Some Sundays end the way they should.
A good meal. Plates pushed back. Folks sitting around a little longer than planned. Nobody watching the clock. The talk wandering from one thing to the next, easy and unimportant in the best way. Somebody pours another cup of coffee or tea. Slices of pumpkin and pecan pies are served. Or maybe a slice of cake. Or two. And no one says much about it.
Those moments matter more than we sometimes realize at the time.
Before we get too far along, there is one small thing I would like to settle right from the start.
These days, the moment someone hears the words “weekly” and “email,” a little voice pipes up:
Oh no… not JAN.
Just Another Newsletter.
You know the kind.
Crowded inbox. Loud subject lines. Endless self-promotion.
More noise than nourishment.
And if that is what The Hearth & Holler Gazette were going to be — I would not blame you one bit for steering clear.
But here is the thing —
This is not JAN. Not even close.
The Gazette is not a newsletter.
There will be no book pitches.
No launch announcements.
No character reveals dropped like bait.
No “Pre-order Now!” or “Don’t forget to buy!” reminders elbowing their way into your morning.
Instead, think of it this way —
The Hearth & Holler Gazette is a fictional small-town paper, delivered once a week on Saturday mornings, the way such things used to be — its pages set in the early years of the twentieth century, beginning in January of 1904.
A place for:
It exists for one reason only —
To offer a pause.
A smile.
A little warmth.
That is the why.
Everything else grows from that.
One might think of The Hearth & Holler Gazette as something closer to Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion —
without the live music, and without needing to go buy a radio.
A familiar voice.
A small town and folks you come to know.
Stories and observations that take their time, and trust you to do the same.
Or perhaps it brings to mind Charles Osgood’s quiet pieces — the kind that never shouted for attention, yet somehow always earned it.
If you ever found comfort in evenings spent with The Andy Griffith Show, The Waltons, or Little House on the Prairie, then you already understand the spirit at work here.
Not because those stories ignored the wider world —
but because, for a little while, they set a different table.
That is the neighbourhood the Gazette hopes to live in.
A Quiet Pause, a Warm Cup of Tea, and a Few Thoughts at Seventy-Six
Along with the steady accumulation of years, there’s something about December that slows a fellow down a bit, isn’t there? The days grow short, the evenings settle early, and the whole world seems to take a long, frosty breath before Christmas comes shining around the bend. It’s a fine time to step back for a quiet moment, look around, and take stock of the blessings scattered along one’s path — some large, many small, all of them worth noticing.
And as it happens, today is my birthday — another turn around the sun, another year of stories shared, friendships cherished, and small joys 
gathered up like pinecones on a woodland walk.
Seventy-six of those turns now, which seems as good a number as any to pause for a moment and look back with a bit of gratitude — and perhaps a chuckle or two. I don’t make much fuss of birthdays anymore. These days, there’s more comfort in a warm cup of tea, a cozy chair, and the gentle thought that I’ve been granted one more year to try and put a little good into the world. Isn’t that enough of a celebration all on its own?
As I sit with that thought, I find myself feeling grateful — deeply so — for all of you who stop by to spend a few moments with me here on The Writing Pages and out in Honey Hill Country. Your kindness, your notes, your visits — they brighten my days more than you may know. In a world that can feel hurried and rough-edged at times, this little community has become a place of warmth and neighbourly goodwill. And that is a rare and treasured gift.
If birthdays teach anything, it’s to take nothing for granted — the people in our lives, the quiet mercies, the laughter that catches us by surprise, and
the steady companionship of stories. And speaking of laughter, I find myself laughing more freely these days — from those spontaneous outbursts when something just plain tickles my funny bone, to shared belly laughs with friends and family, to the occasional gut-busting guffaw that invites a touch of embarrassment now and again. I’ve learned over the years that not taking oneself too seriously is good for the soul — and for the blood pressure. The world could do with a little more laughter, don’t you think?
And along with laughter, I’ve come to believe something simple but steadfast about folks in general — that if you look for the best in people, 
you’ll usually find it in good abundance. Will Rogers said, “I never met a man I didn’t like,” and I’ve found that, by and large, to be true in my own wanderings. Left to our own accord, most people are good-natured, helpful, and doing the best they can with the lives they’ve been given. Inside, we’re all more alike than different — hoping for a bit of steadiness, a touch of joy, and a safe, loving place for those dear to us. It’s a thought I may return to in more detail after the new year, because it feels worth lingering on — especially in the times we’re living through.
