A vast assortment of slogans can be seen on bumper stickers, but I like one that I saw many moons ago that said,“Cows don’t give milk. It’s taken from them by force!”
The aging process sometimes has a way of sneaking up on a guy, jumping out and yelling, “Boo!”
The first truly warm days of spring have arrived, and the snow has finally melted which means we can now see exactly how much junk has accumulated in our yards.
“Farmers in Minnesota laugh at us here in South Dakota,” my grandpa Nelson often proclaimed to me when I was growing up. “They think we’re foolish for buying all that fertilizer.”
The two dairy cows wandered, unfettered, throughout the convention hall. They attracted scant attention save for the occasional pedestrian who posed with them for a selfie.
Spring is in the air. This brings about some unusual behavior, including those peculiar phenomena known as the outdoor shows. I say they are peculiar due to the fact that these so-called “outdoor” shows are invariably held indoors.
Radio has always been an integral part of farm life. Long before the advent of the so-called internet and the so-called worldwide spider domicile, our trusty radios kept us abreast of what was happening in the universe.
It never fails to amaze me what people are willing to endure in the name of vanity.
Everyone knows of at least one ideal couple. They are folks who seem to have been made for each other, a pair of people who are a perfect fit.
It’s widely known that people tend to resemble their pets, that men often marry women who remind them of their mothers, and that women prefer men who look like Brad Pitt.
We are in the midst of the winter doldrums. That time of year when time seems to stand still.
I recently heard about a farm mom who was searching for a spot in a supermarket parking lot when her preschool son uttered a profanity.
‘Tis the cold and flu season, an especially brutal double whammy that often afflicts this part of the world at this time of year. You catch the flu and mutter to yourself, “I wish I flew the coop when I had the chance.”
November has arrived, and winter has moved in with us Northlanders like a loutish brother-in-law who came for a weekend and stayed for six months.
She was hanging around a dingy pawnshop when I first saw her. I’m a happily married man, but something told me I simply had to have her.
My wife and I were visited by aliens a few years ago.
It’s been said that a few key innovations fostered the rise of civilization. A list of such inventions invariably includes the wheel, the lever and frozen pizza.
It’s been 40 years since my wife quietly whispered a certain little something in my ear, two tiny words that caused me to exclaim, “You’re what?”
It's the time of year when the days are growing shorter, the nights are becoming longer, and Americans are spending more and more of their time indoors, participating in their favorite pleasure-inducing activity.
Dixieland has always been somewhat of an enigma to me. As a kid, I viewed the South merely as the landmass which occupies the lower right-hand portion of the map, that exotic region where they grow cotton and eat gumbo.