Paul Marchant

During my growing up years, I wasn’t particularly fond of certain chores. I was even less fond of piano lessons.

My mom had the misguided notion that I possessed some musical talent that lay hidden somewhere in the recesses of my tone-deaf soul and that I would some day regret my apathy toward developing my talents.

My mother and I had some epic battles as she would, ever so gently, (her recollection) attempt to persuade me to walk to the torture chamber cleverly disguised as the piano teacher’s house (my recollection) to my weekly lesson.

We use an old ’75 Ford F-250 pickup with a homemade flatbed to do most of the feeding in the winter.

My first job out of college, oh so many years ago, was to manage a fair-sized cow outfit in northeastern Nevada. For the most part, we were pretty short on good help, and thus relied on the generosity and willingness of good neighbors to see us through the major projects like branding and the big three- or four-day drives.