We each must follow our own wandering trail through life, but it surely helps to have a bit of company along the way. One of my most faithful companions these past years has been Little Red Bear, living rent-free in my head — though he’d
tell you he pays his way in stories, laughter, and the occasional good idea.
Red and his friends, and all the kindly souls of Honey Hill Country, are always reminding me to meet the world with a bit more compassion, a bit more patience, a generous helping of good humour, and to be a light for others where we can. Those old, shared teachings — the simple ones about kindness, compassion, empathy, love, and helping others — seem to echo through their adventures. And Red asked me to mention he’s saying hello, but he’s whispering it because he doesn’t want me raising his rent.
Another year older? Yes. But also another year of trying to notice the good 
along the way, appreciate the simple, and share a bit of light wherever possible. In the end, aren’t those the things that carry us through the years and seasons?
So thank you, truly, for walking this path with me. For reading, for caring, for sharing a portion of your own days here. The road ahead is sure to bring its share of hills and hollers, but travelling it with good company makes all the difference.
Here’s to another year of shared stories, hope, kindness, and whatever small wonders and adventures we may enjoy along the way.
— Jim (and Red!)
P.S. from Little Red Bear —
Little Red Bear says he’s happy to walk this winding path with me — but he wants everyone to know he’s the one carrying the snacks.
There is a certain quiet that settles over the hollers when December takes hold — a quiet you can almost feel, the way you might feel the weight of a warm quilt laid gently across your shoulders. The wind comes down off the ridges a little sharper this time of year, slipping between the bare branches and rattling the porch boards just enough to remind you that winter has indeed arrived. And if you happen to look out across the valley at dusk, you may notice a lantern glowing in a window here and there, yellow and soft
against the early dark, as though each home were setting out a small welcome for travelers on the road.
It seemed to me, while watching one of those lanterns bobbing along the path the other evening, that it might be time to offer a word of welcome myself — especially for anyone new wandering into The Writing Pages, or for long-time friends who may be wondering about this place we so often visit together and the changes you have been seeing. I realized that the sights and sounds we describe — these lantern-lit evenings and soft-spoken neighbours and wood smoke rising in the hollows — may not make much sense without knowing where — and when — we are standing.
So let me pull back the curtain just a little.
In these pages, when we speak of Honey Hill Country, we are stepping into the world and time of my main story character, Little Red Bear, as it was in December of 1903, and soon, as we come to the gentle turning of the calendar page from 1903 into 1904. Automobiles exist but remain a curiosity; electricity flickers in the cities but has scarcely reached the countryside.
Here in Honey Hill Country, life is still measured by the seasons, not the seconds. Lanterns guide our evenings. You can hear locomotives huffing and chuffing through the countryside, ribbons of smoke unfurling behind
them clear to the horizon. And along the wide rivers, the old steamboats travel slow and steady, paddlewheels turning like great clocks while calliopes lift their bright notes over the water. Folks talk face-to-face because there is no other way worth mentioning. A pot of beans on the stove counts as good hospitality, and neighbourliness is something you do, not something you merely talk about.
Why 1904, you might ask?
Well, it is a year standing right on the threshold between the old and the new. The St. Louis World’s Fair, “The Louisiana Purchase Exposition,” is on the horizon, promising wonders from every corner of the globe, yet here in the hills and hollers of Missouri, daily life remains close to the soil — simple, practical, familiar. There is a charm in that moment of balance, a
gentleness, as though the whole world were taking a long breath before rushing onward. It feels like the right place to set down our stories — far from the noise of modern life, but close enough to recognize ourselves in the faces around the hearth.
Honey Hill Country isn’t on any map, of course. It lives somewhere between memory and imagination — a small, steadfast corner of southern Missouri and the 
Ozarks Mountain Region, where the kettle always seems to be singing, the porch is always open for settin’ a while, and kindness hasn’t yet gone out of fashion. And yes, it is “settin’,” and not “sitting,” around these parts. Settin’ is something folks in the Ozarks and Honey Hill Country do — we “set.” City and modern-day folks “sit.” And there is a difference. Many readers have told me they come here for a bit of comfort, a chance to slow down, to reconnect with a gentler pace of living. And truth be told, I write for the very same reason.
Now, as to the neighbours who populate these parts — Little Red Bear most of all — I should confess that I never quite know when he’s going to show up. Sometimes he arrives with a story to tell, sometimes with a question, and sometimes just because the cookies and biscuit tin are
within easy reach.
