The ink is faded but still legible on an 8x10, black-and-white photograph hanging in the bedroom. The inscription reads “Kemo Sabay,” Clayton Moore, The Lone Ranger. The masked avenger crouches in a desert setting, a saguaro cactus in the background. Besides the requisite black mask, the Long Ranger wears a bandana around his neck, a long-sleeved snap pearl western shirt, a fancy belt with silver studs, and a revolver strapped to his right hip. He looks ready for action. He also appears to be sweating profusely.
When I was a kid, Clayton Moore, the Lone Ranger, came to Pleasure Island, a short-lived...
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We are admittedly a bit late to the game, but we have started composting here at Three Geese Farm. With four hens laying eggs daily, and us frantically trying to devour as many of these delicious miracles of nature as possible, there is plenty to compost, coming out of the coop and the kitchen. I bought a compost bin with ventilated sides that sits outside behind the coop. I also purchased a kitchen countertop compost container that is airtight. That is for coffee grounds, eggshells, banana peels — every perishable form of food waste except meat products.
I feel absurdly virtuous now that...
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When reading a book at night, I invariably sit at my desk, Spotify playing through my earbuds, the Mac monitors glowing in front of me. The book lies flat on the desk, which I built out of black walnut and red oak 15 years ago. I am mighty fond of that desk.
Propping the book open is an embossed leather book weight. It is about 9 inches long with a pair of lead weights entombed inside on either end. It will keep open the heftiest tome in which I am engrossed. The velvet backing has come loose on part of it. I am working up to gluing it back together. One doesn’t approach such tasks quickly....
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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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