Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Each day since that July morning when I took a ride in an ambulance has been interesting. Some days the earth is steady beneath my feet.

Unlike Mark Twain's quip upon reading his obituary, my early July "RIP Doha" column was neither premature nor exaggerated.

I think that I shall never hear the term "tourist season" without imagining the term being akin withs, say, "deer season," "duck season," or "open season.

We sweltered as the summer sun fastened its hot rays on the west side of our house. I tried not to move around much that afternoon and found things to keep busy - folding clothes that weren't put away and trying to come up with a plan for our supper that wouldn't involve heat.

Each day since that July morning when I took a ride in an ambulance has been interesting. Some days the earth is steady beneath my feet.

July has been a tough month for farmers and ranchers in The Washington Post. On July 2 and again July 18, The Post published lengthy investigative pieces on the enormous cost, wanton waste, and built-in silliness of today's federal farm programs.

There is a certain comfort to be taken in the knowledge that some things are probably never going to change.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like a sudden and horrid illness to make a person extremely grateful to be alive.

Stockpiling fescue and orchardgrass is generally considered an economical way to extend the grazing season and cut feed costs.

Ride away, ride away. Johnny shall ride, And he shall have little cat tied to one side, And he shall have little dog tied to the other, And Johnny shall ride to see his grandmother.
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