"Dad, can we go feed the cows?"

As my boyfriend and I drive the hour and a half to his hometown, twisting the curves of I75 and racing against the winter storm behind us, he tells me some of his story. We pass a road that looks like it leads nowhere. He smiles, points, says, "This reminds me of my dad."

Tells me of how when he was little, his dad would drive him down this narrow little road to some kind of store. I think of it as maybe a small building where working men can go to get away from nagging wives and screaming children; that kind of hole in the wall place where working men can chew tobacca and smoke and play cards and stand around in Carhart coats and talk about the weather. I see a kerosene stove and lots of calloused hands, creased and dirty. Around the thick legs of all these working men, I see my boyfriend, blonde head tilted back, looking up at their beards and pot-bellies, and wondering who to ask for the salt.

My boyfriend tells me that it is in this place that his dad orders them soup beans. They say their 'see ya later's and 'take care's, climb back into the truck, and head off to the pasture. There, they drop their salt block offering, and as the cattle mosey up, father lifts son onto the hood of the truck and leans on an elbow next to him. In silence, they watch the cattle fight for lick after lick while they spoon steaming mouthfuls of brown beans and cornbread, making a memory that doesn't seem important to either of them at the moment, but will stick to Jerrod's ribs for the rest of his life.