Hard-Won Approval In the spring of 1989 I moved into the doublewide, which turned out to be a real pit. The previous owner’s presence lingered in the smell of tobacco and brown smoke stains covering ceiling and walls. Sue would have to put her magic touch on the place. I couldn’t wait to introduce her to the ranch, have her feel that rush, that high the land offered. Maybe to christen it, we would throw a mattress in the pickup and head off to the grove by the Little White River. She had declined my most recent invitation to visit, saying she had her hands full on Lazy B. Oh well, I thought, eventually she’ll get here. In the meantime, I was eager to get acquainted with the ranch, learn its rhythm and language, idiosyncrasies and needs. Mornings soon became my favorite time. I’d lie in bed listening to chirps and caws and rustling leaves, then brew a pot of coffee and drink a cup on the porch. The wild turkeys would fly down from their perch and feast on a breakfast of grasshoppers.
