Critter Tales — “The Bright & Shiny Fuss”

November 7, 2026October 26, 2026 / jrmilson / Leave a comment

From the critters near home . . . . to the wildlands beyond.

Critter Tales are small, gentle stories — meant to be read in a few quiet minutes, enjoyed with a smile, and written and shared simply for the fun of it.

His morning began as most crow mornings in Honey Hill Country did —
with a stretch that felt longer than necessary,
a short flight over three fields and two fences,
and a satisfying early visit to Farmer Turner’s cornfield.

After that, he returned to his usual oak branch to observe the countryside,
because that is what crows do.
They observe.
They notice.
They remember.

That was when he saw the shine.
Not just any shine.
“The” shine.

Down by the roadside, a picnic blanket lay spread in the grass.
A young man and woman sat nearby, occupied with the sort of business that causes humans to forget small but important things on a picnic blanketed sunny day.
Set down to the side, for only a moment and catching the sun just so,
was a Silver Hair Comb.

It glimmered brightly in the sunlight — catching the light in a way that felt entirely unnecessary, the shine sliding along its silver teeth in a way the crow found beguiling and difficult to ignore.

The crow did not hesitate.

He swooped —
He swiped —
and immediately discovered that the comb had opinions of its own about being suddenly airborne.

It twisted in the air.
Caught the breeze in a totally wrong way.
Tugged at his grip and clanked softly against a metal fence post as he passed.

As he flew, the wind caught the comb just right, and its teeth let out a thin, reedy whistle —
a sound the crow did not like at all.
The annoying whistle made him sound like a songbird.
Something a crow is most definitely not.

There was a brief and undignified wobble.
He veered.
He swerved.
He corrected.
He veered again.
He swerved again.
He sheared off his intended path.

But a crow is nothing if not determined, and after several momentary struggles over three fields and two fences, he carried it home.

Back at his nest, he chose the best wall —
the one where the afternoon light lingered longest —
and mounted the comb carefully between two sturdy branches.

He stepped back to admire it, folding his wings as comfortably as a crow ever could,
one leg tucked, head tilted.

It was, he thought, a very fine thing.
A very shiny thing . . . .
And it was his.
All his.

He admired it and thought then to himself in a Crowsian rhyme —
“Now it’s all mine,
This very fine shine.
To admire when I dine,
By my shiny comb shrine.”

He was proud of his heist.
And felt it looked nice.
There on his wall,
When friends came to call.

The trouble, as it can, began the next morning.

The rising sun struck the comb at precisely the wrong angle,
and not seeking permission flashed straight into his eyes,
waking him from a pleasant dream involving corn, a sleeping scarecrow,
and uninterrupted peace while he feasted in the field.

But then the shine. In his eyes. Oh, that shine!
He blinked.
He squawked once.
He glared at the comb.
He shook a disapproving wing at its misbehaving.

But that was only the beginning.

By midmorning, others had noticed the shine.
Far and wide, they’d noticed the shine.

A pair of squirrels arrived first — polite and hopeful — asking to borrow the comb for a moment.
“Just a moment, please,” they implored.

Then came raccoons, who took longer than necessary
and admired themselves far too much in its reflection.

Soon a line formed along the branch, orderly at first,
then less so, as tempers rose and patience wore thin between hopeful visitors.

The comb chimed softly in the breeze.
It flashed.
It gleamed for all to see.

It beckoned.

Now and then, when the wind shifted just so, the comb answered with a faint whistle —
sharp and far-reaching,
adding sound to an already noisy visitor affair.

Before long, mother possums appeared,
each with a tidy row of babies clinging along her back.

The babies carried on as little ones will —
squeaking, squirming,
reaching for the comb at all the wrong times.

One slipped and had to be scooped back into place.
Another tried to chew on the comb
and was gently scolded.

The line grew longer.
And then longer still.

It stretched down the branch,
around the trunk,
around the trunk again,
onto the ground below,
and on out into the meadow.

There were disagreements.
There were accusations.
Someone tried to skip ahead.
Someone else refused to give the comb back on time.

A pair of chipmunks argued over who would get the extra acorn,
the one shining so noticeably in their reflection.

The crow watched from his perch,
his pride slowly giving way to unease.

By afternoon, a steady rain had begun to fall.
Yet the line did not shorten.
It grew.

When a porcupine waddled out of the bushes
and took his place at the end of the line,
now across the meadow,
the crow felt his feathered hackles rise.

He stared.
He turned away.
He paused.
And turned back to stare again.
Rain drops rolled off his beak.

