So, I was thinking back, as I often do, to a conversation I recently had with my barber. It’s in my bio, and I tell anyone who will listen, that if you inform me as to the origins of anything, I’m all ears. I think, with some derision, my lady barber set out to prove me wrong…and I’ll quite assuredly remark that she has a point – but only to an omission filled extent.
She had gone on into some tedious red tape, explaining why the strip mall didn’t share a parking lot with the neighboring tire shop. After her story, she looked into my glazed eyes, and said mockingly, “There! Now you know the origins of that!”
I admit, I didn’t particularly care. However, If she would have informed me that, before the strip mall and parking lot existed, the area we stood upon was a farmer’s field, I definitely would have found that interesting. Or better yet, had she explained which tribe’s domain we infringed upon, so I could get my balding head trimmed, I certainly would have been all ears.
And now, I’m about to get sidetracked. It just so happens, as I speak of farm fields, that kitty corner, set right next to a roundabout, one that’s a stone’s throw from my barbershop, an old farm proudly stands. I can almost imagine this farmer’s defiant strut, while heading to his dilapidated barn, as he surveys the sea of commercial buildings surrounding his domicile.
With this farm in mind, if anybody wants a cheesy novel idea, one suitable for a Lifetime or Hallmark channel adaptation, I imagine a farm girl, possibly the farmer’s daughter, maybe his niece, hell, maybe a grand daughter, visiting sweet old Uncle Rueben during her summer break at the U.
While there, as the village board comes with orders to tear the eyesore of a barn down, one alderman, a dashing and promising local official, catching a glimpse of the lass coursing the fields in a John Deere, finds an excuse to delay the demolition.
Then, he introduces himself, they get a drink, and a few weeks later, they’re frolicking in the hay loft. And then, to save Uncle Rube’s farm, they give the barn a face lift and turn the farm into an agritourism spot.
Uncle Rube passes, the young lass inherits the farm, the kids help out, heck even the dog is in on the act.
Think someone would buy it? Go ahead, see how it works. And note: no, I don’t have a copyright. I really don’t write romance…but as you can tell, I’ve suffered through a few.
So anyways, that was a bit rambling – but a ton of fun. I hope you enjoyed reading it; I certainly had fun writing it.