Sycamores
“Of course I know you two. You’re the girls who live at Sycamores.” Nodding our heads in the affirmative, we smiled and waited patiently astride our mounts while she went inside to prepare us a snack. Unbeknownst to us, she called our aunt. In short order there was a squeal of tires, a churning of dust and the roar of a car charging up the drive. We had, earlier that morning, impulsively decided to travel a bit, so we bridled the mules and rode bareback down a country road until we became hungry. Our aunt saw to it that our traveling days were over for the rest of that summer and, if you’ve ever ridden a mule, then you know our sitting days were over for a good while too.