He paced along the branch.
He glared at the comb.
He looked down at the line,
which showed no sign of shortening
and every sign of still growing longer.

The porcupine did not hurry.
He did not speak.
He merely looked up expectantly,
his quills catching the raindrops
in a way that suggested this was, to him,
an entirely reasonable request.

The crow looked at the porcupine.
He looked at the comb.
And then back at the porcupine.
Then once more at the comb.

And that was that.

The crow took the comb down,
gripped it firmly with his black crow feet,
and launched himself into the wet sky.

The wind tugged hard.
The rain soaked through his feathers.
More than once, the comb threatened to slip —
and as he flew, its teeth whistled sharply,
thin and accusing,
until even the sound itself felt like more fuss and guilt than he could bear.

Five miles is a long way in the rain.

When he finally returned to his nest,
soaked thru and tired,
the comb was gone.

His nest was quiet again.
The light was gentle.
The disquieting line dispersed.
The fuss had ended.

Unburdened, he shook out his feathers
and settled onto his branch,
wings heavy with rainwater —
yet feeling ever the lighter nonetheless.

For crows, you see, remember people.
And faces.
And places.

Places where things were found.
Places where then to return.

But to put it more simply —

Crows know.

A note about images — Original artwork throughout The Front Porch has been created from my concepts and creative direction with the assistance of AI.

Why do I write these? Aw, I don’t know. Just thought it might make you smile.

There’s Still Good on the Other Side of the Door

November 3, 2026November 1, 2026 / jrmilson / 1 Comment

Some mornings, you can wear yourself out before you ever put your shoes on.

There is the news. There is the thing somebody said about the news. There is somebody else explaining why the first somebody has everything backward. Meanwhile, your tea is getting cold, and you have been holding the same sock for five minutes.

On mornings like that, I find it helps to open the door.

Continue reading →

October in Honey Hill Country — A Few Things You Might Have Missed

November 1, 2026 / jrmilson / Leave a comment

October kept folks fairly busy around Honey Hill Country.

There were apples to gather, pumpkins to consider, roads to wander, and squirrels conducting business according to rules known only to themselves.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Myrtle Mae baked a cake.

That last part deserves your attention.

Continue reading →

Basic Bear Stuff — Remembering With Love

November 1, 2026October 17, 2026 / jrmilson / 1 Comment

Small moments. Simple lessons. Everyday joys.

There is a lot we can learn from the little things we do every day.

For Día de Muertos, the Mexican tradition observed on November 1 and 2 to remember and celebrate loved ones who have passed, Little Red Bear joins a family in honoring the memories they hold dear.

Join Little Red Bear each Sunday for a simple, colorful moment celebrating kindness, friendship, safety, responsibility, healthy habits, appreciation of nature, and the everyday pleasures of living.

Sometimes thoughtful, sometimes funny, and always gentle and welcoming, Basic Bear Stuff is about showing by example rather than preaching a lesson.

Basic Bear Stuff is made for all ages, and especially for sharing with children and grandchildren. Sometimes a little picture, a gentle laugh, or a simple everyday moment can open the door to a wonderful conversation.

One little bear. One simple moment. Something for all of us.

Welcome to Basic Bear Stuff!

Till next time then —

Jim (and Red!)

A note about the artwork — Each Basic Bear Stuff illustration is created from my original concepts and creative direction, with the assistance of AI, for the world of Little Red Bear and Honey Hill Country.

Tommy Tales — One More House

October 31, 2026October 17, 2026 / jrmilson / Leave a comment

From the critters near home . . . . to the wildlands beyond.

Tommy Tales are small adventures with big plans — meant to be read in a few happy minutes, enjoyed with a smile, and written and shared simply for the fun of it.

Tommy Tales — One More House

By the time the porch lamps began making little golden puddles along the streets of Butterfield, Tommy Jenkins had already visited most of the town.

Most was not all.

Tommy was ten years old, a country farm boy with a good heart, a lively imagination, and more plans than there were daylight hours to carry them out. He generally began things with considerable confidence. The necessary details usually caught up with him somewhere along the way.

For Halloween, however, he had prepared.

Behind him rattled a little wooden wagon carrying three flour sacks full of treats. A fourth sack hung over his shoulder.

There were still houses with their lamps lit.

At the next porch, a woman opened her door before he reached the top step.

“There you are, Tommy. I baked this molasses cookie especially for you.”

She held up a cookie nearly as wide as her saucer.

Tommy removed his hat.

“Thank you, ma’am!”

“I thought a boy your size might appreciate a substantial cookie.”

