Riding With A Blonde

 

The day was hot, sultry hot, South Georgia hot. It was humid, dripping wet sweat humid. The air was heavy, tiring-the-lungs heavy. Yet here I was, outside, standing in the shade of an oak tree on a farm located off Tricia Yearwood Parkway in Monticello, Georgia, perspiring freely from the effort on just being there. But I would not leave that spot for all the ice-filled pitchers of lemonade in Jasper County.

I wouldn’t leave because she was there. I should have felt some guilt. I should have been in the kitchen of my cousin’s house helping my wife clear the dishes from the feast on which we’d just partaken. I wasn’t. I was here. I was captivated. I was unable to move. I could not take my eyes off the beauty that was before me.

She was blonde, naturally blonde. The silky strands of hair were cut just at her shoulder. Bangs accented her forehead. The eyes were blue, deep, deep blue -- eyes that seemingly drew me close and held me tight. Her complexion was that of a beauty-bar soap TV model. She had that fresh look. She was captivating.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked with a smile that would melt any man.

I probably shouldn’t do this, I thought. I looked around. No one was interested in what I was doing. We didn’t have to be gone long. Why not? How often, at my age, does an opportunity as this come along?

Opening the passenger door to the pickup truck, I took her arm in a gentlemanly manner and assisted her on the seat. Walking around I slid behind the steering wheel, cranked the engine, looked over into those blue eyes and said, “Where to?”

“Let’s just see the farm, okay?”

“Sure.” I hopped out and opened the gate to the pasture. Back in the cab I nudged the truck into and out across the pasture. She seemed lost in thought. Her arm resting on the open window provided a pillow for her chin. Blonde, silky hair was blown about giving her an even more carefree and free-spirit appearance. I resisted the impulse to reach across and run my fingers through the dancing strands.

How long we rode that way is hard to say. Time seemed to dance away and disappear across the horizon. Somewhere on the backside of the farm she looked over at me and smiled. “This is nice,” she commented matter-of-factly. “Could I drive?”

“No problem,” I said. She seemingly floated into the driver’s seat. How petite she was, as she sat forward to reach the pedals.

My head was snapped backward as her foot stomped the gas. The truck literally leaped up and across the pasture. Cows stopped chewing and stared. She let up on the gas, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Sorry. I guess that was too fast.”

“It was okay,” I replied, prisoner to the smile.

Half an hour later and a dozen wheelies through the grass and a few airborne adventures over inclines in the terrain, we were back at the house. That's when my wife confronted me. “Was that Ansley driving that truck!? Are you out of your mind!? She’s eight years old!”

Maybe I was, but, then again, one has to factor in that blonde hair, those blue eyes, and that knowing smile that was now proclaiming me the coolest grandfather in Georgia.

The day was hot, sultry hot, South Georgia hot. It was humid, dripping wet sweat humid. The air was heavy, tiring-the-lungs heavy. Yet here I was, outside, standing in the shade of an oak tree on a farm located off Tricia Yearwood Parkway in Monticello, Georgia, perspiring freely from the effort on just being there. But I would not leave that spot for all the ice-filled pitchers of lemonade in Jasper County.

I wouldn’t leave because she was there. I should have felt some guilt. I should have been in the kitchen of my cousin’s house helping my wife clear the dishes from the feast on which we’d just partaken. I wasn’t. I was here. I was captivated. I was unable to move. I could not take my eyes off the beauty that was before me.

She was blonde, naturally blonde. The silky strands of hair were cut just at her shoulder. Bangs accented her forehead. The eyes were blue, deep, deep blue -- eyes that seemingly drew me close and held me tight. Her complexion was that of a beauty-bar soap TV model. She had that fresh look. She was captivating.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked with a smile that would melt any man.

I probably shouldn’t do this, I thought. I looked around. No one was interested in what I was doing. We didn’t have to be gone long. Why not? How often, at my age, does an opportunity as this come along?

Opening the passenger door to the pickup truck, I took her arm in a gentlemanly manner and assisted her on the seat. Walking around I slid behind the steering wheel, cranked the engine, looked over into those blue eyes and said, “Where to?”

“Let’s just see the farm, okay?”

“Sure.” I hopped out and opened the gate to the pasture. Back in the cab I nudged the truck into and out across the pasture. She seemed lost in thought. Her arm resting on the open window provided a pillow for her chin. Blonde, silky hair was blown about giving her an even more carefree and free-spirit appearance. I resisted the impulse to reach across and run my fingers through the dancing strands.

How long we rode that way is hard to say. Time seemed to dance away and disappear across the horizon. Somewhere on the backside of the farm she looked over at me and smiled. “This is nice,” she commented matter-of-factly. “Could I drive?”

“No problem,” I said. She seemingly floated into the driver’s seat. How petite she was, as she sat forward to reach the pedals.

My head was snapped backward as her foot stomped the gas. The truck literally leaped up and across the pasture. Cows stopped chewing and stared. She let up on the gas, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Sorry. I guess that was too fast.”

“It was okay,” I replied, prisoner to the smile.

Half an hour later and a dozen wheelies through the grass and a few airborne adventures over inclines in the terrain, we were back at the house. That's when my wife confronted me. “Was that Ansley driving that truck!? Are you out of your mind!? She’s eight years old!”

Maybe I was, but, then again, one has to factor in that blonde hair, those blue eyes, and that knowing smile that was now proclaiming me the coolest grandfather in Georgia.