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The farmer
and his wife
By David Clary
When I first moved to George- suddenly finding the energy to run out on the rolling hills looked like they were
town in 2005, I bought a condo the long gravel driveway to chase us as we covered with a blanket of new-fallen
on the San Gabriel River a few rode by. Famers were always out working snow. Yep, I liked riding the east side.
blocks from the historical downtown their fields on their tractors. The scenery was constantly changing
square. There were miles of hike and because of the labor of the farmers. I
bike trails along the river with conve- One day we’d be riding by and the farm- really grew to appreciate the farmer.
nient access from my condo. I bought a ers would be out plowing their fields and
trail bike and started riding the trails. the next time planting seeds. Before long, Each one of the small communities
It wasn’t long before I began meeting we’d start seeing little sprouts popping around Georgetown had a small country
people and hooking up with other cy- up in the plowed rows, then stalks, then store that provided all the essentials of
clists, many of whom belonged to a cy- corn cobs popping out. It wasn’t long un- life ― gas, bread, milk, peanut patties,
cling group. til the only things we could see were the pecan pralines, Snickers and lottery
road ahead, the sky directly above us, tickets. We would stop at those stores
The next thing I knew, I was buying and the towering corn stalks growing to take breaks during our rides. One
an expensive touring bike and took up on either side. It would make you want store in particular, the Weir Country
some pretty serious road cycling with the to just break out singing the words from Store, had a reputation for its excellent
group, riding three to four times a week, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from hamburgers. They had a grill off in the
anywhere from 30 to 50 miles at a time. the musical, “Oklahoma!”, “The corn is back of the store.
I’d ride east of Georgetown, along miles as high as an elephant’s eye, and it looks
of country roads winding through rolling like its climbing clear up to the sky.” (Ac- One Friday evening, a friend of mine and
hills of farmland. And I’d ride west of tually I did break out in song. Some of I decided to hop in the truck and drive
Georgetown, along the edge of the Texas the other cyclists gave me a weird look out to Weir to get one of those burgers.
Hill Country and its rugged, uphill chal- while others chimed in.) You had to go to the grill at the rear of
lenges with rocky, cactus-covered big the store and tell the guy there what you
ranchland. Both the east and the west The next few times we rode by, the farm- wanted. He would write it down, then
sides provided beautiful riding scenery, ers were harvesting the corn, and then give you the yellow copy that you were
but I was partial to the east side. later plowing the fields under. There is supposed to take up to the front checkout
nothing like the rich smell of that freshly stand and pay. Then you’d bring your
There was just something about its rolling plowed dirt. The farmers would rotate paid receipt back to him. You’d go find
hills through the farmland ― the quaint their crops out from field to field, from a seat and he’d holler at you when the
farm houses, the faded red barns, rusty corn, wheat or sunflowers back to corn burger was ready. The store only had
old windmills churning in the breeze, the and then cotton. Oh, the cotton! When a few booths by the window and a few
lazy farm dogs seeing us coming from those cotton bowls burst open expos- other tables sitting out in the middle. All
their spot on the shady front porch and ing the pure white color of the cotton, the tables had one of those red-and-white
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