Eye On Life Magazine

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The Farmer's Daughter 

Back in 1957, kissing Carol Ann behind the barn 
​in the middle of a windswept field of Goldenrod 
​with a sudden deer watching was very special,
​let me tell you. Back then, bobby sox, poodle skirts 
​big barrettes and ponytails were everywhere.

Like many farmers, Carol Ann's father had a giant radio, 
​a console occupying the living room, and every 
​Saturday night the family would gather 'round
​with great big bowls of ice cream and listen 
​to the Grand Ole Opry. It was beamed 
​“all the way from Nashville," I was often told  
​since I was from Chicago and I sometimes wore 
​a suit and tie so how would I know.

One time I asked Carol Ann if the Grand Ole Opry 
​was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of country music 
​and she said not to say that to her father. Instead 
​I should tap my foot to the music and let him watch me. 
​Otherwise, I’d best be quiet and say “yup,” “nope” or 
​“maybe” if he asked me any questions which she didn’t 
​think would happen. "No need to say much more," 
​she said, and after a few visits I understood why.

Over time, I learned to tap my foot pretty good because 
​when I’d come to visit, her father would insist I have 
​my own big bowl of ice cream. I liked the ice cream but 
​not so much the Grand Ole Opry. After all, I’d been weaned 
​on Sinatra in the city. Big difference, let me tell you.

But in 1957 kissing Carol Ann behind the barn 
​was all that we could do until I found employment. 
​Only then, her father said, could we get married. 
​There were no jobs in town, however, for a man 
​with horn-rimmed glasses and degrees in English.

Yet the weekend drives from Chicago were worth the gas 
​my Rambler guzzled because kissing Carol Ann brought 
​a bit of heaven down behind that barn, especially on 
​summer nights when darting fireflies were the only 
​stars we saw when our eyes finally popped open. It was 
​the Fourth of July every time with sparklers twinkling.

Now, 55 years later, Carol Ann sometimes mentions fireflies 
​when the two of us are dancing behind the cows at dusk
​and coaxing them into the barn for the night. I’m still not 
​good with cows despite my John Deere cap, plaid shirt 
​and overalls which proves, she says, that all that kissing 
​behind the barn in 1957 took the boy out of the city 
​but not the city out of the boy.

“Hee Haw” is all I ever say because I know why I’m there. 
​I'm there to tap the cows on the rump until we get them 
​back in the barn so we can go back in the house and start 
​with a kiss and later on come back downstairs 
​for two big bowls of ice cream.

-- Donal Mahoney