...a simple kinda life never did me no harm/ A raisin’ me a family and workin’ on a farm....
Strong and bright, the sun coaxes us to take down the top. Our new pixie, Trixie, flutters energetically from the rear view mirror.
For the rest of this month, I have a weekday gig at a petting farm, which sounds very senusal, though not in an adult way. This gig, courtesy of the ever persuasive Michael Rosman, is proving an interesting experience. Jason, who hosts an animal show that finishes with a piglet race, takes care of the sound equipment and introduces me to a wireless mike. He engages me in conversation with an intent gaze and a smudgy, horse-wrestling attractiveness. Gino, who looks Native American, speaks to me in broken English that sounds Mexican, reminding me just how indistinct that particular line really is.
A child unabashedly strokes my hair, hanging loose beneath a Stetson, and another embraces me in order to tangle tiny fingers in its length. Have I perhaps become an exhibit in the petting farm? It's nice to be approachable, though I should be, perhaps, having made a 20 year career of being approachable.
Professionally approachable, that's me.
(John Denver; Thank God I'm A Country Boy)
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