Springtime on my parents' farm in South Carolina.
[This entry is part of a new series celebrating travel experiences, inspired by literary portrayals of places and times.
7:15 a.m. in South Carolina
At 7:15 a.m. in the countryside of South Carolina, the crunch of dirt under my boots blends with birds singing as sunlight breaks through the clouds.
My dad leads the way through the dew-kissed grass, holding a leash for Otis, a stray dog who found his way to our home last summer. I follow closely while Mo, my tabby cat, lags behind, his belly swaying as he walks. This one-mile trek around our farm's perimeter has become a beloved routine. Each morning and evening, Dad walks the animals, and I join in whenever I visit.
A worn path follows the fence line, and Dad pauses now and then to check on the posts or adjust the barbed wire. He and my grandfather constructed the fence from telephone poles and railroad ties when they purchased the farm in 1968, shortly after arriving in America. This fence is a point of pride for him, and I never tire of hearing stories about the farm, his upbringing, and their journey to America.
The leaves glow with a rich green, a treat for the cows who’ve pruned the trees to their reach. Mo claws at one of the many branches scattered across the ground, remnants of a recent storm. Though he weighs nearly 20 pounds, he stays close to us as we pass the cows, eyeing the calves suspiciously as they seem keen on chasing him.
The clouds part like curtains, revealing the sun. Our shadows stretch across the field—my legs appear endless while Mo’s tail stands tall above him.
A distant car hums as we round the final corner, making our way back to the house. Mo dashes ahead, racing like a champion to guide us home.
My dad, Joe Mazurek, with Mo, his trusty companion. The right photo shows baby Mo, whom Dad found in his shop and bottle-fed. The left captures full-grown Mo, still affectionately called “baby boy,” alongside Otis, his playful rival.
