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94 without reservation. without reservation. They fed me wonderful food, sometimes insisted that I accept their hospitality and stay over in their guest rooms because a “... little woman shouldn’t be out driving around late at night on country roads.” (In heels, I’m nearly six feet tall.) I learned so much from all those good people. During that time I made a list of all the things that my association with those farm families had done for me. (See Appendix B for that list.) fed wonderful food, me I just loved my customers. But, of course, some, a few, of my experiences were not so sweet and wonderful. There was the time I stood on one side of the fence, eamestly trying to persuade a man to buy a painting of his farm and he just as earnestly was refusing to buy. We weren’t arguing but just haggling, market place style, still pleasant and pleased to be talking to each other. I tried to keep my mind on the business before us and off the slight tickling I felt on first one leg then the other. Suddenly I felt as though I’d stepped into a sea of fire. I screamed and jumped away from where I’d been standing but I was too late. I’d been rooted in a huge bed of fire ants and I was being eaten alive by the creatures. I ran to his farmhouse bathroom and began to strip off my clothes and shoes. I was covered with tiny red wounds all over my body. There was nothing, really, that the farmer could have done for me. It took hours for my skin to calm down even though I drove madly back to the motel (shoeless and only partially clothed) and took a shower. I thought the least he could have done when I returned later that evening was to buy the painting, but he didn’t. Oh, well, that’s business, right? Another anecdote has a darker side. I drove up to a long, rambling ranch house, very prosperous looking, set out on a well run cattle ranch. It was about 4 p.m. I was invited to come in by the rancher himself who led the way back to his office. I could hear Barbara Bartholic as told to Peggy Fielding