A Wild Thing

In the secluded tiny backwoods town where I grew up I met a wild thing. And the horse she rode in on.

People are either born for the outdoors or not. Being from the small woodsy town that I was from, born in a backyard shed in what was quite literally the middle of nowhere, I can say that much is true.

I was not one of those people born for the outdoors. I knew this from the time I was 2 years old and fell on the grass running from my pet dog. I stained my knees green and clearly recall that I was mortified. That is not the reaction of a boy who likes the outdoors. 

And there was so much outdoors around me while I was growing up in the country. The deep country. There was nothing around my family's dusty old rural farmhouse for 20 miles except dusty old land.

With the plain exception though of our one and only neighbor whom we'd sold a pocket of our dusty old land to about a generation ago during a period of financial stress in the home, then belonging to my grandparents - both now deceased. These neighbors lived less than a mile from us.

They were the Holloways. We were the Normans. And we never much did care for one another. So even with their relatively close proximity, they may as well have lived in another country. Because we rarely saw or spoke to any of them at all.

Except for one time when I was 13. When I met a Holloway by accident. Or rather, by purposeful accident.

The End

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