This week is about squirrel. When I think of squirrel, I think of my Papa Willard, the kind of man who could make a fried squirrel breakfast feel like a five-star experience. Papa had a way of blending simple ingredients with love, laughter and just the right amount of musical magic, plucking a tune on his banjo, guitar or tickling the keys of his piano while something fried in the pan.
Ah, sweet, heady autumn—I love it above every season! It is simply my favorite time of year. Thankfully, the mowing, which has grown almost tedious, will soon be over for several months. But I will be busy cleaning the flower beds and making some changes. I’ll be planting and sowing several new kinds of seeds, praying as I plant that all the seeds will sprout in the spring. There are also plants to be dug up and moved. There are a crazy number of bulbs— especially jonquils and irises— that I must dig up, divide, and scatter to other areas. Dancing shoes won’t be required, just some good boots, brown jersey gloves, and a variety of garden tools. Red has threatened to close my charge account at ACE Hardware, which worries me a bit, as I love that place a lot.
The other morning Mike was getting ready to go fishing. He asked if I had any cash for his breakfast. I told him I didn’t even have a dollar in my wallet. He said “Not even in your rat hole?” Ok, I was taught long ago about “rat holing” a little cash. In 20+ years of marriage he’s not mentioned it. My question is “Who taught him that word?”
Day-o, day-o Daylight come and I want to go home Day, I say day, I say day, I say day I say day, I say day-o Daylight come and I want to go home Well, with my daughter Presley being 16, moments of fun and laughter between us are few and far between. I’ll say it again: she’s 16. So, by law, she must hate me. It’s a requirement, right?
Every Labor Day the county fair would roll into town, bringing with it the smell of fried everything and the sound of screams from the Rocoplanes ride. My friends and I would gather to ride that spinning contraption over and over until we were dizzy, all the while begging the operator to let us go one more time.
Our neighborhoods are more than just places where we live. They are the very essence of our communities, reflecting our values, aspirations, and pride.
Global trade is the lifeblood of economic health and expansion, helping ensure commodities and products do not sit idle or worse, perish, due to a lack of demand in our own backyards. Our country is once again being reminded of the importance of this truth, and in no place is it more apparent than with agriculture.
I was backing a trailer into the barn for Mike the other day. He was very patient and calmly guiding me in. Reminded me of Daddy teaching me how to back his boat in the river. He was not a patient man but he was mostly easy going while teaching you something. He took me to Stubblefield access and stood on the bank and fished while I practiced backing it in. We were there for hours. Thirty years later, in November, I was baptized in that cold Eleven Point River in that very spot at his request. Daddy baptized me into trailer technique just like Preston Brown baptized me into the church. It’s a beautiful thing, how memories like that stay with you and are triggered by the simplest thing...
Written Sept. 4, 2024 We left early Saturday for Branson, for a small branch of the Pearcy’s (Cecil and Verena Pearcy) Family Reunion. It was such a beautiful day for traveling, the temperatures cooler and cloudy, perfect in my world, designated driver that I am.
While our area will still have plenty of warm weather, it isn’t too early to think about getting our outdoor pets’ accommodations ready for winter. My own little dog is horribly spoiled.