1935 that is. We were picking peas, beans, and okra on a hot day in August. Watermelon and cantaloupe were growing in the furrowed dark brown loam, waiting to be thumped for ripeness, ready to harvest and place in the bed of the wagon. The wagon was pulled by our two horses, old Maude and Shorty. The setting was our family farm south of Ralls, TX, east of Lubbock. This lush green garden in the lower edge of the cotton field was called “The Truck Patch.” Mother, Daddy, and I were picking the produce, including a big green, striped watermelon. That watermelon would be placed in the cool water of the hog trough and we would have a feast later that day. My little brother, Don was not yet two years old and needed his diaper freshened, so my Mother had walked with him to the yellow farm house. That left the Model A Ford and the wagon with its team of horses still in the truck patch. My Daddy and I were the only two humans and we were at least a mile or more from the house.