Cousin Harvey

--Guest post by Jesse Taylor II

My Daddy insisted this story was true. You'll have to make up your own mind about that.

My Cousin Harvey Taylor wasn't as tall as the rest of the family. He topped of at a very skinny 5-foot six. Daddy always said smoking and drinking had stunted his growth. Harv claimed to have smoked his first cigarette when he was only 5 years old. In a tobacco growing country, where "roll your owns" are common and kids will be kids, that may be true. But, one thing is true, by the time he reached 15 years of age he'd developed a healthy taste for alcohol. Boys grew up fast in the coal camps of old Kentucky. Times were hard and the poverty took its toll. When he was 16 years old, "Little Harv" lied about his age and joined the Army. Hard to believe, but it really happened. But, I digress. We're not really here to talk about Harv's younger days. Let's have a word about his hobby...and chief occupation. Namely, that of being a drunk.

Now, just because Harv was a drinker, that didn't mean he was lazy. A great many heavy drinkers are very hard workers. They know that if they quit working then the money for alcohol will disappear. Harv didn't have any trouble holding down a job. Things were very different from what they are, today.

Anyway, as it so happened, Harv's outfit had a three day weekend. This meant Harv had Thursday night, all day Friday and all day Saturday to practice his hobby. He set to the task with gusto, according to reports. When Sunday morning came, Harv woke up in the bar. Actually, he woke up on the countertop of the bar, proper. You might say he had been "over served". As bad as he felt, he knew it was Sunday. He also knew there wasn't any use in trying to call anyone to come pick him up. Them that weren't in church would be in no shape to drive, having spent their time involved in their own hobbies.

Harv claimed he had a ringing in his ears, blurred vision, stomach cramps and a headache. Also, he knew that, if he was going to get back home, he was going to have to walk. His thinking was clear enough to realize that he really didn't want to put up with the noise of passing traffic, should he take the "easy route" by walking along the highway. Unsteady as his legs were, he decided he'd be better off taking the more direct and private route, down along the river. If the birds weren't singing too loud, he thought he might be better able to stand it.

As Harv walked along the river, he heard a sound that, in his impaired condition, sounded for the world like someone shouting for help. Somebody might be drowning. This spurred Harv into action. He took off at a "lope". The route took him over a high embankment and he ran head-long into a big "baptising" service.

Now, Harv was no stranger in the community. Some of those folks recognized him and knew him well. They knew what he'd been up to and could see he wasn't "up to snuff", so to speak. Well, one of the fellows clamped Harv in a good, old fashioned, "hand shake". This involved a few hearty pats on the back and a round of "well-wishings". Its a common occurrence between friends in that part of the country. Also, its not an uncommon trait that good friends can sense a conspiracy when it comes up. The first man passed Harv off to the second man, who passed him off again, and so on and so forth. Next thing Harv knew, he was standing in the river, shaking hands with the preacher. The preacher, being no stranger himself, grabbed Harv and, promptly, dunked him under.

Harv came up spitting and slinging water. The reverend, still holding Harv by the shirt collar, shouted, "Have you found Jesus?"

Harv shouted, "No!!" So, the reverend dunked him under, again.

Harv came up blowing more water and waving his arms around. The reverend shouted, "Have you found Jesus!!?"

Harv shouted, "No!!!" Back under he went.

Harv came up spitting and clutching at the air and the reverend repeated the question, "Have you found Jesus, yet!!!?"

Harv reached out, grabbed the reverend by the shirt, drew him in close and asked, "Reverend...are you right sure this is where he went under!!?"

What Shall We Give?

As Christmas draws near and the world sparkles with lights, gifts, and glitter, it’s easy to get swept up in the hustle. But in the quiet moments,somewhere between feeding the animals and losing the tape dispenser again, I find myself asking: What shall we give?

Not just to family, not to friends, not even to the Amazon delivery driver who’s now on a first-name basis with the dog, but what shall we give Him?

