Paul Marchant

It’s nearly 200 miles from my place to Boise. I have no idea how many times I’ve made the round trip in my lifetime, but no doubt, it’s in the triple digits. It seems that most folks generally disdain a large share of the drive up I-84 for its perceived lack of beautiful scenery. The drive is sometimes compared to driving across Wyoming or Nevada.

I’m not a smoker. It never much appealed to me – on several fronts. For one thing, I don’t think I’m tough enough to pull it off. There is something to the old James Dean Hollywood stereotype. The image of John Wayne striking a match and lighting the cigarette hanging loosely from his upper lip carries a certain cachet with it.

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.