I didn’t plan to write about my dad, just a few weeks after posting a piece about what would have been my parents’ 72nd wedding anniversary. But I can’t get that painting out of my mind. Perhaps writing about it will help. Besides, Father’s Day is coming up. I have been a dad for nearly 47 years. The verdict is likely still out on my fathering qualities.
Some of you have read this before, but others haven’t. I’ll make it brief. My dad drew a paycheck as a commercial artist, a fancy term for a sign painter. A botched medical procedure when he was 58 left him disabled and unable to work....
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The girls have been with us for a month. Our four Cinnamon Queen hens — Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, June Carter Cash, and Patsy Cline — seem quite content in their new abode, now covered in poultry netting so they can safely wander about their fenced enclosure during the day. Around dusk, I go inside the coop. They immediately follow me inside since I am the Food Guy. Truth be told, they are better at coming to me than the pups.
Putting up the poultry netting was a challenge. My Beautiful Mystery Companion and I spent the better part of two days cutting and attaching it with cable ties between...
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My parents got hitched 72 years ago today.
They married Saturday afternoon on May 30, 1953, at Christ the King Catholic Church in Concord, New Hampshire. Carl Bradford Borders (called Brad) wore his Navy dress blues. He would turn 21 two months later. Grace Adrian Bourque (nicknamed Mickey for reasons never fully disclosed but likely related to her days partying in Boston while attending nursing school) wore white. She was 23.
The wedding photo shows the couple on the steps of the church’s entrance, a young girl peering up at them from behind a tall wooden door. It is a precious photo,...
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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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