Many years ago one of my teenage jobs was pumping gas for customers of our family’s country store. We provided full service for all patrons including pumping their gas, washing their windshields, and checking their oil and other fluids at no extra charge.

The September meeting of the Saltville Town Council was in open session about 80 minutes. Of course there were agenda items for closed session: “the actual and probable litigation regarding the rails-to-trails issues and to discuss the acquisition of real property for a public purpose.” No closed meeting agenda items gave any specifics as required by the Code of Virginia. 
Rails to Trails is on the agenda every month but no one is any litigation and I don’t know of any probable litigation. One brave person stood and asked about the property considered for purchase on the closed meeting agenda. She wanted to know what it was. She was ignored. They didn’t even blink. Just brushed her away like a pesky bug.  Didn’t even have the common courtesy to say that they weren’t going to answer or to attempt to justify their position.  She lost her nerve and sat down. 

I knew who Carlos Mencia was and although I had seen very little of his standup routine on television, I knew somewhat about his comedic style.  I was aware of his controversial material, which included jabs at people of every race, social class, political affiliation and ethical belief and his desire to eliminate the need for political correctness.  His trademark catch phrase “dee dee dee,” which is used to classify stupid people, was a popular playful jab between my friends Shane and Jarrett in high school.  It wasn’t until recently that I found out the origin of that phrase.

Without a sound, she came down from the hills to the barn.  Her hiking shoes left studded tracks in the dirt.  She had been careful not to walk on the grass. 
“Climbed to the peak of Horse Heaven Mountain,” Lori Meadows said as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.  “It reminded me of Wordsworth writing poetry about the Midlands of England.”
“He wrote most of it while visiting Italy,” said Beck, my ole Missouri mule.  “Why go to the top of Horse Heaven Mountain?”
“Fall is upon us,” Lori said.  “I took a last look at nature before the season changes.”

I know it’s Steptember.  How could I forget?  Every day this month, since I signed up with American On the Move to walk the Iditarod Trail, I’ve received a reminder in my email box along with some tip on how to be a better walker.

I didn’t like it when they re-routed the road, lassoing the Tobias-Smyth cabin in asphalt. I didn’t like it when I heard Wiley would be getting an upgrade and might stop looking like a set piece for “Dead Poets Society.” And I for sure wasn’t excited about a three-story addition, green or not, to Byars Hall. 

My wife Sweetness flew to Minneapolis to meet our friend Mary Huggins. From there they drove to Winnipeg, Canada for a conference.  While Winnipeg is almost due north of Minneapolis, to get there, like everywhere else, you have to drive to North Dakota.  I got out my map to follow their trip.

I stopped in front of the house and double-checked the address. A family had been visiting our church for several weeks indicating they would like to unite with the church. Now I was about to visit with them about that desire.

A single white candle sits in my office. It’s unimpressive in physical size – only a little more than four inches tall and finger-width wide. Tiny balls of wax hardened where they spilled over the top and a blackened wick tell that the candle has been burned. The flimsy cardboard finger protector still rests about midway down the molded wax tube giving a bit of testimony about its use.
The candle was lit once—on Sept. 12, 2001.

As usual, this column is being written on Thursday. This happens to be Sept. 11, and is the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks that killed so many innocent people and destroyed the World Trade Center as well as damaging the Pentagon.