...with my window down, the passenger window down a crack, the dog beside me with his tongue hanging out, my new pink John Deere cap on my head and a can of no-name "Sprite" in one hand. Under my feet were the Taz floor mats I found up in the barn (buddy who left 'em there ten years ago probably not gonna miss them I figure). I was wearing a plaid shirt and rubber barn boots. The sun was hot, the air was cool, and I had a truckload of garage and barn garbage and useless plastic car parts I just couldn't wait to get rid of.
I took stock of the whole thing and realized, "Holy crap, I really truly am a hick. There is just no fighting it."
(Also not worth fighting: trying to decide if I'm going to write about our weekend in St John's Newfoundland, or musing about moving the last of our worldly possessions out of the mostly empty house that will only be ours for another four days.)
Turns out I drink a can of pop once year to remind myself I don't like it. Scratching the top of the grinning Pug's head is more fun than steering with a can in hand anyways.