Let’s remember the real reason for the season. Christmas is about the birth of the Christ child, a gift given to us in love, humility, and grace. And the beautiful thing is, we can give back. Not with something wrapped in shiny paper and a bow, but by giving of ourselves.

Give kindness when it’s hard. Give forgiveness where it’s long overdue. Give time to someone who’s lonely, or help to someone who’s struggling, a warm meal, a heartfelt prayer, a handwritten card, a hug that lingers just a second longer than usual… those are the gifts that honor His birth.

And you know what? Even the animals get it. The chickens give us eggs every day, like clockwork—even on Christmas morning. The sheep offer wool for warmth. The dogs give loyalty and laughter (and the occasional “what is that in your mouth?!” moment). They don’t worry about shopping lists or Pinterest-worthy wrapping. They just give what they have. And maybe that’s the real lesson.

So, what shall we give? Let’s give what He gave—love and kindness.

Wishing you all a very merry and meaningful Christmas from our little farm to wherever you call home. May your hearts be full, your cocoa be hot, your barn chores be light, and your Wi-Fi be strong enough to stream the Christmas classics.

P.S. In case you’re wondering—yes, I did try to get one of the sheep to wear a Santa hat for a festive photo. No, it did not go well. The hat is somewhere out in the field, the sheep is still judging me, and I have a hoof print on my coat as a reminder that fashion is not for everyone.

City Evangelist, Country Church

--Guest Post by Jesse Taylor II

Back in the Appalachian Mountains of old Kentucky, when I was a boy, the churches were one-room, white, simple little buildings. They weren't anything fancy. Not that the size or construction of the church matters to the Lord, but our churches were simple and small because the people led simple lives and, when it came right down to it, didn't have the money to support the building and maintenance of a large church.

In fact, the day to day maintenance of the church was so simple that one man could take care of it. All that really needed to be done was dusting the pews and window ledges, sweeping the floor, and in winter, building a fire in the little "pot-bellied" stove. The outhouse might need some attention or, if the day was unusually dark or if the service was after dark, the kerosene lamps might need filling and lighting. Usually, this task was taken up by Uncle Jim Gibbons.

Uncle Jim was a simple man who lived alone in the same two-room cabin he'd grown up in. He never married, so he considered his only obligations were to his fellow man and his Lord.

I recall one Sunday morning when the whole community was "all a-buzz" because we were expecting to have a big revival, led by a big city evangelist. As luck would have it, Uncle Jim had been busy with his old mule, that morning. Seems the poor old creature wasn't feeling the best and Uncle Jim had been tending to him to the point where he clean forgot about the time. When he finally realized his mistake, Uncle Jim took off for the church in such a hurry that he didn't have time to grab himself a bite for breakfast.

Uncle Jim didn't drive, so his only way of getting to the church was to walk. He was accomplishing this with great speed that morning. He was going along at such a clip that he almost stepped on a possum. Now, Uncle Jim considered a possum to be some mighty fine eating...as did most folks around the area. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, he knew he'd be mighty hungry by the time church let out. So, never one to pass up a good meal, Uncle Jim found a stick and collected what the Good Lord had provided.

He didn't have time to run it back home, so he took it along, stopping only long enough to "field dress" it when he reached a stream crossing. He rinsed off his pocket knife and his hands and continued along to the church, freshly cleaned possum by his side.

As was mentioned, the church was a one-room, simple building. There weren't any closets...no "nooks or crannies". There wasn't anyplace to put the possum out of sight. The only place Uncle Jim could find was a ledge, just over the door, on the inside of the church. The menfolk used to put their hats on it, but that practice had ceased since someone had donated a double row of fancy, brass coat-hooks, which had been installed along the back wall. Now, there was ample room for everyone to hang their coats and hats and nobody had to strain up to reach the shelf.

So, it was up there, out of sight, that Uncle Jim decided to hide his possum. It seemed like the perfect place. After all, everyone would be in a church pew and would be paying attention to the evangelist, who would be putting on a real show from a little "riser" that ran across the front of the church. Nobody would be facing the back of the church, except for the evangelist and he would be too busy with the sermon to notice a possum tucked back up on that shelf.

