Rarely would anyone from our rural community ever see him in anything other than dress pants and a finely pressed button up. He wore shorts and support socks, and what looked to be orthopedic shoes.
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I looked closely at his almost full head of hair and was thankful it allotted some protection from the sun. Laughing, as was his habit in all things, he began telling me that fretting was a common occurrence among friends and family who felt he should not be putting a garden in this year. It was above 90 degrees, but the sun was gentler now, as it began a westerly descent. Navigating the rough ground in high heel shoes and the dress attire I wore to campus that day, I began wagging my finger at the aged, and recently widowed Pastor. Leaving the air con running with my dog barking out the passenger window, I headed toward him. Braking quickly, I turned off Hwy 107, parking in front of his truck. I could see his walker parked at the end of the row.
Stretching to handle the barely budded, not yet produce. Woah! There he was in the middle of his little quarter acre garden, just a bit on the other side of the by-pass.
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