ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel

I Had Everything on Our Farm But Pretty Girls

Updated on April 2, 2019
kenneth avery profile image

Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.

No Caption Needed.
No Caption Needed. | Source

Next Door To An Angel

I'm living right next door to an angel

And I just found out today

I'm living right next door to an angel

And she only lives a house away

She used to be a skinny little girl

But all of a sudden she's out of this world

I'm living right next door to an angel

And I'm gonna make that angel mine

Since I saw her this morning

I'm on cloud number nine

There's a garden of Eden

At the house next door to mine

I took a look and oh what a shock

To find a little bit of heaven

— Neil Sedaka, songwriter

I Guess That I Should

be more thankful. I guess that I should be more grateful. But when honesty is staring you in the face, this is very tough. So I will tell the truth about how it was during my young days on a real farm. Some might smirk at the previous remark, but I do not care. I know what and where I was, so you can take it from me. I was raised in Rural Alabama and doggone proud of it.

When I set out to write about the ONE area of lack when I lived on this farm which my family did not own, but rented, I was first skeptical. Then scared to death that I might write something that some might feel as offensive, so I stayed in the high road and will tell you how it was for me at the ages of six to nine.

I can tell you that these years were NOT glamorous. I was not glamorous. I only got a pair of new jeans when school (New Home School) was in session, and other than that, I had to make do—as my parents would be quick to say. And that was fine. Personally speaking, I really didn’t like new jeans because when school started it was in mid-August, the beginning of Dog Days, and very hot. And being like most boys, I ran and jumped at every recess. We had a ball. Except when I would arrive home and when I changed clothes, the dye from the new jeans would be all over my legs. It just couldn’t be helped.

What Were The Chores Like

and I am speaking strictly for myself, but my chores consisted of: making sure that my mom had plenty of wood in her wood box near her wood stove and I also had to keep the firewood set by our big fireplace. I also fed what animals we kept and that was okay. When I grew up, I missed those special farming memories. I never thought that I would ever get away from the farm. Or should I have said, off the farm? At any rate, my family and I made the break back in 1967, but I am not going to entertain any thoughts about that year because from that year on was about non-farming, so I would be telling you a lie, so I won’t.

Our day began at 4:30 a.m. This is when my parents rose from their cushy bed and began to tell me the time and how I should already be up . . .and I never figured that one out. I never ate breakfast and when I did, I would always sneak away to the Boys’ Rest Room at New Home and unload my stomach from the breakfast that made me nauseated. Sorry, but that had to be said.

I was dressed and ready to board my school bus that we rode to New Home School, a country farming school (back then) that was accredited by the State of Alabama Education Dept., so at that time, our state smiled on farming parents and their children so when Harvest Time came, which meant picking cotton and pulling corn, the New Home School children got to help their families get their crops to the market.

My, my!
My, my! | Source

Now I Need to Talk About

the ONE thing that I always disliked about the Farm Life and that ONE thing was girls. Pretty girls! Okay. Write my feelings off and blame puberty for how I missed the perfume and how their hair looked as well as how they talked. You know how it was and my time was the worse because there were NO pretty girls in or near our farm. Actually, the farm was owned by Mrs. Verta Dobbs and my dad share-cropped it for her. I was not old enough to partake in my dad’s work in her fields, but that did not keep me from doing my chores each evening after school.

I have this desire to tell you the truth. The hard, tough truth. Around our homestead, there were girls, but not like the ones that you see on this hub! And this is not a knock on anyone, but oh, how I would wish that maybe, one, just one pretty girl, a single girl, would stop and ask me for directions to somewhere and before she drove away, she and I would fall hopelessly in love. Was that too risque to tell you about what I thought about while I did my chores?

There was this ONE girl, an older girl, “Peggy,” her real name, who was sitting on the school bus on the very first day of school (in 1961) and when I boarded the bus, there was NO room, no seat for me to sit in, but this pretty blond in a voice so soft, said, “You can sit with me,” and I knew that from that one moment, that girls were the Second-Most-Important Creation from God Himself.

