An Ode to Mane
to Continue
Scroll
In the heart of the country, where the soil is rich and the air is thick with the scents of wildflowers and freshly mowed grass, a young girl learned the most profound lessons about life and the earth from her grandfather, Charles "Mane" Coleman.
Mane was a gardener, a farmer, and a sailor who grew up in the era of sharecropping. It was in the fields where his hands became seasoned and his heart grew tethered to the earth. He had an unwavering reverence for the land, patient and steady as he sowed seeds; grateful and generous when the harvest came. With each season, he nurtured the earth with a quiet strength, tending to the freshest peppers, the crunchiest cucumbers, and turnips so delicious that they'd bring even the most stoic to the table. Perhaps the secret was in the way Nae, his wife, cooked them—but that’s a story for another time.
An Ode to Mane
For me, the nostalgia of those summer days lingers like the scent of honeysuckle in the warm breeze. I can still see the barn tucked in the corner of acres of lush green fields, and feel the rumble of the tractor’s massive wheels as they rolled through the dirt, sending clouds of dust into the air. It wasn’t just dust—it was the country’s soul swirling around us and I loved it.
But the wildflowers—oh, the wildflowers. That was the best part of our adventures. I would sneak them from the dirt, tucking them behind my ear or into the pocket of Mane’s chambray shirt, soaked through with sweat and the musky scent of the earth. On those scorching summer days, I’d slide them into the pocket of his worn Hanes tee, the cotton stretched thin from hours under the sun. His sun-kissed skin, dusted with a warm brown glow, told the story of the work he did and the life he lived. The deeper tan line just above his bicep was a silent marker of his labor, shifting with each season. It was a farmer’s tan, one that spoke of years of devotion to the land.
Country summer nights were spent sprawled beneath a fan, marveling at how the sun had kissed us all day. My glow was golden, a soft shimmer of warmth, while Mane’s was a deeper, earthier tone—dusty and brown from the sun's embrace.
A tribute to my grandfather, Mane, who shaped so much of who I am. The Mane Wildling—a nod to the wild beauty of the flowers and an offering to the wild spirit he instilled in me.
GET IN TOUCH
Reach Out
- Verushka
The Mane Wildling is more than a name—it’s a way of life.
