Paul Marchant

In general, I hold pretty fast to a few steady and consistent rules of thumb. One such rule has to do with sticking to your strengths, at least when you’re out in public view. Another fairly reliable and ironic adage is that there is an exception or two to every rule.

It was shaping up to be a good spring day. The snow was pretty much gone, and the mud was drying up. It was one of the first days of the year that dared me to attack it without the aid of muck boots or snow packs on my feet.

It was a rarity, but I was actually on schedule – not ahead of schedule but on schedule nonetheless. Somehow, I wasn’t running late. The morning feeding was done, the weather was cooperating, and there was a chance I’d make it to the sale yard in time for lunch before the bull sale.

 At sunrise, just a couple of days after Groundhog Day, I heard a comfortably familiar yet startling sound. Just outside the back door, 20 feet up in the bare poplar tree, two or three dozen blackbirds were chirping away as if they were welcoming May Day to the first week of February.

Several years ago, my younger brother, who is 15 years my junior, was getting mouthy with me about something. I think he was home for the summer between semesters at college. He could run circles around me academically – and I’m pretty sure, as the baby of the family, he’s Mama’s favorite.

Jerry is as good as they come. He seems to always be happy and friendly. He makes toys. Jerry is a happy toymaker. As a matter of fact, his business is called The Happy Toymaker. His toys aren’t just any toys, mind you.