Foley, located right smack dab in the middle of nowhere but one giant dustbowl's, where I call home. I've always been a plowseed and can't n'er see being nothing else.

I plant eighty acres of corn, and tend forty head of the finest Black Angus cows you ever laid your eyeballs on. The fattest ones in Claxton County by far. So, I always have good, high grade fertilizer for my main plantings.

My pride and joy fifty foot long garden is stashed down yonder in back of the cornfields, on the far side of my two-room clapboard house. Far off the beaten path so no one knows it's there.

I don't bother to keep the homestead up. It stays in bad repair. Paint's cracked and peeling off the exterior of the 160 year old structure. Several windows are boarded over with plywood covering where the glass panes should be. Best of all, the rickety wood porch creaks every time the wind blows.

I know the place could stand a good tidying up, instead I let it rot away, kind of like the critters that roam my garden. No one's been out to visit the place for 50 years or more since I paid a paltry penny for it from Old Man Cooper, the last caretaker of the place before I come on the scene.

That don't bother me none. Long as I can keep my harvester running I am a happy camper. I love the sound that thing makes! What a roar. Drowns out all other racket for miles around.

'Sides, no one lives here except for me and Ole Blue, my shaggy haired, flop-eared mutt. Course, he's the damndest dog I ever seen. Ole Blue's treed many a coon, and, I always reward him each time he does.

His reward? The privilege of ripping them apart one little piece at a time. Now, before you go getting all animal lover on me let me tell you I don't care what you say about that. The dog's gotta enjoy his sporting ways somehow.

I turn the key in my harvester and the rumbling engine makes my heart swell with joy. I always keep plenty of gasoline in that old thing. Never know how long I may plow with it. The longer I do the happier I am.

The sun beating down makes the day another scorcher. Summers in these parts get mighty warm. However, I got a chore to take care of before I down another fifth of whiskey and grub up.

I also got my new orders in. I get 'em from the local lawman. Been doing a little side work for him a long while now. He really appreciates my job performance cause he keeps me well in stock.

There's nothing to raising this crop neither. Why, it don't even need to be watered. I dig a hole, poke it in the ground, bury it up to its neck, and leave the head out.

I see Ole Blue's done treed hisself another coon. A big, juicy looking one at that. "Good boy," I call over to him as I turn the harvester around and head for my prized garden. I encourage Blue to "Enjoy your catch. I know I'm gonna enjoy mine!"

The closer I come to my garden the louder I hear the screams and see the terrified looks on the faces of my soon to be harvested crop.

I drive my machine up one row and down another. By the time I'm done heads roll everywhere and the sun's setting.. My hard day's work complete, I can rest.

I casually stroll to the head of my garden. I drop down into my hole at the front of the first row waiting for the next call to come in that it's harvesting time again. When the call comes you can bet me, Ole Blue, and my trusty harvester will be ready.