Rocky golf course
Damphewmore Acres, Kan.
This is one of my favorite times of the year in the Flint Hills. The redbud trees are in full bloom, plus the lilacs and the apple trees. The Easter lilies and violets are poking their heads out of the burnt sod, plus a virtual plethora of very tiny white, pink, blue and yellow flowers that grow no more than 2 inches tall. I’m sure they have scientific and common names, but I have no idea what the names are.
The general range land is greening up by the day. Within a few days the entire region will look like a million-acre rocky golf course from the roads.
Plus, the fish are beginning to bite. My Iowegian friend, ol’ Pegan Raye, returned to his homeland after over-wintering in Apache Junction, Ariz., and stopped for three chilly, windy days of fishing.
Each day, being persistent, we caught nice stringers of bass and crappie. Pegan caught the most nice bass — two 4-pounders and a 3 3/4 pounder. I caught the biggest — a 5.5 minor league lunker.
A kindly — and not politically-correct — reader from the Ozarks sent me the following not politically-correct letter sent by an Ozarkian mother in the 1930s to her absent son who wuz working far away from home.
Here it is for its humor value:
“Dear Son, I’m writing this slow ‘cause I know you can’t read fast. We don’t live where we did when you left. Your dad read in the paper that most accidents happen within 20 miles of home, so we moved.
Won’t be able to send you our new address as the last family that lived here took the numbers with them for their house, so they wouldn’t have to change their address.
This place has a washing machine. The first day I put four shirts in it, pulled the chain and haven’t seen ‘em since.
It only rained twice this week, three days the first time and four days the second time.
The coat you wanted me to send to you? Aunt Sue said it would be a little too heavy to send in the mail with them heavy buttons, so we cut them off and put them in the pockets.
We got a bill from the funeral home, and it said if we didn’t make the final payment on grandma’s funeral bill, up she comes. About your sister, she had a baby this morning. I haven’t found out whether it is a boy or girl so don’t know if you are an aunt or uncle? Your Uncle John fell into the white lightning vat. Some men tried to get him out, but he fought them off playfully, so he drowned. We cremated him and he burned for three days.
Three of your friends went off the bridge in a pickup. One was driving and the other two were in the back. The driver got out. He rolled down the window and swam to safety. The other two drowned. They couldn’t get the tailgate down.
Not much more news this time. Nothing much happened. If you don’t get this letter, please let me know and I will send another one.
Since it seems as some kind of socialist is coming out of every corner of the U.S. to run for president in 2020, I think a statement about a socialist’s paradise is in order.
Former Arizona sheriff Joe Arpaio laid it out, thusly: “A socialists’s paradise is a place where everybody has guaranteed employment, free comprehensive healthcare, free education, free food, free housing, free clothing, free utilities and only law enforcement has guns. And believe it or not, such a place does indeed already exist in the USA. It’s called prison.”
I read that Oregon and Washington have passed such egregious, restrictive new state gun laws that some of the sheriffs in those states are going to refuse to enforce the laws because they violate the second Amendment of the Constitution.”
It’s sad that law-abiding citizens are paying the price for the unlawful folks.
A bit of news from last week about housework. Yep, some ambitious, enterprising social researchers have scientifically determined that doing routine housework is a great way to stay feeling young.
I’m sure you hard-working farm wives will be happy to get that good news. 😉
And, more good rural news from Nebraska. True. A Nebraska farmer had a heart attack and wuz put into an ambulance. The EMT’s were having a difficult time getting his heart to start beating again with CPR. Fortunately, the ambulance wuz driving fast down a potholed rural road and the thumping of the ambulance in the potholes restored his heartbeat.
So, words of wisdom for the week. Be thankful for rural potholes. They might save your life someday. Have a good ‘un. ❖
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From June through September, John Etchart spends most of the day driving a tractor through hayfields below the mountains near Meeker in northwestern Colorado.