“Yes, ma’am. I surely would.”

He studied it with proper admiration before settling it carefully inside his sack.

“Happy Halloween!”

“And to you, dear. Mind that cookie.”

Tommy intended to.

At the following house, a jack-o’-lantern grinned from the porch rail, its candle shining through a crooked assortment of teeth.

“That is a mighty fine pumpkin,” Tommy told the woman at the door. “I made one with bigger teeth, though. To scare my little sister.”

“Did it?”

Tommy’s face fell a little.

“She put flowers in it.”

“Well, that sounds pretty.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be pretty.”

Then he brightened.

“I put some old dead ones in there when she wasn’t looking. Brown ones. They rattle.”

“And what did she say?”

“She hasn’t seen ’em yet.”

The woman pressed her lips together for a moment before reaching into her basket.

“You know what they say, Tommy. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Here you go. A fresh, ripe, red apple for you.”

Tommy accepted it, polished it once against his shirt, and lowered it into the sack.

“Thank you, ma’am. Happy Halloween!”

He went down the steps feeling better about the pumpkin.

His sister had not won anything yet.

Two doors farther along, a man brought out a tray of popcorn balls and looked past Tommy toward the wagon.

“Gathering provisions for the winter?”

“No, sir. Just tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t get everywhere last year.”

The man nodded gravely.

“Well. We mustn’t have that happen twice.”

He chose a large popcorn ball.

Tommy found a place for it beside two small paper parcels of cookies and a little cake wrapped in a square of clean cloth.

The fourth sack was becoming a very satisfactory sack indeed.

He thanked the man, wished him a happy Halloween, and started toward the next light.

Halfway down the road, something tapped his heel.

Tommy stopped.

An apple lay behind him.

He picked it up and glanced toward the wagon. All three sacks sat where he had put them.

“Huh.”

He returned the apple to the sack over his shoulder and continued.

A few steps later, a walnut rolled past his shoe.

Then another.

Tommy watched the second walnut settle into a wagon rut.

He looked down.

A small hole had opened near the bottom seam of his sack.

“Oh, now.”

He shifted the sack into both arms.

The seam made a soft tearing sound.

Tommy stood very still.

The seam continued without him.

Down went the apple. Down went the walnuts. Down went the popcorn ball, the paper parcels, and the little wrapped cake.

The molasses cookie landed on top.

For a moment Tommy remained in the road holding a sack that had become, for practical purposes, a sleeve.

He looked through it.

Then he looked at the treats.

“Well, that won’t do.”

He hurried to gather everything onto the clean upper part of the fallen sack. The apple needed another polish. One paper parcel had come untucked. The special molasses cookie had lost a small piece from its edge.

Tommy ate the piece.

There was no sense losing that, too.

He examined the three sacks in the wagon. Each was full to the gathered neck. He pressed experimentally against one.

A popcorn ball rose out of another.

He put it back.

Tommy looked toward the next house.

Its porch lamp was burning. Someone was moving about inside.

He considered his hat.

Too small.

He considered the broken sack.

Still broken.

Then he looked down at his shirt.

Tommy smiled.

A little later, he stood in his white undershirt, working steadily beside the wagon.

He buttoned his outer shirt all the way up, tied the collar opening closed with a piece of string from his pocket, and knotted each cuff. Then he turned the whole arrangement upside down.

He held it open by the shirttail.

It was an excellent sack.

The sleeves offered additional room that he had not even counted on.

In went the apples and walnuts. In went the popcorn balls and parcels. He eased smaller things down into the sleeves and laid the large molasses cookie safely on top.

Tommy lifted his invention.

Both hands were required.

He looked at the wagon handle.

Another detail.

Fortunately, he had brought a length of rope to keep the sacks from tumbling off on the road home.

He tied one end to the wagon handle and the other around his waist. Then he gathered up his shirtful of treats and took an experimental step.

The wagon followed.

So did another step.

Behind him, the wheels began their familiar rattle. In front, the stuffed sleeves swung low, their knotted cuffs brushing the dirt.

Tommy’s country-boy smile spread clear across his face.

Everything was working.

Ahead, a woman appeared in a lighted doorway.

“Tommy Jenkins! Are you still out?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Well, come along, then. I saved something for you.”

Tommy leaned forward, the rope tightened, and the wagon rolled after him.

There was room yet.

One more house.

A Little Red Bear P.S. —

Folks celebrated Halloween a little differently back in 1904. We borrowed a bit from later years for Tommy’s evening rounds. We couldn’t very well let him miss out on those popcorn balls.