In fact, as I was here writing this welcome, there came the sound of boots — well, paws — on the porch, followed by a brisk knock. The door swung open and in stepped Little Red Bear himself, brushing snowflakes off his fur and carrying a lantern that threw warm light across the room.
Red leaned over my shoulder like he owned the place.
“Whatcha writin’ there, Jim?” he asked. “Looks serious. One of those times when you’re tryin’ to sound like that Mark Twain fella again?”
“Red,” I said, “Mark Twain had more wit and wisdom in his little finger than I’ve got in my whole body. I’m just trying to say hello to the good folks stopping by.”
He squinted at the page. “Mmm. Coulda fooled me. That line there’s got a little twang to it. You plannin’ to grow yourself one of those big mustaches like his? Get a white suit, too? ’Cause if you do, I’m headin’ straight back to my cabin till spring.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The holler’s barbers have nothing to fear from me.”
Little Red Bear teasingly pulled my ponytail and nodded in agreement.
Red then mumbled something good-naturedly about poor starving barbers and hung his lantern on the peg. “Long as you don’t start smokin’ cigars or tellin’ riverboat stories, we’re probably safe.”
“No cigars, so safe with that,” I replied. “But the riverboat stories… well, we’ll see.”
He settled into the chair across from me, paws spread toward the warmth of the stove. “So what are you tellin’ the folks?”
“Well,” I said, “I thought they might like to know that it’s December 1903 in our world, and that we’re headed into 1904 together.”
Red nodded, satisfied. “That’s good. Clara will like that. She’s been fussin’ over the Gazette press like a hen over a single chick. Wants folks to know what they’re steppin’ into. We’re all steppin’ into 1904. ”
Ah yes — the Gazette.
Beginning toward the latter part of January — Saturday, January 24th, to be exact — the very first edition of the Hearth & Holler Gazette will be inked, folded, and carried out into Honey Hill Country, dated January 24, 1904. Clara Thimblewick, our esteemed editor, has been preparing diligently, sharpening pencils, straightening proofs, and setting type with all the quiet efficiency of a woman who has newspaper ink running in her veins.
Between now and then you will likely catch glimpses of her at her desk by lamplight, hunched over columns and headlines. The Gazette will bring stories from around the holler, local doings, humour, recipes, sketches, and whatever else the week happens to blow in over the ridge — a weekly visit meant to offer a little comfort, a little company, and perhaps a smile or two along the way. It is 1903 stepping soon into 1904 here, remember, and
things are about to get exciting as the “Louisiana Purchase Exposition” is scheduled to open in St. Louis soon!
Clara has already begun assembling a most curious and capable little staff for the Gazette — a cast of neighbours whose talents are as varied as the holler itself. A collection of characters so diverse and unexpected that even Little Red Bear shakes his head sometimes. You’ll be meeting them soon enough.
And here, in the modern world where we share these tales, it will arrive each week as a gentle reminder that not everything has to be fast, loud, or fraught with urgency. Some things — the best things, perhaps — are meant to be savored. A story. A kind word or gesture. The rise and fall of seasons. A lantern in the window. A visit with an old friend. A little bear named Cinnamon Charlie, who asks hard questions at the most inconvenient times.
So, whether you’ve been following along for years or have only just wandered in, please know you are welcome here. Truly welcome. Honey Hill Country is meant to be a resting place, a quiet corner in a noisy world, a weekly ramble down a simpler path. And if you choose to subscribe to the Gazette when it launches, you will be joining us not only in reading the stories, but in living a little with us each week — stepping into 1904 with Clara Thimblewick, Little Red Bear, Cinnamon Charlie, and all the neighbours who call this place home.
All of this — Honey Hill Country, the Gazette, the neighbours you will meet — is fictional storytelling through and through, shared freely every Saturday morning to offer a little rest for the mind, a gentler way to breathe at week’s end, and to ease you into the quieter hours of the weekend. All that’s necessary is a little imagination and the willingness to wander along with us each week — a small gift from our corner of the holler to yours.
Little Red Bear rose from the chair and took up his lantern again. “Well,” he said, “I best be goin’. Snow’s pickin’ up and I promised Jeffrey, my rabbit gardening friend, that I’d help him cover the herb patch.” Then he turned back with a small smile. “Just be sure you tell the folks they’re welcome here anytime. You can do that without soundin’ too much like Mark Twain, can’t ya?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
And so I will.
