After the Steamboat Turned the Bend — When Stories Take Their Time

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A reflection on Mark Twain, the long reach of story, and where Little Red Bear first found his voice.

On February 18, 1885, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was published.

More than a century later, the river is still moving.

I first read Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn years ago — long before I understood what they were doing to me as a writer. Later came Life on the Mississippi, and more besides. At the time, I simply loved the stories. The raft. The sparks in the dark. The sound of the river settling back into itself.

Years later, walking through EPCOT at Walt Disney World, I wandered into a special exhibit of personal items belonging to Mark Twain. Behind glass sat a simple fountain pen he had once held in his own hand.

Not a monument.
Not a statue.

A pen.

I remember standing there, thinking about the ordinary act of writing — the scratch of nib against paper, the slow forming of sentences, the patience of revision. That pen had once rested between his fingers while he shaped rivers, boys, steamboats, sparks.

And I felt, in a very quiet way, connected.

There is a passage from Huckleberry Finn that has stayed with me all these years . . . .

“Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn’t hear nothing for you couldn’t tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.”

It is not dramatic. It is not moralizing. It is simply noticing.

The sparks.
The bend in the river.
The long delay before the waves arrive.

There is something in that river passage that has followed me all these years — the way the sparks fall, the way the steamboat disappears around the bend, the way the waves arrive long after she is gone. Those gentle waves are still reaching me. Without my fully realizing it at the time, they found their way into Little Red Bear. He would not make a speech about it. He would simply watch the sparks, listen to the frogs, and notice how the raft rocks a little after the noise has faded. Red has always trusted the quiet aftermath more than the loud arrival. In many ways, I suspect that is where he was born — somewhere between Twain’s river and the stillness that follows.

Stories turn the bend.

The sparks fade.
The whistle grows faint.
The river grows still.

And years later, the waves arrive.

Some of them began their journey in February of 1885, though it would take many years before they reached a desk of my own. Some reached me standing in EPCOT, looking at a fountain pen once held in Mark Twain’s hand. And some are still arriving, rocking the raft just enough to remind me why I began writing in the first place.

If Little Red Bear ever feels steady beneath you, if his voice ever sounds like it trusts the quiet more than the noise, you now know where that began.

Somewhere on a river.
Somewhere after the steamboat turned the bend.

‘Till next time, then — Jim  (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear

Sometimes the river seems still, but the current is moving steady and sure beneath the surface. Stories are like that. They keep shaping us quietly — and then one day, we notice the raft has carried us farther than we realized.

“The Adventures of Little Red Bear: The First Holler!”

These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI.

 

 

Just a Little Kindness

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There are days that arrive with banners and bugles, fanfares and frolic, parties and parades attached to them. Like Mardi Gras today.
And then there are days that simply tap softly on the door and wait.

Today is one of those.

Random Acts of Kindness Day does not ask for grand gestures or long explanations. It does not require a plan, a budget, or a public witness. It just asks us to notice — and then act — in whatever small way presents itself.

Sometimes that looks like holding a door a moment longer than is polite.
Sometimes it sounds like a “Thank You” said clearly, without rushing past it.
Sometimes it is letting someone go ahead of you when you are tired and in a hurry — and choosing not to make a story about it afterward.
Sometimes it is an unexpected visit.

Sometimes it is a note tucked into a lunch bag or backpack.
Sometimes it is paying for the order behind you in a drive-thru.
Sometimes it is a phone call made without waiting for the perfect moment.
Sometimes it is simply a smile and a moment of acknowledgment at the register.

The thing about kindness is that it rarely announces itself.
It tends to arrive quietly, do its work, and leave without asking to be remembered.

And that may be why it works.

A small kindness does not try to fix the world.
It simply steadies one corner of it.

And we never know how far the ripples may travel.

We never know what burden someone is carrying when they cross our path. The weight is often invisible. But kindness has a way of lightening a load, even if merely for a little while.

No spotlight required.
No tally kept.
No expectation of return.

Just a moment that says — You’re not alone here.

If today offers you a chance to show kindness — even a small, ordinary kind — take it.
And if it does not, be patient. These moments have a way of finding us most often when we are not looking for them.

