“It just won’t stop rainin’ in these parts.” That’s what one resident said. “And those storms that blew through here stirred up a terrible mess. Branches, sticks, twigs every which

I think I found Jimmy Hoffa the other day. Like the Sunday School kid who, knowing of Adam’s creation from dust, thought he’d found him under his bed, the thought

They’re quite a troop, this lively trio, and each one of them’s got a story. This one? Adopted. Chosen by two, received with arms, hearts wide open. Then this one,

“Guess who came crawling down at 6:36 a.m.??” It’s Mr. Schrock. My face alights, smile cracking wide. “Mr. Birthday?” I type back, hitting send on the BOP (Bright Orange Phone).

It’s an idea whose time has come. Actually, the country’s been ripe for it since the oil crisis of the Carter administration, but I was young then and hadn’t twigged

Fathers and children. My dad and my husband. The raising of families and the men at the forefront. We’d looked, we kids had, to our dad as provider. And now,

In spring’s fullest bloom, wearing purple dresses, the neighbor’s lilac bush is full, is fragrant. And just like that, I’m back on the farm, running ‘long the lane. At Grandma’s

“A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.” If Roald Dahl nailed it, then the Schrocks are right up there with the sages. It had been

“My house shall be called a house of prayer.” That’s where he’s speaking from. He tells it straight, our pastor does, and how we love him for it. He lays

It was a headline that caught my eye. “Where should vote centers be?” it read. And beneath in smaller print, this: “Parties agree on several locations, others still up in