My father brought my sister a bike home in the back seat of the tan Oldsmobile when I wasn’t quite 5 years old.
She was 9 and I think it might have been her first bike. It was a girls bike, with a banana seat and little iridescent streamers poking from the handlebars. 

It’s all the government’s fault.
Most of the time, hearing that all-too familiar cry, we cringe. We don’t necessarily believe that the government owes us anything or should provide us anything other than a few basic freedoms, such as the right to assemble and petition for a redress of grievances. The freedom to worship or not worship as we so choose. Those sorts of things. The government isn’t to blame when it does what it’s supposed to do. And there lies the problem. 

It’s tempting not to issue this plea. There’s a genuine sense of futility about sending it out. Every year we encourage voters to cast their ballots on Election Day. Unfortunately, the message, which also comes from many other sources, goes unheeded by an alarming number of people.

I couldn’t finish my “autumn fire” series without airing some smoke on a topic that burns me up. That’d be the season’s campaign attack ads. If they’ve irritated you this year, wait till next.

“See you in heaven!” That was the last thing he said before the stranger stormed out of the church’s glass doors.
“See you in heaven,” but I do not think he was sincere. Although I did not show it, his words cut me deeply.

There’s something about a hill that makes a body want to go up it. And there’s something about that hill that makes a boy, say between 5 and 10 years old, want to go down it, fast. 

There are people, maybe even here in Washington County, who believe that tomatoes taste a bit like watery cardboard. They believe that peas, while sweet, have a starchy aftertaste. They believe that a good cantaloupe is one that doesn’t take that much salt to make “delicious.” They are the uninitiated, the poor souls who have not had their taste buds ruined by fresh, right-out-of-the garden ripeness. To them, we would say, read no further. Once you have tasted the medley of flavors found in in-season, fresh lettuce and other greens, you’ll never again stomach the watery, though crunchy, taste of iceberg lettuce trucked thousands of miles with thousands of ice cubes from California or some other place that’s not here or anywhere thereabouts. 

Coffee’s steaming from Smyth community

Coffee’s steaming from Smyth community

The old dairy barn is hot pink. The silo brick. The weather vane atop the barn’s tin roof looks from a distance like a pig. And is.