I never forgot “Peggy,” and the thing is: we never seen each other from my first ride on the school bus and that is very mysterious. Oh, I knew that she was in a higher grade, but I never got to thank her and show her my appreciation for showing me just a moment of tenderness. As for the rest of the girls (aside from “Peggy”) there were not any to speak of. Not even my playmate, “Debbie,” which was her real name. She was Mrs. Verta Dobbs’ grand daughter and we liked each other, but friends is all we ever were. Since those years while on the farm, I have spoken to “Debbie” just once. And she was still the friendly, humble-spirited woman who made me think of those yesterday’s of playing “House,” and she would make mud pies (No. I did not eat them—I was not that stupid) and talk. Just talk.

God bless “Debbie,” because of her consistency. She maintained “that” same humble, selfless personality that I had known as a child. And I have to admit it. There are not as many “Debbie’s” in this confused and weary world.

Time to Share This

part of my life on the Dobbs Farm. If you will take time to look at each of the photos that I have chosen. And no doubt, you will agree that these girls are extremely-beautiful. Gorgeous, to be exact. I appreciate how God created Pretty Women because they not only are gifted in the area of intelligence, but they adorn the ugly parts of this planet. I am so thankful for God’s infinite thinking in creating the beautiful girls that I would have loved to met and talk to during those lonesome days and nights when I was tending to my chores.

What a sight! Me sitting on my front porch in our porch swing—and see this 1957 red Chevrolet drive down our gravel driveway only to see (one of these) gorgeous females and make it known that (she) had always dreamed of visiting a farm, thus allowing me to escort her around our farmland and be excited for her company.

But, as in all things beautiful, I know that by all honest standards, these girls obviously would be concerned about their fashion-plate clothing getting dirty or maybe torn from something on the wooden fence that surrounded our barn. And there is NO girl going to try and navigate this or any farm while wearing high heels. I know what I am talking about. Girls of his nature would be more concerned about such things as getting a dirty dress or breaking one of their heels or fingernail . . .anything could happen.

But since I am the Master of my Fantasy, I would have these girls dress in work-related clothing and shoes that were made for work so they could walk with me without any fear of getting dirty or their clothing getting dirty and their heels broken. No. I had much rather enjoy the girls’ company than appreciate them in their own fashion sense.

Oh, what a time I would have enjoyed walking around the farm with (one of) these girls on this hub. And what a time I would enjoy talking to them—which I would have done more talking than she would because I would have been over-joyed just to be in the presence of a girl this pretty. But the time would come during our tour that she would begin to ask me what I would consider non-intelligent.

Here is a good example . . .

Pretty Girl: “Oh, Ken, what is that lovely dog doing there?”

Me: “Sweetie, that is not a dog, but a mule.”

Pretty Girl: “Ken, what is a mule?”

After I explain about a mule, she asks if she can ride it. I quickly thwart that idea due to me being bucked off of the mule a scant two weeks ago.

You get the idea. Plus, as the time wore on, she would be getting hungry as I would too, but the worry would have hit me because I know that girls this pretty do NOT eat the same things as I would.

Here is a good example . . .

Pretty Girl: “Ken, I am getting hungry.”

Me: “Oh?”

Pretty Girl: “Yes! What is that delicious aroma?”

Me: “Might be the barnyard, oh you mean the aroma drifting from the kitchen?”

Pretty Girl: “Yes! What are we having?”

Me: “Ohhh, uhhh, cornbread, pinto beans, potato salad, onions, and sweet tea.”

Pretty Girl: “You expect me to eat this foreign food?”

Me: “No, but it is all that we have.”

Pretty Girl: “What do you mean ‘we’?”

The day that these girls (or girl) would stop at our house to get a Farm Tour are astronomical. I would not make book on it happen even if I were a highly-successful book maker in Vegas. Events like the one that I have just told you, simply don’t happen. Maybe somewhere on this planet, but not on the Dobbs Farm where I lived.