Welcome, friend. The lantern is lit, the door is open, and the path into Honey Hill Country lies just ahead.
So please consider this your invitation to join us each week. And if you haven’t already, please feel free to tap that little ‘Subscribe’ button over on the right so our weekly visits from Honey Hill and the Hearth & Holler Gazette find their way straight to you every Saturday morning. We’d be honored to have your company.
Thanks for settin’ a spell with us.
— Jim (and Red!)
Hello, Friends — I’m back.
It feels good to say that again. And it feels even better to step back onto the porch here on the Writing Pages, pull up a chair, and visit with you once more.
I’ve been away for a while — partly because the past year handed me more than the usual share of medical miles to walk. One thing after another kept showing up on the calendar, and I found myself spending far more time in surgeries and waiting rooms than at my writing desk. It took a good long while to heal and regain my footing, but I’m grateful to say the energy has been returning, piece by piece. And that is a good feeling, isn’t it?
We had our first big snowfall here over the past weekend. The first snowfall always brings back a memory from when I was very small, walking between my father and uncle on a winter’s day. The ground ahead looked perfectly flat — or so I thought — until I stepped confidently forward and disappeared straight down into a hidden ditch, neck-deep in snow. One moment I was strolling along, the next I was swallowed by winter. My
father and uncle, each on the high side of the drift, reached down, grabbed an arm apiece, and popped me back up like a cork.
Life still does that now and then — letting you tumble into a drift when you least expect it, doesn’t it? And then, just when you need it most, it seems to offer a couple of steady hands to lift you back out again. This little return of mine feels something like that — a gentle rescue from life’s snowbank and a renewed chance to step forward once more.
To those who have checked in, left kind notes, or simply stayed subscribed and waiting — thank you. Your quiet encouragement means more than you 
know. And to new readers just finding your way here, welcome. There’s always room for one more at the table. It feels nice to gather again, doesn’t it?
I’ve always loved this time of year. How about you? Something about early December brings a gentle hush to things — a peaceful feeling that settles in like the first snow on the evergreens. Lights go up in windows. Neighbors wave more often. Even the shortest days seem to glow with their own kind of soft magic. It feels like the right moment to return.
And return we will, with a full month of stories, poems, reflections, seasonal pieces, and cozy visits from Honey Hill Country. And for those new to our pages here, Honey Hill is where my lead story character (and friend in my head) Little Red Bear lives. Red and his friends have plenty to share, and I’m delighted to be writing again with a clearer head and a more grateful heart.
We’ll also be building toward something special — the upcoming “Hearth & Holler Gazette,” arriving a little later in January. It’s been a joy to create, along with no small bit of work, and I look forward to offering you a few small peeks as we move closer to launch. Exciting to think about, isn’t it?
Before we dive into all of that, I hope you’ll stop back by this Saturday — I’ll be sharing a warm basketful of Free Christmas and Holiday Season Features from the archives, gathered together for easy holiday reading and revisiting old favorites. A nice way to start the season, don’t you think?
For now, I simply wanted to open the door again, turn on the porch light, and say how glad I am to be back. I’ve missed this place — and more importantly, I’ve missed you.
Here’s to December, to new stories ahead, and to finding comfort, hope, and good company as the year winds down. I’m looking forward to walking through the season with you.
Thank you for being here — it means the world.
— Jim (and Red!)
If you haven’t visited Little Red Bear’s world yet, this might be a nice time to wander in for a spell — you’ll find his books filled with warmth, kindness, and a little old-time charm. Sounds inviting, doesn’t it?
Pen-and-ink illustrations created with the assistance of AI and lovingly styled for Little Red Bear Land.
Happy November!
A week ago I was dog and pet sitting for one of my sons while he and my daughter-in-law vacationed in Cancun, and leaves began to first display
Autumn colors here.
Then, on Monday and Tuesday of this week, 8 inches of rain soaked our area, caused widespread flooding along with many school closures, and blew newly colored leaves off trees already.
On Tuesday, folks headed to the polls in the Presidential election across the U.S., and officials declared Donald Trump the winner in a decisive victory.
And on Wednesday morning, following the overnight announcement of the election results, the world as we knew it ended. Or so it seemed anyway, as many around me fell into a sinking feeling of hopelessness, depression, and despair. Feeling drowned and done in by both the rain and the election.
Well, let’s talk about that. Because talking about problems and bringing them out into the light of day can help us to not only work thru what is bothering us but also to figure out what we can do about it all going forward.
James Milson - The Writing Pages 