Farmer's Daughter
By
Mateo Hellion
Oh man, did I get myself into it this time! Not that I had much of a chance to begin with. Between her long red hair that stopped midway down her back and the freckles that rested on her high cheekbones... and then the fact that she's a farmer's daughter, I was a goner from the first day I laid eyes on her. I have a thing for country girls.
I remember the first day we met. Well, I met. I was selling corndogs at the fair and she bought one, so I don't know if that technically counts as meeting each other. But I was hooked right then and there. She was wearing a jean skirt and red cowboy boots. I didn't know you could be jealous of a piece of food, but that day I would have sold my soul to be that corndog.
I thought about her every day at the fair, constantly looking for her in the crowds. I wished her to visit my booth again, to order another corndog. But she never showed. She was like a ghost haunting my thoughts. She was always there but I was never able to touch her. Then on the last night of the fair my luck seemed to finally change.
As I drove my truck down Kettle Creek Road, which is more of a dirt path than road, I saw her skipping rocks into the creek. I thought I was hallucinating at first. Too many lemonades, too many helpings of fair food, too many hours of fair noises and brightly colored lights flashing and spinning. But when she turned and waved at me I knew it was real.
I stopped my truck and walked around to the front bumper. She scurried up the embankment to the tire tracks matted down in the grass and smiled. "Hi. Thanks for stop'n could I ask you for a ride? It's a bit of a walk for me."
I don't think I even said anything back. I think I just nodded like I was a deer caught in the headlights of my old Chevy C10. She climbed in through the passenger door and sat down on the bench seat, closing the door with a kurrump-clang. My friends all hated that door with its sound causing dent, but to me it made the truck. Old trucks are supposed to have dents and scrapes, sputters and Kurrump-clang's. Gives them character.
She looked at me with her green eyes with a puzzled look as I climbed in behind the wheel, "Don't I know you?"
"Uh, I sold you a corndog a few nights ago." I managed to say.
"Right, best corndog I've ever eaten!" She said with a smile. Damn, her teeth were even perfect.
That seemed to break the ice, because we talked the whole way to her farm. We had a lot in common, more than I ever imagined we could. In fact, talking with Camille was like talking with an old friend.
Her dad's farm was a few miles past the county line. It was hard to see in the dark what type of farm he was running. But there was the usual field, barn, live stock, and tractor. Camille had me stop the truck at the driveway and thanked me for the ride.
"Hey Camille, think I can see you again?" I asked.
She lit up like I had just made her night, "Sure, but you'd have to meet my father. He's kind of picky about people I meet."
"I can do that."
"Pick me up in the morning? Say seven-ish?" she asked.
As I drove away I couldn't believe how well my chance encounter with the perfect girl had gone. Then the self doubt hit me. This was too good to be true! My gut told me that her dad was going to be an ass. One of those over protective fathers who answered the door with a shotgun in hand, loaded with buck not rock salt. I didn't sleep well that night. I felt like my entire future rested on my first impression with Camille's father.