And that has always felt like the truest kindness of all.

‘Til next time, then — Jim  (and Red!)

P.S. Little Red Bear once said that kindness does not need to be big to be real.
The smallest kindnesses are often the easiest to carry — and the longest remembered.

“The Adventures of Little Red Bear: The First Holler!”

These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI.

Front Porch Notes — Just Something I Set Down

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Just Something I Set Down

Winter has a way of narrowing the world.

The view out the window grows smaller. Daylight slips away early, like it has someplace else to be. Air sharpens, carrying that clean, honest cold that wakes you up if you let it.

I noticed that this week while sitting in my rocking chair by the bedroom window, tea cooling nearby because I had forgotten to drink it, as usual. The predicted snow had come in overnight — the kind that smooths everything over and makes the world look newly ironed. No tracks yet. No hurry. Just quiet.

A flash of red landed briefly in the bare branches across the way — a cardinal, bright as a dropped mitten against the snow. He stayed just long enough to make his point, then moved on.

A flicker of motion caught my eye.

A red-headed woodpecker worked his way up and down the branches of the honey locust outside my window, tapping, pausing, tapping again, as if checking a long list of winter responsibilities. His bright head flashed against the pale morning, all business and purpose.

Below him, the mourning doves were already at work.

They are always there — steady, unassuming, moving along the ground beneath the feeders just as they always do. While other birds dart and flutter, the doves walk rather than hop, heads bobbing gently, as if keeping time to a tune only they can hear.

Near the base of the feeder, the chipmunk made a brief appearance — a quick inspection, a pause, and then gone again, carrying on as if winter were merely an inconvenience.

The feeder itself soon filled — sparrows first, then juncos in their tidy grey coats, and finally the chickadees, darting in and out as if late for an appointment. It swayed slightly with their comings and goings, a small sign of life in an otherwise still morning.

Later, it was time to bundle up and take my little chihuahua outside. She approached the snow with caution, as if it might suddenly do something unexpected, then set about her business with dignity intact. I lingered longer than necessary after we finished, breathing in the winter air. I have always loved this season — the way it clears things out, the way it feels honest and bracing, the way it asks you to be present and alive.

But winter asks a lot of us. Patience, for one. A willingness to slow down whether we want to or not. Sometimes it asks us to stay put, to wait things out, to trust that what looks dormant is not finished — only resting.

And in return, winter offers these quiet gifts — a cardinal passing through, a determined woodpecker at work, the steady presence of mourning doves beneath the feeder, the clean breath of cold air that fills your lungs and reminds you that you are still very much here.

The world, it seems, has not stopped. It has simply lowered its voice.

Somewhere nearby, a bird called out — sharp and clear — and for a moment it felt like an answer, though I had not asked a question.

Winter will pass. It always does. But while it is here, it offers this small, steady reassurance — life continues, quietly and faithfully, right outside the window.

Sometimes, that is more than enough.

We need only look.

— Jim  (and Red!)

 

The Hearth & Holler Gazette — Issue No. 4

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A Weekly Visit of Tales, Tidings, and Old-Time Country Comfort

Welcome!

It has been a mud bound week in Honey Hill Country. Another marked by delays, detours, growing shortages of everyday staples, and the steady work of getting on with things anyway.

Regular readers may recall that last week we introduced period-style illustrations, offering a visual record of events alongside the printed words of selected stories. This week, we take another big step forward — introducing our new staff editorial cartoonist, Clarence “Clary” Moss. Clary will be introducing his first editorial cartoon in the pages of the Gazette today, and will be a featured weekly contributor going forward.

But before we go any further, for first time visitors, it may help to know where — and when — we are, and what I am talking about

The Hearth & Holler Gazette hails from Honey Hill Country, a small, rural corner of the Missouri Ozarks, as it might have been known in the year 1904 — a time of front porches and wagon roads, oil lamps and handwritten letters, when news traveled at a human pace, and a Saturday paper was meant to be read slowly, with coffee close at hand. This is not a paper of breaking news or loud headlines. It prefers instead to notice it — the small, human-sized moments that once filled a morning without asking much in return.

