My annual battle with the grass is under way.
Just a day or so ago I waded through embarrassingly high, hip high in places, grass, alternately pushing and dragging a mower. In fairness to me, I had mowed the half acre immediately around the house. So this wasn’t my first time on the lawn. It was, however, the first time that really counted, the first time I mowed everything, or nearly everything, I’ve got to mow. 

Magazines are carefully arranged in neat little stacks on the wooden side tables in the doctor’s office. 

Thanks a lot scientists of the year 2006.
Before you rode in on Rocinante, penning some new definition of the word “planet,” life was easy. Back then there were nine planets. Even if we didn’t exactly, precisely and for sure and certain know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what we all meant when we said planet, we knew there were nine of them. Now we aren’t so sure. Worse, we don’t know what to say when our 6-year-old sons ask if there are eight planets in the solar system.

Older senior citizens remember waking to find their mothers stoking the kitchen wood stove in preparation for making homemade baking powder biscuits for breakfast.

We live in paradise. I noticed it on May Day, songbirds and creekbirds flitting through my little woods, butterflies floating over the flowers, fat bumblebees bumping clumsily into each other through the blooming bushes.

There are winners, and there are Nate, Mark and Tommy.

If you were looking for an extensive collection of Civil War memorabilia, you probably wouldn’t look in a clothing store in the small town of Woodlawn.

Hey taxpayers, wanna buy a bridge?

A very distinguished older lady was sitting in a corner chair of the doctor’s office and seemed to catch everyone’s attention with her striking good looks.

A pudgy glass pig contained my first coin collection. At that point in my life, the age, color or denomination of the coin wasn’t really relevant as long as kind-hearted folks donated coins to my piggy bank.