...Cow Palace Parties

I had made it all of the way through Tennessee. Through the grasslands and over the foothills I marveled at the golden-green that surrounded me. Tall grass shifted in a rain dance as I stopped for a picnic lunch of biscuits and pineapple jelly that Barb had wrapped up for me before I left McNairy County. She really is the loveliest woman.

She sent me off with a hug and a smile. Alex, smelling like tobacco and hickory smoke, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. They walked out to the edge of the driveway to give me the traditional Robinson farm send off as the dogs chased my car down the pavement. It is with love and regret that I put my back to that old farm house. The one with the oak tree in the front yard. But there is so much more to see, and so little time in which to see it. I must press on.

Destination: Gate City Virginia. Of all of the sights that were seen and things that were done this summer, I will always have the fondest memories of those who saw and did along side of me. One of those marvelous fellows was Kevin. A William and Mary student, he is one of the smartest, kindest souls that exists in this world. He has a grizly smile. Lopsided and endearing, he was always in a bright mindset. Over the ten weeks and several adventures we spent together I began to put together the pieces of his home-world.

He lives on a farm. A horse farm, nonetheless. His father sells tractors and his sister competitively trains and rides Quarter Horses. Even if that was the end of it, he was already living in my dream world. But oh, what a life he lives.

Kevin Cox lives in paradise. His house sits atop a throne of green and oversees the goings on of two barns, two riding rings, and several acres of pastureland. The plot next door is also owned by the Coxes. On this small (read: several acre large) chunk of land sits a smokehouse, spring-house, and farmhouse, all built in the days of Daniel Boone. By a friend of Daniel Boone. A close friend. There were carvings in the wall from the turn-of-the-century and beyond, some including stories of hands that were lost in machining accidents. Kevin recalled ghost stories that had been passed down through generations of Coxes. As he touched on the tale of a small girl who has a tendency to make ghastly mirror appearances, a grizzled old man walked through the door and said, "Boo!"

Pa, Kevin's grandfather, had recently turned 90 and celebrates his life by hitting on young women (in the most adorable-yet-creepy way) and flipping over riding lawn mowers. I wish I was exaggerating. Pa is what I imagine my Paw Paw would have ended up had he lasted a bit longer. I realized, however, as Pa laughed at his own joke, where Kevin got that smile of his. This old man was so full of life, so full of the love of life. He is the kind of man that could sit across from you, not saying anything or even acknowledging your presence, and you still learn something. He emanates wisdom. The kind that can only be gained by an open mind and a wide open heart.

With Kevin's girlfriend manning the wheel I was taken on a golf cart tour of the backside of the Cox family land. We visited the river. Well, we almost drove into the river, to be precise. Who knew that the golf cart had no breaks? Catie didn't, apparently. Nor did I, however, so I will point no fingers. After pushing that cart back up the hill we headed for the crown jewel of the property: the Cow Palace.

You see, the Cox Family Farm, much like the Robinson farm, used to be a working Cow farm. Unlike Wayne's little chunk of cow pie, however, the Coxes ran a dairy operation. The Cow Palace was the central hub of business: the milking barn. A shotgun building, The Cow Palace rests above all of the other buildings and appears rather unassuming. One step inside, however, proves that it is anything but.

The main room contains a pool table, a ping-pong table, and a big screen tv. Couches litter the free space, and the walls are covered in maps and posters. Shutters hide the kitchen and bar from view when children are involved in the revelry, and are thrown open when more mature crowds are around and are demanding bloody Marys. All I could think about as I stood in awe was how much my Uncle Bobby would appreciate this hideout.

Each farm I have stopped at on this trip has further fanned the flame in my heart for my own piece of this planet. A place to call home. While yes, I pine for a farm with some horses, at this point in my life I would be satisfied with little more than 300 square feet to call my own. It's hard, you know, to have to move every 9 months. It's hard to finally become used to a location, to fall in love with its creaks and crevaces, and then to have it ripped away right under your nose.

All I ask for is to stay in one place until I feel like moving. Not until someone else decides it's time for me to leave. Is that so much to ask?

Bis dann!
Love, love, lusting-for-home love,
Amy Plunk!