In Rust We Trust
Nothing confuses millennials like a burn barrel. Most people, were that term to be mentioned in casual conversation, would have no idea of the meaning. What in the heck is a burn barrel? It’s country folk trash day. See, there are places, even now, so far removed from civilization that organized waste removal by a third party isn’t possible. There are no trash cans sitting on curbs. Actually, there are no curbs. Once upon a time, there were only two things one could do with one’s refuse. You could haul your trash to the dump periodically, or you could burn it, in a barrel, on your property. That’s where our story begins today: my father burning trash in the country.
We lived on a 3.5 acre tract of land in rural Kaufman County, just over the Dallas County line in an unincorporated area near Combine, TX. It’s Seagoville now, but back then, at least to me, it was the Wild West, and there was a lot going on within those 3.5 acres. Come & ride along with adolescent me. Let’s get a lay of the land, shall we? First, we have to find it. Ballard Road starts out nice and civilized, but after you pass the old single story duplexes and the invisible entrance to the Shepherd place next to the house where Butterball Beats used to live, you have to negotiate the blind curve over the creek by the Fiscus’ house. In the summer months that turn becomes so congested with vines and overgrown trees that your best luck is to come to a complete stop and lay on the horn for several seconds.
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