Page 12 of From Rivals to I Do

“We’re out of that senior horse feed for Tango,” I reply as I get up with a grunt, my knees starting to weaken, not what they once were.

Guess I’ll need some of that feed soon too, I think to myself, holding back a chuckle. Fifty-four isn’t some spring chicken.

“Aw shoot,” Mitch replies. “Did you want me to go get it?” he asks, and I look at my wristwatch and shake my head.

“Nah, it’s nearly six now. You’ve already stayed way longer than you should have for the day,” I say as I walk out of the shed and into

the sun, its rays warming my face. “Just make sure all the tools you’ve been using are put away and head home.”

“Well, alright then,” Mitch replies as he follows me out. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yep, I’ll catch ya later,” I say as I pat my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still there and head for my truck. I crank up the tunes

and head out to town, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to Clint Black’s “Like the Rain” as I weave through the hills.

I make it to town just as the radio’s DJ switches for the night crew, signaling that it was finally six. The six o’ clock crew played mostly

new stuff, and while I don’t hate the newer stuff, I’m definitely a nineties and older kind of country man.

Give me Travis Tritt, Clint Black, Joe Diffie, Mark Chestnut. . . even Shania if you had me in the right mood. Mel had loved her, that’s for

sure. Her and those Dixie Chicks, but I suppose they’re not called that anymore. The Chicks is what they’re called now, I think. Either

way, the nineties were an amazing time for me, a time when love had found me. I cherish them and those songs deeply. They remind

me of better times.

I stepped into a supply store and, much to my frustration, had to try two others before I found Tango’s feed, everyone else but

Weatherby’s out of stock. As I lifted the two bags I’d snagged and put them into the back of my old Ford F-350, I felt my pocket

vibrate.I dipped my hand in and pulled out my phone, unlocked the screen, and saw that Zack had texted.

Hey Dad, since you’re downtown, do you think you could stop at the store and grab me some deodorant and some snacks? Honey

mustard pretzels, pickles, and some salt and vinegar chips?

Sure, I replied as I climbed into the cabin of the truck and chuckled to myself. You’re going to become a pickle at this rate with all those

pickles and salt.

Luckily, when I pull into the parking lot of the store, it’s pretty dead, which is probably not so great for the store but great for me. I’m

not really much of a man for crowds, nor do I really socialize much, so I avoid them any time I can. Plus, it means I can actually get to

the butcher counter to talk to Alan about bringing a few cows down for him to take care of and sell. Something I’ve been meaning to

do for weeks.

I grab a handbasket and get to work, first grabbing a few things I knew we would need soon, remembering that we were out of bacon,

having used the rest on breakfast this morning. Then, I began to start on Zack’s little list.

Admittedly, I’m distracted by my own thoughts as I quickly glance down at my phone screen when suddenly, something slams me

square in the chest as I turn down the chip isle, something hard. When I look away from my phone and down at my chest, it’s covered

in bits of blueish-purple goop and crusty flakes, alongside a couple of soft blueberries. The aroma of pie fills my nose.

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