Tales from Easement Acres
I love meat. I hunt. I worked in a butcher shop. I clean it, cure it, season it, cook it, serve it. I’d raise it too, but city ordinances take a dim view of such practices. And with hunting seasons limited and public lands far away, I’m generally relegated to the suburban method of procurement: …
My very early memories of Dad mowing the lawn were of the reel mower variety. At the time, this was San Diego and a small rental property. After the move to Lubbock, however, the reel mower very quickly was replaced with what we now know as the “standard” gasoline-powered rotary mower. I understand the size …
Last summer, we constructed a strawberry garden out of old wooden boxes. It worked, but it was quaint, and Liz wanted a real strawberry garden. And I like strawberries and gardens, and I was itching to finally use that saw that’s been sitting in a box in my garage since we bought the house, so …
“I smell gas.” It was a frank observation from the neighbor when she brought her dog over for a run. The dog, Duke, a basset mix, had taken a liking to Poppy–now the girl next door in a midwestern suburban community–a canine Rockwellian romance. But there was indeed a gas leak. I had caught whiffs …
Being American presents an odd dichotomy. On one side of the coin we’re American, but on the other we’re descendants of another culture. The latter is almost inevitable to most, considering the relative youth of the American nation itself. I’m all about hotdogs and burgers and the 4th of July, but damn do I enjoy …