Paul Marchant

Sometimes I’m a walking cliché. I tend to look before I leap, try to run before I walk, step over a dollar to pick up a dime, put the cart before the horse, count the chickens before they’re hatched … Well, you get the idea.

6:43 a.m.
He cracks the bedroom door open, just an inch or two, and hears her discussing with the 2-year-old the civil rights of the roan horse and the heeler dog, and why they have to sleep outside.

A lifetime spent in the pursuit of happiness, quite often generally and specifically in pursuit of a cow, in some form or another, has taught me nothing if it hasn’t taught me the world of agriculture is full of paradox and Renaissance men and women.

We always like to have a dog or two around our place. We’d really like to have a good dog or two around our place, just to try it out and see what it would be like. We have actually tried it once or twice, but it has been a short-lived experiment.

The changing seasons and my constant struggle with those changes provides me with plenty of writing fodder. It seems that no matter what Ma Nature throws at me or lays at my feet, I can find a reason to whine about it. There are those around me who might use a different term to describe my incessant “complaining,” but I try to keep my musings as family-friendly as possible.

Hard though it may be to believe, I am not the most tech-savvy guy crashing and burning his way along the information superhighway.