Sorry, Not Sorry

1990-something. My cousin, Traci, and I are perched on a tractor at our grandparents' property on Lake Fork outside of Alba, Texas. A whopping population of 504, Alba is tucked into the piney woods of East Texas about 1 1/2 hours east of Dallas, and the lake is known for its big bass. Our grandparents moved here from Dallas when our grandfather retired from flying for Braniff International Airways in 1979 (the saddle biz continued with uncles and cousins). Our grandparents built the Blue Barn at that time and raised horses and cattle on the property until the lake came in. They also grew vegetable and rose gardens, grape vines, and an orchard of peaches, plums, and pears. There were 2 vintage tractors to maintain the property, one for each granddaughter to inherit (according to us anyway), until they were gone one day. Sold right out from under us! I was always sorry about that young peach tree I ran over while bush hogging the orchard, until then. I've conveniently forgotten all these years to tell my grandparents about that tree. And then my grandmother read this. Ooops. 

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