The Merry Cherry Farm

The green John Deere tractor coughs to life like a prehistoric animal awakening from a dormant winter. Its long, pipe-like nostril sends smoke out the metallic lid, creating a faint ding, ding, ding that can be heard from the sleeping windows of the farmhouse just a few feet away. John Robert Jones sits aloft the spluttering beast as an Arab sits upon his steed, gazing out across the desert, contemplating the long journey ahead.

After a few moments, he stands up and peers into the hazy, early morning mist to survey the rows upon rows of ripe, ready-to-be picked tobacco plants lining the flat farmland like green, waist-high sentries standing at attention. He is pleased. The weather has been kind to him this year, producing just the right amount of moisture from the rain with just the right amount of heat from the sun to make the crop lush and full.

The beast is calm now, purring beneath him, ready for the push toward the barns at the back of the farm. It’s time to put everything in check for the workday ahead. To punctuate the moment, he grasps the steering wheel with one hand, and with the other hand’s index and middle finger pressed to his lips to form a “V,” sends a long, thin stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt path where it splats, creating a hasty puff of smoke. He sits down again, pushes the clutch in, slides the stick easily into gear, and he and his green steed gently…