The church service got underway. The evangelist was introduced and the "stage" was turned over to him. The preaching soon reached a fevered pitch. This was the old "fire and brimstone" type of preaching. These preachers believed you had to put the fear of God into your congregation. There was much pacing and jumping and stomping and waving of hands, gnashing of teeth and wailing of voices. The evangelist was putting on quite a show. As he paced back and forth, stopping every so often to bounce up and down for effect, he was laying on the gospel thicker and heavier. His voice was rising and falling. He was pounding his fist into his hands as he preached, "Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the blessings we've received. Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the food He puts on our table and the clothes He puts on our backs. Every day of our lives we've got to reach out our hands up to heaven, raise our eyes towards the sky and say.....Good God! What a rat!!!"

After that, Uncle Jim was always fond of saying that, "You can't hide what the Good Lord wants revealed." Bless his heart.

A Pigmas Carol

Written by the sister of Jean:

Hark! the Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!
We each try to get it first, rinds of bacon and liverwurst.
Sour milk and cracked up eggs, bits of veggies and chicken legs.
Jostle the bucket, make it fall, so farmer, too, can wear it all.
Hark! The Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!

The Christmas Pageant

This story was forwarded to me by a friend. You know, one of those e-mails that makes its way around to everyone's inbox. But I enjoyed this one so much I wanted to share it with you. The author is unknown but if you know who wrote it please let me know and I will be glad to give credit where credit is due for such a delightful story. I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas and feels the joy of this blessed season!

My husband and I had been happily married (most of the time) for five years but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if he would give us a child, I would be a perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His word as my guide. I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, "If you pray for rain, make sure you carry an umbrella."

God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God blessed us with another son. The following year, He blessed us with yet another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter. My husband thought we'd been blessed right into poverty. We now had four children, and the oldest was only four years old.

I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with four children and I didn't want to disappoint Him.

I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the kitchen floor searching for baby chicks. I tried to be understanding when they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs. When my daughter poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess. In spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time, I still thank God daily for my children.

While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect mother (I didn't even come close) I did keep my promise to raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a bar of soap along to "wash up" Jesus, too. Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his "last wife."

My proudest moment came during the children's Christmas pageant. My daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man. This was their moment to shine.

My five-year-old shepherd had practiced his line, "We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes." But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrapped in wrinkled clothes." My four-year-old "Mary" said, "That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly. That's dirty, rotten clothes." A wrestling match broke out between Mary and the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her left wing.

I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying, "Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly as the wise men arrived.

My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, "We are the three wise men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur." The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing ovation.

"I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one," laughed the pastor, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the rest of my life, I'll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common sense and fur."

"My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing," I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.

Jesus had no servants, yet they called Him Master. He had no degree, yet they called Him Teacher. Had no medicines, yet they called Him Healer. Had no army, yet kings feared Him. He won no military battles, yet He conquered the world. He committed no crime, yet they crucified Him. He was buried in a tomb, yet He lives today.

I feel honored to serve such a Leader who loves us.

The Don’t-Sue-Me-Santa Clause

CHRISTMAS COOKIE TRANS FAT LIABILITY AND
INDEMNIFICATION AGREEMENT

Santa Claus, AKA Kris Kringle, AKA Jolly Old St. Nick (hereinafter referred to as “Santa”) acknowledges receipt of Christmas cookies from ______________________ (hereinafter referred to as “Baker”).

Santa acknowledges and understands that no warranty, either express or implied, is made by Baker as to the nutritional content of cookies. This document is offered to duly warn Santa that dangerous conditions, risks, and hazards may result from over consumption of cookies. Santa is hereby informed that cookies may contain trans fats as well as any or all of the following: calories, carbohydrates, sodium (salt), fat, saturated fat, polyunsaturated fat, monounsaturated fat, nuts, sugar, caffeine, chocolate “chips” and/or “chunks,” and good cheer. Santa acknowledges that eating way too many cookies may incur risks including, but not limited to, satiation, indigestion, heartburn, laziness, holiday spirit, “food coma,” and “that bloated feeling.”

