The View From A Farr
There was a tree. Pecan. A friendly giant. Older than all the other nearby trees. Older than my grandparents. Older than the house they lived in. Older than the train tracks that ran nearby. We grandchildren would rush down the hill to the back pasture and pick up the pecans it dropped on the ground. Cracked the shells. Ate the meat. Saved the rest in brown paper sacks to snack on later or to b...