Scrub Defined

Mason's Road

I.

I learned about the word “migrant” from a pinkish redneck in a plaid shirt.

“You know what we’re going find out here don’t you, little girlie,” he said partly to me and partly to the scrub palmetto he motioned to with a burly freckled arm. He had stumpy stained nicotine teeth and curly bristly hair, like a wild boar. He was there with his bushwhacker to clear our property. I was brought along for company, but I liked the country, so I didn’t mind. I was thirteen.

Full essay published by Mason’s Road

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