As consideration for accepting Baker’s cookies, Santa indemnifies Baker from all liability for injury or other harm (including obesity) which may be caused, in whole or in part, by said “too many” cookies. Santa agrees that neither he, nor his agents or personal representatives, will sue Baker for any injury suffered, in whole or in part, as a consequence of ingesting cookies. Santa assumes full responsibility and will indemnify Baker for any damages in the event that he transfers cookies to any third party (including, but not limited to, potential claimants Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Mrs. Claus, and various elves).

This indemnification includes an agreement not to haul Baker into court on the basis of:
1. Failure to provide nutrition information and a list of ingredients (the "Grandma’s secret recipe" clause).
2. Failure to caution of the potential for overeating because cookies taste "yummy" and are provided at no cost.
3. Failure to advise that walking, biking, and jogging will shed pounds, but riding around on a reindeer-powered sleigh will not.
4. Failure to warn that Christmas lights, lawn ornaments (plastic reindeer, snowmen, etc.) and other holiday decorations may constitute manipulative marketing to lure Santa into over-consumption.
5. Failure to offer "healthier" cookie alternatives (e.g., tofu bars, carob blobs, or carrot sticks).
6. Failure to affix warning label acknowledging that milk, should it be provided, must not be consumed if Santa is, or could possible be, lactose intolerant.
7. Failure to notify that eating too many cookies may lead to even greater levels of obesity for St. Nick.

SANTA HAS READ THIS DOCUMENT AND UNDERSTANDS IT. SANTA IS SIGNING IT FREELY AND VOLUNTARILY, AND PROMISES NOT TO APPEAR AS A WITNESS IN SUPPORT OF ANY PERSONS WITH LAW DEGREES WHO CANNOT OTHERWISE FIND MEANINGFUL EMPLOYMENT, AT ANY TIME IN THE FUTURE.

Santa__________________________________________ Date__________________

Provided by: The Center for Consumer Freedom
For more information, visit ConsumerFreedom.com. To schedule an interview, contact Allison Miller at 212-463-7112.

Talon's Finally Here!

After what can only be described as the Oregon Trail for horses—minus the dysentery, thank goodness—Talon is finally home! His journey involved a week in a transport trailer, delays thanks to a blizzard that traveled right along with them clear across the country, getting stuck in a 3-foot drift, then getting plowed in by a snowplow, then the trailer throwing in the towel on the very first big hill on our road. Honestly, if Talon could write a travel review, it’d just be one long snort.

When the trailer got stuck just four miles from our house, it turned into the winter version of a barn-raising. Half the town showed up—some to help, some just to see what kind of circus we were running this time. One local guy took charge like he was directing traffic in a blizzard (because, well, he was). He plowed a path into a nearby field so the transport could back in and turn around. Then he borrowed someone else’s two-horse trailer, because apparently trailers are like Tupperware around here, and drove Talon the rest of the way home himself. In the dark. In a snowstorm. And then stayed to help unload him. I’ve never been so grateful to live in a town where “helping out” includes blizzard horse extractions.

Getting Talon into the paddock was an adventure. It was after dark, snowing sideways, and windy enough to blow the freckles off your face. I showed him the hay and water in the shelter, took off his halter, and he turned around and marched right back into the storm like, “You know what? I’ll take my chances out here.” Can’t blame him. He’d just survived the horse version of a disaster movie and now found himself alone, surrounded by sheep and goats who looked at him like he’d landed from Mars. Meanwhile, the livestock guardian dogs two pens over were going absolutely bonkers because, apparently, they’d never seen a horse before. You’d think we’d just imported a rhinoceros.

But this morning? Whole new horse. “Oh hello, yes, I believe it’s breakfast time. I’ll take that right here, thank you very much.” He followed me around like a big fuzzy teddy bear, and even gave me kisses on the cheek. I had to call Nate out to take pictures because I couldn’t get far enough away from him to photograph anything other than an extreme close-up of his nostrils. Which, by the way, I think he tried to eat. The camera, not Nate. Although... give him time.

