The Day the Outdoors Introduced Itself

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Thanks for stopping by to visit. I was thinking about something the other day . . . .

When I was about six or seven years old, our next-door neighbors invited me to spend the weekend with them on a little farm they owned near Florida, Missouri.

It wasn’t a working farm in the sense I imagined farms to be. Someone else did the farming, and they simply shared the harvest. And by city-boy standards, it was primitive, like a trip back to the wild west of my imagination.

A well for water and no indoor plumbing. There was a chamber pot for doing necessary overnight business behind a pulled back curtain in what used to be a closet because outside there could be roaming bobcats, coyotes, and foxes. They didn’t mention bears and wolves, but my imagination soon caught up to include them, too.

But for me, though, and how it all turned out, it all might as well have been Yellowstone National Park.

I had no idea one ordinary summer Saturday was about to introduce me to a whole new world and life

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What the Grasshopper Already Knows

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Every summer, there comes a day when I notice the grasshoppers again, with their buzzing and whirring in the tall grasses and weeds along the fence lines. Together with the cicadas droning in the afternoons, it has all been the sounds of summer for me.

One afternoon not long ago, I was walking along the edge of a nearby field when something sprang out of the tall grass ahead of me. It landed on a weathered fencepost just a few feet away and sat perfectly still. It was a grasshopper. Mottled olive-green in color, perched motionless on the grey wood.

Most of us don’t give grasshoppers much consideration. They hop out of the way, disappear into the weeds, and go about whatever it is grasshoppers spend their summer afternoons doing. We notice them for a second or two, then we continue along on our way.

This time, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I didn’t.

I stopped.

 

 

 

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On Fiction Writing and the Art of Respectable Lying

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Welcome back to the Front Porch.

Please pull up a chair for a few minutes and make yourself comfortable. Today I’d like to make a confession — one that may permanently damage my reputation as an honest fellow.

I’ve been lying to perfectly nice people for years.

Professionally.

Now before anyone becomes too alarmed, I’m talking about the respectable, old-fashioned kind of lies. The harmless sort that begin with, “Once upon a time . . . . “ and somehow end with everybody smiling.

Mark Twain is often credited with saying that if you want to become a good fiction writer, you must first become proficient at the art of lying. Whether he actually said those exact words or not, I’ve never been entirely sure. But I’ve always had a difficult time believing he’d object to the sentiment, and cannot argue with it myself.

The longer I’ve been writing, the more I think there may be more than a little truth hiding inside that mischievous observation.

After all, I’ve spent years convincing otherwise sensible people that a talking bear in the Ozarks backwoods wears overalls, a bloodhound interviews a talking mule, a goat develops an unhealthy appetite for hats, and somewhere in a fictional place called Honey Hill Country there are folks who seem just a little more interesting than anyone has a right to be.

And the surprising part?

People keep believing every word.

The curious part isn’t that writers tell these respectable lies.

It’s why perfectly sensible people keep smiling . . . . and asking for another one.

And well . . . . that’s where the real story begins.

 

 

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Simple Hopes

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Welcome back to the Front Porch. I’m glad you could stop by for a few minutes.

Lately I’ve found myself thinking about simple things.

Trees.

Wildflowers.

Birds.

Butterflies.

Forests.

Streams.

The ordinary things that make a place feel alive.

Perhaps it comes from spending so much time wandering through Honey Hill Country. Or perhaps it simply comes with age. Either way, I found myself sitting with a thought the other day.

Not a complicated thought.

Just a hopeful one.

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Things I Never Thought I’d Need To Know

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One of the things I have discovered while putting together the new Hearth & Holler monthly magazine is that creating a magazine set in 1904 often requires learning things I never expected to know. Or having the need to know. Welcome to magazine week.

Most people probably assume magazine week involves writing articles, selecting images, correcting spelling mistakes, and occasionally convincing fictional contributors to stay within the boundaries of proper grammar and word limits.

And they would be right.

Mostly.

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An Unexpected Visitor

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A few weeks ago, after saying goodbye to my little Chihuahua, Allie, I was sitting quietly at home when an unexpected visitor stopped by my window.

Now, before I tell you about the visitor, I should probably explain something.

Birds and I are already on fairly familiar terms.

A pair of House Sparrows built a nest this spring in a ventilation outlet just outside my apartment on the third floor. For weeks, they came and went carrying bits of grass, feathers, and whatever else sparrows use when decorating a nursery. Not long ago, the young ones finally fledged. For several days afterward, the babies could often be seen perched nearby and on my windowsill itself, fluttering their wings and loudly demanding food as though they had never been fed a meal in their lives.

As a result, birds visit my windowsill rather regularly.

Sparrows stop by.

Finches stop by.

Occasionally a woodpecker appears, drilling in the bricks and mortar for insects, spiders, and insect pupae hiding in the crevices. they inspect it all with great seriousness.

Birds come and go so often that seeing one outside my window or on my window ledge is hardly unusual.

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