A kick in the face!

There is nothing quite like a breakfast trip with my small town Indianaianiananin (from Indiana) grandparents to the local Mom's Restaurant, wherein the ceiling is lined with dollar bills signed by patrons past, all of whom were likely the same type of customers you see now - predominantly overweight, all white.

The restaurant lies on the corner of an intersection and is neighbor to a gas station, which sells live bait, and a church. All around this uncharacteristically large intersection (five roads!) are farms. Fields and fields of crops. On the opposite side of one swiftly yellowing field lies a thin barrier of likewise yellowing trees - the only thing separating my house and its respective community from this intersection.

I eat biscuits and gravy, a scrambled egg, hash browns. My grandparents order grits with their meal. It is familiar territory.

My father has started his own miniature farm in our backyard. Some might call it a garden. Corn, cucumbers, green onions. These are all harvested already. There are a few tomatoes left. He even planted some watermelon. They are still small.

Welcome home, Jonny Boy. Welcome home.