So this morning I’m thankful. For shelter in the storm, for a safe arrival, for neighbors who show up with snowplows and spare trailers like it’s no big deal, and for a husband who lets me chase my horse-crazy dreams, even when they come with snowdrifts, mystery barking, and a whole lot of hoofprints in the driveway.

Welcome home, Talon. Next time let’s skip the epic saga and just show up quietly, okay?

Meet Dexter!

Dexter is an English Shepherd puppy and a Christmas present for my 11-year-old grandson, Austin. But until Christmas morning, Dexter is staying with us.

Pray for us.

Now meet the lamp. Or at least, what’s left of the lamp. You see, Dexter decided that this innocent little table lamp, just minding its own business, living a peaceful existence on the end table, was clearly a threat to national security.

So naturally, he launched a surprise attack.
Dexter: 1. Lamp: 0, not even in the game anymore.

So hey Santa—while you’re hauling toys and joy and Christmas spirit this year, would you mind tossing a new lamp in the sleigh? Preferably one made of concrete and reinforced steel?

At this rate, we may need a full remodel by New Year’s.

Please leave a comment. I love hearing from you.

What I AM Getting for Christmas

A few weeks ago, I posted about a gorgeous horse I saw and titled it "What I Want for Christmas." Well... spoiler alert: I'm not getting him.

But here's what I am getting: Talon, my very own living, breathtaking Gypsy Vanner.

Not long ago, I was firmly rooted in the “No way can I afford a Gypsy” mindset. I had talked myself right out of it. And now? I’m over here checking feed prices, brushing up on training tips, and grinning like a fool every time I say his name. Talon. Isn’t he just magnificent?

Huge thanks to Sharon Teague at Big Sky Gypsy Horses for helping this dream take shape and trot its way into my life. And of course, thank you to my amazing husband. He’s not what you’d call a horse person, but he is a me person—and that means everything. I love you, honey.

Though just between us, I suspect he likes horses more than he lets on. Every time we’re around them, they all make a beeline for him. It’s the scratches. He gives world-class, Olympic-medal-level scratches. Horses are no fools.

So no, I didn’t get the horse I originally posted about. I got Talon—a Gypsy Cob with feathered legs, a kind heart, and a look that stops people in their tracks.

And honestly? That’s the best kind of Christmas gift there is.

Please leave a comment below so I know who's been visiting. Thanks. I love hearing from you all.

Let's Say Thanks

If you go to this web site, www.LetsSayThanks.com you can pick out a thank you card and Xerox will send to a soldier that is currently serving overseas. You can't pick out who gets it, but it will go to a member of the armed services.

How amazing it would be if we could get everyone we know to send one!!! It is FREE and it only takes a second. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the soldiers received a bunch of these? Whether you are for or against the war, our soldiers over there need to know we are behind them.

This takes just 10 seconds and it's a wonderful way to say thank you. Please take the time and please also pass it on for others to do. We can never say enough thank you's.

Thanks for taking to time to support our military!

What I Want For Christmas

Have you ever had the experience of seeing something that was just so beautiful you dreamed of having it? Something that spoke to your heart so much that you found yourself thinking "what if"? That hasn't happened often in my life but here's something I found that has done just that. To me he's just about the most beautiful animal I've ever seen. And ironically, his name is Romeo. Just his picture has captured my heart, it was love at first sight (now don't breath a word of this love affair to my husband). There's just no way I could ever afford him, so I'll just admire from afar and hold him in my dreams. P.S. - all donations accepted - LOL, just kidding. Don't you dare! P.P.S.S. - Just found out he's not for sale anyway. Phew, I'm safe - temporarily. There are lots of other gorgeous and captivating Gypsy Cob horses at Aisling Farm in NH.

Say Thank You!

This video is an absolute must see! And please pass it along.

Thank You God!

