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Back Porch
Bloom Where You’re Planted
by Robin Kendle Parker
Yancey is a Podunk Texas town. Small but proud. With its one hundred year anniversary coming up, the editor of the Sun Times sent Angie to interview the oldest living resident for his grand centennial issue.
Angie was reared in Yancey. She went to school with her husband and lived in the house her parents vacated when they retired. Yancey was a comfortable enough place, but a place where dreams go to die.
She woke one morning and found herself bored with everything. Her mousy brown hair, the ten pounds she couldn’t lose. The town. Her husband. Her life.
She yearned for glamour, excitement, opportunity. Angie fantasized about living in New York, crafting complex works of exceptional fiction, and sitting in a huge, downtown book store, signing copies of her latest best seller.
Yet it seemed her lot in life to live and die in Yancey, confined to its boundaries, its strong Southern Baptist beliefs, its yearly Bayside Festival. How she wished it was enough, but the thought of spending the afternoon with some hundred-plus year old goat, rambling on about the good old days just left her cold.
“Well,” she muttered, “a clip’s a clip.” Assuring herself that any of her writing that made it into print would bring her that much closer to her ultimate goal, she drove her dusty old Nissan ‘way out Roller Ring Road to the home of Buford Cook.
Mr. Cook sat on his front porch with a tray of iced tea and muffins, waiting for Angie to arrive. The heels of his beat-up brown work boots raised and lowered as he lulled himself in a cane-bottom rocker. A rusty, two-pound coffee can sat near his chair, a gummy brown tobacco goo covering its bottom and leaving a trail down its side.
The porch was weathered but appeared sound. The frame house could have used a coat of paint, yet it seemed to be in pretty good shape. A small place, maybe just one bedroom, in the middle of a ten-acre tract of farm land.
Angie gathered her tape recorder, note pad, several pencils, and greeted the topic of her next feature. “Mr. Cook, how are you? I’m Angie Day from the Sun Times.
Buford waved her up onto the porch. Angie shook his bony hand, surprised at the strength in his grip. “Well, Mr. Buford,” die said in a loud, clear voice, “are you ready to tell me all about yourself?”
Buford chuckled, the cackle of the old. “You don’t have to holler, Miss Day. I ain’t harda hearin’.”
Angie blushed and took a seat on the porch in front of the rocker. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buford. I meant no offense.”
“None taken. Have a glass of tea. And I made these muffins myself”
Angie accepted the tea and treat and set them down beside her.
“I reckon it’s hard for a youngster like yourself to be around an old codger like me.”
“No, sir,” she lied. “But since you brought it up, how old are you, exactly.” Angie clicked on her recorder.
“I believe I just turned the comer on a hunard ‘n ten.” He thought for a moment. “Yep, one ten.”
How could anyone hang on for that long? she thought. Why would anyone want to? “My goodness, Mr. Cook. That’s	quite	an	accomplishment.”
Buford laughed again. “I can’t say I had too much to do with it, Miss Day. I just keep waking up every morning. One day I won’t, and that’ll be just fine, too.” ‘Tell me about yourself Mr. Cook. Have you lived here long?”
“Lands, yes, Child.” Buford laughed and wiped his mouth with a wrinkled wad of a handkerchief “Me ‘n Ma ‘n Pa lived right near here a few years afore anyone even thought about namin’ the town Yancey.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “It’s named after a old milk cow, ya know.”
“Really?” Angie scribbled notes in her own hieroglyphic form of shorthand.
“Well, the old Widow Kane had herself this cow. The only one to escape the anthrax epidemic. Folks figured it was some kinda omen. Superstitious old fools. So they named the town after Yancey the milk cow.” He laughed again, enjoying his memories.
“Mr. Cook, to what do you credit your long life?”
“I reckon the good Lord just ain’t got my room ready yet. Miss Day. I’m in good health, always have been. But
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