Oh, “Peggy,” why did you have to vanish?

April 2, 2019___________________________________________________

Thank God for Beautiful Girls.
Thank God for Beautiful Girls. | Source

© 2019 Kenneth Avery


This website uses cookies

As a user in the EEA, your approval is needed on a few things. To provide a better website experience, uses cookies (and other similar technologies) and may collect, process, and share personal data. Please choose which areas of our service you consent to our doing so.

For more information on managing or withdrawing consents and how we handle data, visit our Privacy Policy at:

Show Details
HubPages Device IDThis is used to identify particular browsers or devices when the access the service, and is used for security reasons.
LoginThis is necessary to sign in to the HubPages Service.
Google RecaptchaThis is used to prevent bots and spam. (Privacy Policy)
AkismetThis is used to detect comment spam. (Privacy Policy)
HubPages Google AnalyticsThis is used to provide data on traffic to our website, all personally identifyable data is anonymized. (Privacy Policy)
HubPages Traffic PixelThis is used to collect data on traffic to articles and other pages on our site. Unless you are signed in to a HubPages account, all personally identifiable information is anonymized.
Amazon Web ServicesThis is a cloud services platform that we used to host our service. (Privacy Policy)
CloudflareThis is a cloud CDN service that we use to efficiently deliver files required for our service to operate such as javascript, cascading style sheets, images, and videos. (Privacy Policy)
Google Hosted LibrariesJavascript software libraries such as jQuery are loaded at endpoints on the or domains, for performance and efficiency reasons. (Privacy Policy)
Google Custom SearchThis is feature allows you to search the site. (Privacy Policy)
Google MapsSome articles have Google Maps embedded in them. (Privacy Policy)
Google ChartsThis is used to display charts and graphs on articles and the author center. (Privacy Policy)
Google AdSense Host APIThis service allows you to sign up for or associate a Google AdSense account with HubPages, so that you can earn money from ads on your articles. No data is shared unless you engage with this feature. (Privacy Policy)
Google YouTubeSome articles have YouTube videos embedded in them. (Privacy Policy)
VimeoSome articles have Vimeo videos embedded in them. (Privacy Policy)
PaypalThis is used for a registered author who enrolls in the HubPages Earnings program and requests to be paid via PayPal. No data is shared with Paypal unless you engage with this feature. (Privacy Policy)
Facebook LoginYou can use this to streamline signing up for, or signing in to your Hubpages account. No data is shared with Facebook unless you engage with this feature. (Privacy Policy)
MavenThis supports the Maven widget and search functionality. (Privacy Policy)
Google AdSenseThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Google DoubleClickGoogle provides ad serving technology and runs an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Index ExchangeThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
SovrnThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Facebook AdsThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Amazon Unified Ad MarketplaceThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
AppNexusThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
OpenxThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Rubicon ProjectThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
TripleLiftThis is an ad network. (Privacy Policy)
Say MediaWe partner with Say Media to deliver ad campaigns on our sites. (Privacy Policy)
Remarketing PixelsWe may use remarketing pixels from advertising networks such as Google AdWords, Bing Ads, and Facebook in order to advertise the HubPages Service to people that have visited our sites.
Conversion Tracking PixelsWe may use conversion tracking pixels from advertising networks such as Google AdWords, Bing Ads, and Facebook in order to identify when an advertisement has successfully resulted in the desired action, such as signing up for the HubPages Service or publishing an article on the HubPages Service.
Author Google AnalyticsThis is used to provide traffic data and reports to the authors of articles on the HubPages Service. (Privacy Policy)
ComscoreComScore is a media measurement and analytics company providing marketing data and analytics to enterprises, media and advertising agencies, and publishers. Non-consent will result in ComScore only processing obfuscated personal data. (Privacy Policy)
Amazon Tracking PixelSome articles display amazon products as part of the Amazon Affiliate program, this pixel provides traffic statistics for those products (Privacy Policy)
ClickscoThis is a data management platform studying reader behavior (Privacy Policy)