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April 7, 2002 the farmer's daughter Saturday, I rode my bike to the Farmer's Market.  As I perused the incredible collection of putrid Pentecostal crafts, I noticed a gorgeous young lady leaning against the opened bed of a Chevy pickup loaded with greens.  I had no idea I was staring at her until I heard her mutter, "Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?"  I felt my face flush, but I recovered quickly. "I suppose I'm just happy to see you because, I know for a fact, I most certainly do not have a scroll in my toga.  And, besides, these are blue jeans I'm wearing, not a toga." The Latin-speaking babe in the Daisy Dukes just smiled and said, "I don't know how to say Gap jeans in Latin.  It is a dead language, you know." "Yes, I know.  It's been in all the papers.  What are you selling?  Greens?" She uncrossed her long legs and stood up straight.  "Those are my father's.  He's a farmer.  Which, of course, makes me a farmer's daughter." "Of course," I replied.  She was built like a brick shit-house.  I took a shot, "Romani quidem artem amatoriam invenerunt."  ["You know, the Romans invented the art of love."] "Credo nos in fluctu eodem esse," she nodded.  ["I think we are on the same wavelength."] I was about to throw her on the bed of greens and make the Caesar salad of love when a pucker-faced cracker in overalls and straw hat came limping up like Walter Brennan.  It was the farmer.  I stepped back and watched as his daughter cowered in his shadow and retreated to the cab of the truck.  It was clear she wanted me to leave. I got on my bike and watched as the farmer wagged his finger in his daughter's face and spat, "Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem." I had to admit he was right.  In the good old days, children like her were left to perish on windswept crags.

©  2002 by the beastmaster