Last week, I had never heard of John Christy. This week, he's my hero. Christy is the director of the
Of the many memories I have of Christmas on the farm, I don't have a single memory of ever telling Santa what I wanted for Christmas.
I don't know how or why and it hardly seems possible, yet I have undeniable proof that it is. My entire life just goes right ahead and falls apart if my husband leaves the state.
I'm not sure now whether I got her for Christmas. She may have been a birthday gift. The sentiment is the same.
Life is filled with questions, sometimes with answers, sometimes with just a tinge of regret for what might have been.
The time of the year when frost seeding is most effective in Ohio will not be here until February or March.
Before the cheerless rush to abandon Washington, D.C. hits, here are a few suggestions for our hired hands in Congress on what they should not give farmers, ranchers and the rest of us in rural America this holiday season.
Some are born to greatness. Some rise to greatness. And some just want to get their dog out of the swimming pool.
I know plenty of people in their eighties, my Dad being one of them. Octogenarians are young, compared to the dozens Willard Scott recognizes every day who have lived a century or more.
By now, you're getting a bit panicky. When you put last year's Christmas "away," where did you put the list with all the names of friends who get cards or gifts or coffee cakes? And what about the red and gold banners you stick on the pasture gate and the cemetery fence with green duct tape (which gives you a fit when you try to remove it come summer)? At least you remember where the rolls of red plastic ribbon are that turn the porch's white pillars into candy cane look-alikes when it is spiraled around them.