If you're going to come to a farm, you're going to see animals in their natural state. If you're going to read about a farm you're going to read about animals in their natural state: Be warned!
Our neighbor, Mr. M, has goats. We have goats. Fences separate our goats. Sometimes the goats actually pay attention to the fences and stay where they're supposed to stay, but in the spring . . . all bets are off. It's spring after all.
Because in the spring a young buck's heart turns to love or . . . how to say this genteelly . . . er . . . um . . . oh forget it! Humping! Their hearts turn to humping and fences are for jumping.
. . . Because He [God] never lets me get smug. Never. Ever. That’s how I know. Just about the time I get to thinking I’ve got some street stuff or cool juice, God enjoys serving me up some humble pie with an extra helping of humiliation on the side.
Here’s how it always goes. I do something pretty keen, even dazzling, and then bam, one of my shoes falls in the toilet, and I have to dive in and fish it out. True story. Don’t ask.
I’m pretty good at saying the words that people hear with their ears. My college speech teacher remarked that “Linda is just this side of an inspirational speaker.” This side of what he never clarified.
It might be the Irish in me. It might be all the ......
Last year at this time on the calendar, our property was under water. It was a rainy spring. It's happened before. A dozen years ago it rained every single day for twenty-eight days during the Easter season. Knee high rain boots were all the fashion rage around here.
This year we are dry as a dust bowl. There's a burn ban. There's a wildfire alert. There's a lot of crunchy grass.
But isn't that Mother Nature for you? The answer is yes.
Too much. Not enough.
For a dame that gets a lot of adoration and awe, Mother Nature is a real biddy. For those not of the Southern persuasion a biddy, or old biddy is an ugly, frightening old woman: beldam, crone, hag, witch.
When I hear people worshipping at the feet of ......
I signed up to be part of a four-day Book Lover’s Book Fair two years ago. I had no idea what I was doing then. I have no clue what I’m doing now. I’ve missed my self-imposed deadlines. I won’t have a new book to highlight. I can’t quite figure out how to stand out in a crowd of authors that do these book fair deals one-hundred-weekends of the year.
Then there are the classes I’ve been attending at every writer’s conference and seminar with titles in the form of lists. Lists of everything that a writer should not do, or they’ll die a dozen poorly plotted deaths before they’ve gotten out of bed—not to mention whey they’re at book fairs. The endless, negative lists ......
Reports of my imagined death are false—also incorrect. I’m not dead.
To recap: I am not dead. I’m just concentrating really hard.
Several years ago, my husband couldn’t instantly get a hold of me via my cell phone, because it was dead, the cell phone. NOT ME. When he couldn’t immediately contact me from Kuala Lumpur or Detroit or Walmart or wherever to let me know he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or something equally informative, he panicked.
So he called our daughter, Heather.
Who called our daughter, Maren.
Who told her friends at school that I’m a hermit and a nut.
Because we killed God and bulldozed Heaven, it’s impossible to get someone to repair the engine on my eleven-year old grandson’s go-cart. And that is no joke.
Okay, okay. First things first.
On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day.
On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls ......
Sherwood’s horse, Charlie, made it to the nine-mile mark on the Osceola Sheriff’s Office fundraiser trail ride, and then he (the horse, not Sherwood) folded up like a camel on the side of the trail. Sherwood jumped off. It wasn’t very far to jump, he later reported.
Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to ......
FYI: I haven’t felt represented by a president in the oval office since John F. Kennedy. There I’ve said it. It’s out there. Alienated, ignored, marginalized and discriminated against, that’s how I’ve felt for decades, and my feelings are bigger than the head of the Statue of Liberty and therefore really, really big—also important.
Even my husband has been part of the problem. He looked at me the other day and said, “Hey! You have a lot of freckles. Have you always had that many freckles?”
We’ve been married for almost forty years. Who’s he been looking at?
“Yes, Dear. I have a lot of freckles, just like that ...
In the beginning, I read because I had to figure out what those two crazy kids, Dick and Jane, were up to with their dog named Spot.
Then I read because the words were everywhere: cereal boxes, road signs, billboards, newspapers, and the instructions on the back of the Jiffy Pop popcorn. The words were every place I looked. And I could READ them. It may have been the magic of ordinary things, but it was magic.
After that, I realized that the Reader’s Digest people had filled our house with edited, condensed volumes of . . . well, everything from Michener to Buck. Those books were condensed—like soup—just add reading, so I did.
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from the DMV that all the world should be about renewing their driver’s licenses, but mostly one Linda of Kissimmee Park.
2 (And this bureaucratic nonsense did vex Linda of Kissimmee Park.)
3 Yet she went to be renewed in her fifty-eighth year, only to see forth that her social security scrap of teensy paper was nowhere to be found, nay, not in all her bags and sacks and bundles and so her quest did begin to satisfy those that ‘rule by desks’ in the land of her birth in that selfsame year.
4 And Sherwood also went up to Kissimmee out of the city of Saint Cloud to keep his ...
Please be advised that the original works found on this website are copyrighted 2017 and are protected by dobermans, a yeti, and a really feisty pony--also God. The penalty for pretending that my writing is your writing is . . . well, I don't like to think about it, but remember plagiarizing makes you a cheater, and I can always write new stuff. Amen.