Paul Marchant

In the arid, high-desert country of the Great Basin, folks have learned to get by on not much more than hope, faith and a few acres of alkali ground covered with greasewood, sage and four-winged saltbush.

I’m working on no sleep today. Of course, we all seem to have a good excuse to explain our deficiencies and our inefficiencies, but I really believe my excuse today has some validity to it. Here’s the deal:

I was going about my business with the chores in the early evening last night, when I noticed the dog pestering one of the horses that was lying over by the water troughs.

A couple of years ago, a good friend of mine, who happens to be one of the county commissioners, asked me to write up a little roast/tribute to the retiring county sheriff.

It’s a pretty tall order, if not absolutely impossible, to win all of life’s battles. The odds against you are even greater if you’re not careful when picking your battles.

My grandfather, a World War I veteran, died when I was 13. He was always an old man when I knew him, but the memories I have of him are mostly good ones.

My sister’s husband, Bart, is as salt-of-the-earth as they come. He’s not happy unless he’s helping someone, and he’s always happy. Ergo, he is always helping somebody.