February

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

Welcome!

It has been a snowbound week in Honey Hill Country — one marked by delays, detours, and the steady work of getting on with things as best they could be managed.

But this week also marks a small but meaningful change for the The Hearth & Holler Gazette — one that has me genuinely excited about where the paper is heading. From time to time, select stories will now be accompanied by period-style illustrations, offering a visual record of events alongside the printed word. These images are meant to be read as much as seen — another way of noticing what has happened around us and remembering it clearly.

These illustrations are being prepared carefully, with focused attention to the Ozarks setting of Little Red Bear’s stories and the 1904 period the Gazette inhabits. They are intentionally restrained, observational, and rooted in the visual language of the time — not modern embellishments, but echoes of how stories were once quietly shown as well as told before the use of photography became commonplace.

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 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.

What follows reflects the shape of these past days: trains slowed and roads altered, plans postponed and routines adjusted. It also holds the smaller things that traveled just as surely through the cold — a door opened, a shovel shared, a joke passed along to lighten the work. Taken together, they tell the story of a week that tested patience, rewarded cooperation, and reminded us that even when progress is measured in careful steps, it is still progress all the same.