Wednesday, February 22, 2017

I have probably bored you at length with my battles with bats, which are far more plentiful this summer than at any other time in memory.

Night sounds intensify as August draws to a close. Though a cooler night air usually means a more comfortable night's sleep, the sounds of singing crickets and katydids always wash me with a bit of melancholy since I associate them with starting back to school.

Getting ready for Canfield Fair was always a rite of passage in bygone days, and it was surely less complicated then than it is today.

Yesterday, as I was driving to buy groceries and fill up the gas tank on my car, I couldn't help but notice the bumper sticker on the pick-up truck ahead of me.

Some of the sagest advice my father ever offered my brothers and me urged us not to "hit back at bullies" because, sooner or later, "They'll get theirs.

It seems to me to be patently unfair that firsts get all the fanfare - first step, first love, first kiss.

Back-to-school shopping is a piece of cake with my 16-year-old son, Jon. We don't shop. And I love it.

"You just can't imagine what loneliness is," Dad confessed quietly as he eased his way off our deck that has needed new steps since we moved in (has it really been 13 years?).

My son, the country boy, is suddenly a city boy. Plucked from our farm situated near a tiny town, he is now in a city that seems to never sleep.

Every August, about silage chopping time, my mind flits back to a burning question of my youth: Given the old fashioned way we made corn silage on that southern Illinois dairy farm, were we just poor or were we just cheap?
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