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I grew up in South Florida.

Now a day's cattle pasture and agriculture are not something you equate with the bright

neon lights of the A1A highway or sultry sunny days at the beach.

But when I was 18, there were still parts of the county where teenagers tried to tip over

sleeping cows and rode their horses down dirt roads.

There was even a hitching post at the local burger king.

Trucks were muddy and carried hay and feed, and people still wore boots, wranglers and

cowboy hats.

If you know, you know.

My boyfriend at the time, I'll call him Rick, lived in one of these last rural areas of

Broward County, and this is where my story begins.

So one night, Rick and I were going to go out to the local arcade, and he had to stop

at his house for something.

I chose to stay in the car that night because his mother and I did not like each other.

When we arrived at his house, he parked in front of what was their game room.

It had a lot of windows and a pool table in a bar, and I could see inside where his mother

and stepdad were playing a game of pool.

Now from where he parked, if I looked to the left, I could see their side yard, which

was fairly wide open, had some trees but mostly grass, and it led to a line of long-leaf

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