I spied the mimosa tree in bloom as soon as I turned the corner onto our county road. I veered onto the shoulder so I could get out and take a photograph. In nearly four years of living here at Three Geese Farm, I had never noticed this impressive specimen of what is considered in East Texas to be an invasive species. I have driven past this tree at least a few thousand times in our years out here. This time, the sun’s early morning rays highlighted its pink fern blooms just right. So I stopped.
My love of mimosa trees began when we moved to Longview from New Hampshire in the summer of 1968....
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One of the infuriating non-responses I hear while listening to NPR or come across in the dozen or so media outlets I read daily is a version of this: “Sen. Doofus declined to comment.” From the Oval Office to a local constabulary, it appears the entire government apparatchik has decided the best response to inquiries from members of the media who are not brown-nosing toadies is to ignore them.
I would peg the percentage of stories, many of which are of major import, that end with the beleaguered journalist saying “no comment was available” at roughly 80 percent. Few folks in public life...
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The girls have arrived.
Last Sunday, we made the one-hour journey to Alba, population 473, up by Lake Fork. From there we crisscrossed several country roads and finally spied a sign: Chickens for Sale. A pleasant young couple and two dogs came out to greet us in front of a fenced shipping container that had been converted into a giant chicken coop. There was a whole lot of clucking going on that afternoon from 125 Cinnamon Queen laying hens, all sporting various patterns of burnt orange and white feathers.
We had lined a dog crate with newspaper (print still has its uses), put the seats down...
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More than 40 years ago, I bought a copper weathervane from a fellow in San Augustine who had opened an antique store of sorts. I say “of sorts” because the weathervane was brand new when I bought it, for perhaps $20. The same guy, over the five years I spent there running The Rambler newspaper, sold me a handsome book cabinet that houses my collection of presidential biographies and other histories. It now anchors a corner of the living room. I also bought a massive blueprint cabinet that is down in the shop, filled with my late dad’s artwork and my photographs.
That rooster weathervane,...
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The other night, I watched A Complete Unknown, the biopic of Bob Dylan released last year. It stars Timothée Chalamet as a young Bob Dylan. The nearly 84-year-old troubadour and Nobel Prize winner posted that he was pleased with the film and Chalamet’s performance, which indeed was impressive. Dylan even read the entire script aloud before production, wrote “Go with God” on his copy and signed it.
I was more intrigued, largely because of the memories it invoked, with the performance of Ed Norton as Pete Seeger. Norton had to learn how to play the banjo to play the famed folk singer, and he did so quite...
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With bushhog season about to commence here at Three Geese Farm, it was time to remove the box blade attachment and attach the bushhog, also called a rotary cutter. I used the box blade during the winter months to lay down and smooth two pads of crushed limestone on which the chicken coop and adjoining greenhouse were built, plus patch a few rutted paths used by the tractor. I bought 15 yards of limestone and 5 yards of river rock from a fellow who delivered it to the gravel parking lot down the hill from our house, which is home to a natural gas well. The gas company built the parking lot, which...
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Let me tell you about Tater, the coolest, chillest cat I have ever known.
When full-grown, Tater weighed more than 16 pounds. His belly nearly dragged the floor. He was orange and white, a Texas Longhorn cat who loved to talk. He didn’t simply meow but chirped at his human companions. Tater would lie on an ottoman or chair, enjoying the morning sun. When someone walked by, he would raise his head slightly and go: Row, Row, Row! (rhyming with wow, not mow). It is a bit hard to duplicate in words, so that is the best I can do.
Nothing fazed Tater. He took the arrivals and departures of other...
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Spring has erupted at Three Geese Farm, the trees raining pollen under a nearly constant wind, coating everything outside in yellow powder. Mollie, our white Maltese, has a tinge of yellow from going outside. Washing vehicles is a fool’s errand until the pollen ends. The driveway is filled with drifts of oak clusters, resembling seaweed washed up on a beach.
But the flowers. The Carolina jasmine climbing the black chain-link fence that keeps the dogs confined showers yellow blossoms that decorate the ground. The azaleas are popping out in front and back, now in their fourth season. During...
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I was sitting in a Dallas doctor’s office the other day, reading The Atlantic on my phone since I forgot to bring a book. This was about a week before that venerable magazine — founded in 1857 — made headlines when its editor-in-chief was accidentally put on Signal, an encrypted messaging app, with key members of the administration’s team planning an attack on Houthi rebels in Yemen, including the vice president, CIA director, director of national intelligence and secretary of defense. Elect a clown. Expect a circus.
The Atlantic is now owned by Lauren Powell Jobs, widow of Apple co-founder...
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I first noticed a niggle that a health threat was on the horizon in late February 2020 while on a trip to Fort Worth. My Beautiful Mystery Companion and I popped in at a Texas Press Association conference so I could briefly meet with some folks, say hello to longtime colleagues, and enjoy a couple of days in Cowtown. News of a mysterious new virus out of China was beginning to spread. A few folks at the conference mentioned it, wondering how widespread it might become.
By early March, talk of what came to be called COVID-19 was beginning to dominate the news. A high school friend and I met at the CrossFit...
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