Recently I had the opportunity to cover the dairy shows at the North American International Livestock Exposition in Louisville, Ky., as a freelance writer. I know what you’re thinking: How does a dairy farm wife have the resources to travel in this dairy economy?

She doesn’t. I had a free ride this time, and took full advantage.
After a grueling day of driving and covering a sale, my husband and I were invited out to eat with a couple of good ol’ boys. At 8 p.m. on a Saturday we were all tired and famished and wanted a place to eat – post-haste.

Good Ol’ Boy One took out his handy GPS, looked through a list of restaurants and picked one. Through sharp turns and brakes that work really well, we finally got to our destination, only to see three parking lots of cars shoved into one lot and a zillion people lined up outside the door.

It didn’t take these two good ol’ boys, a rebel and a Yankee to figure out there might be a better choice. Looking up another selection on the handy GPS we decided to go south of the border with a Mexican restaurant.

Following the instructions of Little Miss GPS, we found the wonderful Mexican place with half the sign missing and the front wall bashed in. Since there were no lights on, we decided it was closed and moved on. Chucking Little Miss GPS under the seat, Good Ol’ Boy One decided to go solo this time. Amazingly, we would be technology-free and actually use our eyes to look for a restaurant all on our own!

And what did we find? Jerry’s J Boy. Yep – just what you imagine with a name like Jerry’s J Boy, but they had good food and they served it quickly, and the men were able to take the edge off their appetites.

Sitting enjoying my dinner salad, I received a text from my son, J.W., who was across town in a skanky Super 8 with hoodlums running the joint, telling me he needed black slacks to wear in the dairy judging contest the next morning. Apparently, his khaki slacks just wouldn’t work.

Breathing a heavy sigh, I asked the two good ol’ boys and the rebel if they wouldn’t mind going to the nearest Walmart for a pit stop on the way back to the motel. Being complete gentlemen, they said no problem.

We finished our dinner and after waiting 15 minutes for the waitress to come pick up the money for the check, we realized we had to go to the counter to pay (remember, we’re at Jerry’s J Boy, not Texas Roadhouse).

Not wanting to wake up Little Miss GPS, just before we left, I asked the waitress for directions to the nearest Walmart: Take a right out of the parking lot and it will be a couple miles down, next to Olive Garden.

Wait – did she say Olive Garden? Yep, we were a mere three miles from a bunch of better eating establishments – places where you pay at the table.

We loaded up, turned right and headed down Preston Highway. Coming to Meijer, I said, “STOP, turn here!” We pulled up to the door and nearly in unison, the two good ol’ boys and the rebel told the Yankee she had 8 minutes or they were leaving. I hopped out and made a beeline for the black pants.

Just in the nick of time, I rushed back out the door and hopped in the truck, and we headed back to the motel. Everyone got into their rooms and nearly collapsed, except for the rebel and I – as we had to find the Super 8 at 4800 Preston Hwy. The lady at the front desk of our hotel gave us great directions we drove right to it – and immediately I began to fear for J.W.’s life.

It was in a bad section of town and when we walked in the front door, the phone was ringing, no one was at the front desk, a young man dressed in oversized black gang-wear was standing there with a blank look on his face and it smelled like stale cigarette smoke.
I called J.W. to come get his pants and waited. While we waited a thin, young woman and another gang-like guy stormed through the doors. Sounding harassed, she said, “Y’all ain’t wantin’ to check in, are ya?”

We assured her we weren’t and a few minutes later, the young lady and gang brothers stormed out the door and left the front desk without anyone attending it. I looked at Bobby and he shrugged his shoulders … and I began to pray for everyone’s safety in the entire hotel.

J.W. got his clothes, I prayed and we hightailed it back to our hotel.
The next morning when we arrived at the coliseum, I set up my laptop in the media room and looked out in the arena where J.W. was in the middle of the judging contest.

Not finding him, I went over and sat down with Bobby and J.W.’s coaches. They pointed him out – and no wonder I couldn’t find him. He was wearing khaki pants, a blue shirt, a tie – and suspenders. With glasses?

Where did he get the suspenders? I wondered. Why isn’t he wearing those black pants he just had to have? And for heaven’s sake, are those safety glasses he’s wearing?

One look through the zoom lens of my camera and I could see those were the black-rimmed glasses that had been lying on a shelf in the barn and still had whitewash specks on them. I was told the black pants just didn’t look right with the shirt, and the suspenders were in honor of their judging team coach, who always wears suspenders.

And the glasses? Just for kicks.

You just never know what might happen when you end up in a Southern city with two good ol’ boys, a rebel and a son who marches to the beat of a different drum.

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments for Melissa Hart may write to her in care of this publication.