Steve slowly saddled his horse, Old Snort, and climbed stiffly aboard in the cold snap of morning. He pulled his hat down a little lower and pulled the wild rag up to cover his nose and mouth from the morning chill.
How many mornings had he done this?
As . . .
My first wife came from a ranching family way back up in the hills of central California and had a cousin, Ted, who was a hounddog man. This made him akin to Evel Knievel with a pack of pooches.
I talked my way into hunting with him, of course.
All went . . .
There is a time when the stars line up just right, when the grass is at its peak in nourishment for the livestock, when the shirts are all on sale down at the store. There is a time that men and women know and have known, since dirt was young, that . . .
Dewey Decker silently shoveled cow manure into the back of his pickup, but for the first time, his heart wasn’t in it.
He knew he had it to do, so he did it. Scoop, toss. Scoop toss. Then, when the bed was full, he somberly drove to town and unloaded . . .
Down at the county seat, the hearing room seats 20, and 40 people showed up. Marvin and Marjorie Pincus looked around at all their friends and neighbors. All they saw were smiles.
Marvin held a large envelope with his business license in it. Of course, . . .
When the world dilemma think tank gathered this morning at the philosophy counter, the main topic of conversation was Marvin Pincus’s problem with the county.
The county wanted him to stop counseling people on love and tying flies to go along . . .
Like a doctor removing something important, Herb Collins gently peeled the wrapper back from the root ball and tenderly placed the baby tree in the hole. Then he stood and walked around it to see which way he should align it. Actually, looks pretty . . .
Delbert McLain dropped in at the Mule Barn truck stop yesterday for a quick cup. He was wearing his usual suit and tie, despite the heat. Usually Delbert does his coffee drinking and socializing out at the country club where the business guys go. We’ve . . .
Mrs. Doc watched the dancers swirl around the cleared hardwood floor of the Legion hall, and smiled to see her husband, Doc, waltzing with Ardis Fisher. But Mrs. Doc was never one to sit out a waltz, so she looked around at the menu.
Over in . . .
It all began when old man Ortega’s rooster disappeared. He reported it to the police of course, who thought this neighborhood alarm clock finally met with a dissatisfied customer and was now cradled in dumplings.
The police said as much to Ortega, . . .
“We were a-doin’ okay ’til Dewey showed up,” said Steve, behind the sale barn.
Doc and Bert were there to watch the Saturday sale.
“Dewey?” asked Doc.
There’s a world of intrigue around here in the pronunciation . . .
We got a spring morning visit from the local art teacher, Janice Thompson. She’s the one who couldn’t get accepted into the regional art shows with her own work until she loaded a twelve gauge shotgun with paint pellets and blasted a sheet . . .
Margaret Clawson, down at the Rest of Your Life convalescent home, can’t help it, really. You see she’s a pony mom. Her teenage daughters have horses, and she’s busy hauling the girls and their mounts around to horse shows, gymkhanas . . .
Don’t mess with philosophy. It’ll eat your lunch. Oh yes. It was that way the other day down at the actual philosophy counter at the Mule Barn truck stop.
It all began innocently enough, with Doc claiming that his Egyptian shepherd, Irrigator, . . .
Sometimes having coffee with the guys down at the Mule Barn truck stop doesn’t lead to scintillating conversation. Like this morning. Instead of the philosophy counter, the guys were clutched together at the Round Table.
“Anybody read the . . .
It was great to see our resident cowboy, Steve, here at the Mule Barn truck stop’s version of knights of the breakfast round table this morning. He’s been in the hospital for a while, getting his innards rearranged.
So what was it like?
. . .
The last of the geese went by the other day. The late ones. The big dark geese. Headed south noisily.
I used to envy them, somehow. They go down there to the warm coastal areas where the jacks swim and the nights are chilly but livable this time of . . .
It was that particular crispness in the pre-dawn air that got Jasper up and out early. He wasn’t going to the diggin’s today but had something else in mind.
After Arthur finished his kibble, Jasper tied him outside the cabin door and tried hard . . .
To look at Herb Collins, you wouldn’t think he was like that. A nicer, kinder guy you never met. But for one evening each year … one little slice of time … he’s downright diabolical.
Every small town has one, of course. There is always that . . .
Dud Campbell drove the pickup slowly out of town and down past the dairy to the fishing area on Lewis Creek. It seemed to him that everything he did this morning was in slow motion. He didn’t care.
He grabbed the shovel out of the back and walked . . .
Sweet transition from the heat, from the work, from the hard, rough edges of life. On we go now to autumn, to black, lacy leaves and twigs standing out against an orange sky. The mornings now have that coolness, that chill that tells us we once again . . .
Joe Gibbs, the former coach of the Washington Redskins, a few years ago spoke to a conference of Baptist men in Orlando, Florida. He compared the game of football with the game of life – a game we don’t want to lose.
“We’ve got to have a head . . .
“It’s just not the same,” said Steve. “I don’t care what you want to call it, it just isn’t the same thing any more.”
“But it does make sense,” said Doc. “I personally think catch-and-release fishing is a good thing. Hey, how many . . .