There’s a stretch of dirt road out behind our place that’s been there since before the county ever thought about paving anything. It winds through trees and brush, dips down through a dry wash, and comes back up again in a lazy curve that always seems to eat more dust than it gives up. Folks…

I only wanted to paint some toy soldiers. That’s how all good wars start, I guess, with somebody meaning well. When I left them, they were quiet, still as saints in formation. I stepped out for a cup of coffee. That’s all it took, five minutes, maybe six, and when I came back, my office…

In the rolling hills, where the sun kissed the wheat fields’ gold, the Fourth of July brought folks together at the town grange. Tables groaned with peach cobbler and fried chicken, but this year, a quiet tension hung like dust in the air. A big-city developer wanted to purchase half the farms for a strip…

Where the clay dirt clung to boots like a stubborn friend, folks gathered at the town square for the annual harvest fair. The air smelled of fried okra, but this year, a slick salesman from the city, Mr. Vance, had set up a booth. He peddled shiny gadgets, self-watering pots, robot weeders, promising a life…

Here, where the creek runs clear and the stars burn bright, life ain’t about chasin’ fancy notions or stackin’ up shiny trinkets. It’s about findin’ joy in the simple fixin’s, the kind of stuff that don’t cost a dime but fills your soul to the brim. My wife got to talking with her friend Kim…

I was sittin’ on the back porch last Tuesday, sipping a mug of coffee that had long ago gone cold, thinking about the world and how it seems to have its knickers in a twist. My dog, Buddy, lay stretched out in the sun, snoring like a chainsaw, and I reckon he doesn’t care about…

The night had settled over the village like a damp, suffocating shroud. The fog rolled low from the woods, creeping between buildings and curling against the saloon’s shuttered windows. Outside the dimly lit saloon, the two men sat close, talking. “Terrified by the creature inside the house,” Joe said, his voice barely above a whisper,…

I’ve never understood why my best writing comes when I’m hurting. Not little irritations, not fleeting annoyances, but the kind of pain that sits heavy in your chest and refuses to leave. Yesterday, for example, I’d gotten into it with someone over something trivial, and for hours afterward, I just sat in my chair, staring…

A year or so ago, someone shared a diary entry with me. I’ve thought about it often since, like a dream you keep trying to re-enter. Yesterday, I finally saw Mark Twain’s chair. It looked like a doll’s dollhouse furniture, brittle, breakable, just a few old sticks pegged together. I suppose people were smaller back…

After spending the night in the desert south and east of Yerington, I packed up my camp and set out further down in the same direction. It was one of those mornings where the air felt thin, clean, and just cool enough to make you glad you’d packed an extra shirt. The desert can be…