Monday, November 4, 2024

The stories of so many of the women who came before us have always left me wondering how in the world women ever became termed the softer sex.

This morning, the sun is finally shining and the faint sound of chirping birds has been music to the ears. The remnants of...

My recent column about surviving our childhoods of the 1950s and 1960s prompted several letters and comments from people who said they could surely relate to the sentiment!

Ah, March. It is a month that has long brought us such a seemingly unending array of weather here in this part of the...

For those of you who are linked to the Internet and receive e-mail regularly, I’m sure you have seen the rather tongue-in-cheek commentary questioning...

In the dead of winter, I dream deep dreams of swimming. As the thermometer sits precisely on zero this morning on our farm, I just awoke from a blissful night of dreaming, snuggled down in my cozy warm bed, topped with a down comforter.

Standing at the fence, enjoying a rare day of sunshine in January here on our farm, I watched our dog Channing circling the pasture in a sweeping motion and wondered what she was up to now.

A house may sometimes be more than just a home, but a tangible part of history. The house in which

One man's junk really is someone else's treasure. I thought of my sister the very first time I heard that statement.

Life on dairy farms in the 1970s proved to be a very good time, indeed. I was too young to know it, but I recall the feeling that things were going well.