Noah said. "This crowd's different than what was in town. Good, hardworking farmers and their families, who don't think too much about a man's yesterday or tomorrow, but judge him by his here and now."

Ray could not help but smile. He had seen ample evidence to support that in the men with him now.

"And," Alan leaned over and murmured, "when they're all going to drink so much they forget their own name, no one will care who you are."

"Then we'll have something in common," Ray said, making Alan laugh, and causing even Noah to shake his head and chuckle.

By the time they arrived at the front porch, they each already had a beer in one hand and a barbequed rib drenched in Mrs. Geary signature bourbon sauce in the other. The farmers really didn't care that the cowboy had come, and the old men even pulled him into a debate over the perfect way to cook a cut of beef.

As Noah gravitated towards his friends, Alan did the same, introducing Ray to the sons and daughters of the other farmers, who were far less prejudiced than those in town. They took to Ray as quickly as Alan had, and soon he was trading his stories for theirs. Tales of farm pranks gone wrong alternated with stories of truck stop shamans. Sitting on plastic chairs and hay bales, the young men listened to Ray with fascination. Like Alan, most of them had never left the county they were born in.