Some things in life leave an indelible mark on you and piling into Granddaddy’s old Dodge pickup truck on Saturday mornings with my brother and sisters to go to town is one such memory for me.
His farm was about half way between Decaturville and Scots Hill off of old Highway 100 in the rolling red clay soil hills of West Tennessee.
We’d go to Decaturville if Granddaddy got the urge to lend the bank some of his money— yes, that’s how he put it—and he carried the promissory notes around in his overalls breast pocket to prove it, in a big fat leather wallet that I suspected all farmers of his generation toted in their overalls breast pockets next to their pocket watches. Continue reading……. The Glass Eye