Summer afternoons were a treat for the people of the town. The golden hue of the slowly setting sun washed over well-tended fields and glinted off windows. Kids shrieked in their yards, dashed to and fro under the illogical law of a game only children can invent. Ice clinked into drinking glasses from a father dropping cubes into his glass of whiskey or his daughter’s lemonade. Porches creaked as the massive hunting dogs plopped down for a breather after a long day. For any outside observer, it was quixotic in a charming, easy way.
The towns in this part of the world knew better than to stretch their luck. When afternoon burned off into evening, everything packed up. Kids and dogs were rallied together and ushered inside. Clothes were brought in from the lines. Farmhands marched in from the fields with an hour of daylight still remaining, the sun’s orange rays reflecting off the tall scythes bobbing high above their shoulders. Whatever work needed doing, it would have to wait until the morning.
The Tall Tale Year 