The Hearth & Holler Gazette is a work of fiction — a made-up paper from a made-up place, written in the spirit of an earlier time. Any resemblance to real towns, people, or events is entirely coincidental, though we do our best to make it feel otherwise.

So, with that said  — Please come on in. Your newspaper awaits . . . . . . 

And would you prefer Coffee or Tea with your newspaper?

 

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A Short List of Things That Are Still Just Plain Good

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There are days when the world feels a little too loud and a little too busy explaining itself.

On those days, it helps to remember that not everything needs fixing, debating, improving, or shouting about. Some things are already doing their job just fine. They have been for a long time. They simply carry on, quietly, without asking for applause.

So here — for no particular reason other than it felt like a good moment — is a short list of things that are still just plain good.

Not perfect.
Not flashy.
Just . . . . good.

A fresh cup of coffee that tastes exactly the way you hoped it would.
Not better than expected. Not worse. Just right. The kind that lets you take a slow sip and think . . . . “Yes. That’ll do.”

A handwritten note.
Even a short one. Even a crooked one. The kind where you can tell the writer paused for a moment before finishing the sentence.

A dog asleep in the sun.
No ambition. No agenda. Just fully committed to a relaxing nap in the afternoon.

A cat choosing to sit near you.
Not because it was asked. Because it decided. Which somehow makes it feel like a small honour.

A well-worn book that falls open to a favourite page.
Like it remembers where you left off last time — and waited there for you.

The sound of someone laughing in the next room.
Especially when you do not know the joke, and it does not matter.

The sound of children laughing and playing.
Inside or outside. Close by or down the street. It always reminds us that things are going right somewhere.

A front porch — or whatever serves as one.
A chair by a window counts. So does a stoop. A step. Or the edge of a bed where you linger for a moment longer than planned.

Kindness that does not announce itself.
No trumpet. No explanation. Just a small adjustment or touch made for someone else’s comfort.

Old sayings that still manage to be true.
The kind you used to roll your eyes at — until one day you catch yourself repeating them.

Something that works the way it always has.
A lamp. A watch. A sunrise. There is a quiet relief in reliability, and in knowing some things still arrive on time..

And for me, a rainy afternoon with a new story waiting to be told.
Nothing urgent. Nothing polished yet. Just the promise of words finding their way.

But then again . . . . the feeling that today does not need to be extraordinary to be worthwhile.
Ordinary will do just fine.

None of these things will trend.
None of them will fix everything.

But taken together, they do something better.

They remind us that simple goodness has not gone anywhere. It has simply stayed where it always was — in familiar places, doing familiar work, waiting to be noticed again.

And perhaps that is just plain good enough for today, isn’t it?

What might you add to the list?

‘Til next time, then — Jim  (and Red!)

P.S.
Little Red Bear read this list over my shoulder and cleared his throat — politely — to point out that tea belongs on any list of good things worth keeping close.
He is not wrong. We are, after all, tea people.

“The Adventures of Little Red Bear: The First Holler!”

These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI.

Libraries — The Quiet Beginning of Big Adventures

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On Libraries, Curiosity, and a First Card That Changed Everything

Some memories stay with you not because they were dramatic, but because they quietly opened a door.

My first trip to a library did exactly that.

It was a chilly, rainy October evening, and I was eight years old. We had just moved to a growing suburb outside St. Louis, and I was newly settled into third grade at a brand-new school. Earlier that afternoon, our teacher announced an assignment — a report on dinosaurs.

DINOSAURS!

That was all it took.

After dinner that evening, my father put on his overcoat, settled his fedora on his head, and took me to the local library. I had never been inside one before. I remember the way the doors opened into a space that felt larger than it needed to be — aisle after aisle of tall shelves, all of them filled with books that reached far above my head.

It felt like I had crossed over a threshold into a new world and was standing inside a promise.

A few minutes later I was issued my very first library card. It had my name on it. And with it, for an eight-year-old,  came feelings of recognition, trust, and responsibility. I was now a certified, card-carrying member of society. We checked out several books on dinosaurs, and I carried them home like treasure. That night, reading and racing from one dinosaur illustration to the next, something quietly and permanently took root.

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