At sixteen... the town mouse doing
the country mouse thing— on the lam
from the dish-washing, bed-making,
room-cleaning scene... the apron strings,
and all the meaningless mowing of
midtown Mundaniaville lawns--
roughing it wild in the country...
feeling my oats in the hay fields...
lambing the ewe and bottle-nursing
the lambs... sheep-dipping the flock...
playing 'chicken' with the cantankerous
'Ramble-A' ram in the barn, and
on an occasional, coltish whim
stampeding the sheep Hee-yah!
like some silver-screen rustler…
and playing hard at this hard-work
'vacation'... pitch-forking hay into
the wagon... treading the load...
reddening my neck...
browning my arms...
so full of myself and my
awesome new potential... barreling
the old farm truck through the fields
and out onto the ol' North Road
without a license, and dropping us down
into the village, like drovers coming in off
the Old Chisholm Trail on a Saturday night...
pulling up at the Dance Hall... come to
swagger and shoot up the town a little...
sweep the young country wenches of Sebec
off their feet in Virginia reels… only to find
the front steps policed by a lounging,
'guard-dog' contingent of dear God fearsome,
seven-foot-tall Ames boys... cool, territorial
real-deals who shrivel my suddenly
laugh-out-loud, five-foot frame with their...
"Well, look what we got here…one
glorified, genu-wine city slicker!