JERSEY FARM BOY BLOGS

 
Good day, bloggers. I’m Pete Tucker. Yes, this old farm boy now wields his pen rather than his pitchfork. A little while back, I finally started to keep a diary, then got caught up in this blogging frenzy. Who knew? Excerpts from my diary are contained herein.

By way of further introduction, my wife and I live on the old family farm, yes, the farm where I grew up and milked cows in the wee hours of the morning. The “fun” continued after school. The whole long saga amounted to a most unusual childhood experience, so much so that I have seen fit to write two books about it. Unless you’re a tad stodgy, you will laugh!

Should you care to read, just visit AMAZON. COM, type in the name Pete Tucker. Voila! There’s my books. It still amazes me that your order will be in your mail within approx. three days.

Finding the farm isn’t that easy. Yes, GPS will get you to the end of the lane, but I recall a joke that one of us would repeat when we were traveling back home from, let’s say, Grandma’s house in Michigan. We’d finally pull up to the mouth of the lane and one of us would say, “Well, we’re half way home.”

Indeed, the unknowing individual would find it hard to believe that somebody actually lived that far off the road, but us hillbillies did! It was life in the country and we pay dearly to get back here, especially in the winter.

I should add a little perspective, though. Our lane is long, but it doesn’t hold any world record. We were leisurely driving one day in the depths of Nowheresville, West Virginia. It was hilly, remote country, spectacularly beautiful. Way in the distance, Judy and I spied a lane that ascended a mountain to a house at its very top. Without doubt, the resident here undertook a veritable journey just to get from the road to their house.

Stopped in the car at the mouth of this lane, Jude and I engaged in a conversation about what motivates someone to live on a lane that was obviously far longer than ours. For the fun of it, we opted to take a drive up, introduce ourselves, and ask them. Chances were we’d meet someone of like mind, or perhaps my reader hears the intermittent pluck of a banjo!

At long last, we pulled up to the house. The view from up here was close to indescribable. A young lady answered our knock at her door. Though a bit taken aback by our unlikely arrival, she was of pleasant disposition and wore a winsome smile. She appreciated our enthusiasm for her location as Jude and I explained that we, too, were “Lanies”.

In further conversation, it became apparent that she lived here alone. Our chat ventured to the motivations that possess someone to live this remotely. She said nothing. She simply pointed her hand toward the vast acreage within our mutual sight.

“Need I say more”, she subtlety inquired.

Her point was well taken. There was no need for her to say anything. We didn’t stay long. We exchanged good byes and descended from the mountain. It was a brief and unexpected spiritual moment there in “Almost Heaven.”

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