What the Grasshopper Already Knows

July 28, 2026July 28, 2026 / jrmilson / 1 Comment

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

July 23, 2026July 27, 2026 / jrmilson / 2 Comments

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

July 21, 2026July 21, 2026 / jrmilson / Leave a comment

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

July 16, 2026July 15, 2026 / jrmilson / 2 Comments

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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The June 1904 Issue of Hearth & Holler Has Arrived

June 29, 2026 / jrmilson / Leave a comment

Today marks the beginning of something new.

After much thought, planning, writing, illustrating, and more than a few cups of tea, Hearth & Holler has taken on a new format as a Monthly Magazine — a collection of stories, people, places, gardens, recipes, traditions, and adventures from across Honey Hill Country.

For readers visiting Honey Hill Country for the first time, the stories and features in Hearth & Holler are set in the fictional world of Honey Hill Country in the year 1904, the home and time period of my primary story character Little Red Bear. Through the eyes of its residents, contributors, and occasional bears and animals, we explore a simpler time filled with gardens, front porches, festivals, railroads, riverboats, animals and humans living side-by-side, and everyday life.

Inside this month’s issue you’ll meet one of Honey Hill Country’s most beloved shopkeepers, climb to Inspiration Point with Willow Meadows, visit a Jeffersonian garden in bloom, enjoy strawberry season at the Packet House Hotel, and travel with Felicity Merriweather to the St. Louis World’s Fair.

You’ll also find hummingbirds, festivals, good-natured nonsense, front porch reflections, and a few surprises along the way.

Rather than presenting everything in a single post, each feature now has its own page, allowing readers to explore the magazine much as they might wander from article to article in a traditional publication.

I invite you to pour yourself a cup of something good, settle in, and spend a little while with us in Honey Hill Country.

👉 Click here to visit the June 1904 issue of Hearth & Holler.

Thank you for visiting and spending part of your day with us!

— Jim (and Red!)

The illustrations accompanying this issue were created with the assistance of AI and lovingly prepared in a watercolor style for the world of Little Red Bear and Honey Hill Country.

A Conversation on the Morning Air

April 18, 2026 / jrmilson / 1 Comment

There are some Spring mornings that feel as though they’ve been set out just for noticing.

Last week offered one of those.

The air had that early-season softness — not quite warm, not quite cool — in between — the kind that carries sound a little farther than usual and lets the world arrive in layers. Across the street stood a White Dogwood in full bloom, its branches lifted and spread like open hands, each one holding those unmistakable cross-shaped blossoms that seem less like flowers and more like small, quiet declarations.

And there, settled comfortably among them, was a Cardinal, its crimson feathers glowing in the sunlight.

Not just present — but singing.

Filling the morning air with his full-throated melodies. Steady, and sure of himself, as Cardinals tend to be. The kind of song that doesn’t ask for attention so much as assuming it will be given.

On my side of the street, just ahead, stood a Red Maple — not yet committed to Spring, its branches still mostly bare, holding back just a little longer before leafing out. And from somewhere within those branches — though I could not see him at all — came the bright, quick voice of a Carolina Wren.

It is one of those things, where if you know that sound, you know it — sharp, cheerful, almost insistent, as if every note matters. Such a loud song coming from such a tiny bird.

And then something curious happened.