This is why parents (and grandparents) start every single day with a prayer for their kids’ safety.

Yesterday, my 16-year-old grandson Nate, who lives with us, was in a car accident. Not just a little fender bender either. The car ended up upside down in the middle of the road. Yes, upside down. Like a turtle. A very crumpled, steel turtle.

Nate was driving. Thank the good Lord for seatbelts because aside from some soreness in his chest from the belt doing its job, and some cuts and bruises on his hand from trying to punch out the window to get out—he’s okay. Shaken, yes. But whole.

His friend Mike, also 16, was the passenger. He ended up with a 4-inch laceration on his head that went down to the skull—just typing that gives me chills—but miraculously, there was no concussion. The doctors were amazed. So were we.

Later, the car was towed to our local garage. When we walked in the next morning, one of the guys looked up and asked, “Did anyone survive that?” That should tell you everything you need to know about the condition of the car. But God had His hand over those boys, no question.

Somewhere this morning, I imagine there’s a guardian angel nursing a migraine and asking for a quiet corner and maybe a cold compress. Because someone was definitely watching over them.

This could have gone a hundred different ways. But it didn’t. And for that, all I can say is:

Thank you, God.

(I know these pictures are hard to look at. But they tell a story of protection and mercy. Nate was driving, Mike was in the passenger seat. You can see where the roof was collapsed but leaving just enough room for their heads.)

Illegal to Ground Your Kids?

If you think Monday's post about being convicted of murder for shooting a middle-of-the-night burglar is scary, take a look at these two stories. They are both concerning the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC). The first link is specifically about children's rights that, if passed, would take away all parental control. That could mean it would be illegal to ground your child, take away your kid's cell phone, or restrict internet content. And the second link is about abolishing all firearms worldwide. Now you think this doesn't apply to us here in America? Think again. International treaty overrides any U.S. law, even rights guaranteed by the Constitution such as the 2nd Amendment. When I read George Orwell's "1984" my thoughts at the time were that you could never have a totalitarian government. It would be against our Constitution. Well, it seems like we're almost there. The only fantasy about "1984" is the wrong date!

Please leave a comment and tell me your thoughts.

Think This Can't Happen In America?

You're sound asleep when you hear a thump outside your bedroom door. Half-awake, and nearly paralyzed with fear, you hear muffled whispers. At least two people have broken into your house and are moving your way. With your heart pumping, you reach down beside your bed and pick up your shotgun. You rack a shell into the chamber, then inch toward the door and open it. In the darkness, you make out two shadows.

One holds something that looks like a crowbar. When the intruder brandishes it as if to strike, you raise the shotgun and fire. The blast knocks both thugs to the floor. One writhes and screams while the second man crawls to the front door and lurches outside. As you pick up the telephone to call police, you know you're in trouble.

In your country, most guns were outlawed years before, and the few that are privately owned are so stringently regulated as to make them useless. Yours was never registered. Police arrive and inform you that the second burglar has died. They arrest you for First Degree Murder and Illegal Possession of a Firearm. When you talk to your attorney, he tells you not to worry: authorities will probably plea the case down to manslaughter.

"What kind of sentence will I get?" you ask.

"Only ten-to-twelve years," he replies, as if that's nothing. "Behave yourself, and you'll be out in seven."

The next day, the shooting is the lead story in the local newspaper. Somehow, you're portrayed as an eccentric vigilante while the two men you shot are represented as choirboys. Their friends and relatives can't find an unkind word to say about them. Buried deep down in the article, authorities acknowledge that both "victims" have been arrested numerous times. But the next day's headline says it all: "Lovable Rogue Son Didn't Deserve to Die." The thieves have been transformed from career criminals into Robin Hood-type pranksters. As the days wear on, the story takes wings. The national media picks it up, then the international media. The surviving burglar has become a folk hero.

Your attorney says the thief is preparing to sue you, and he'll probably win. The media publishes reports that your home has been burglarized several times in the past and that you've been critical of local police for their lack of effort in apprehending the suspects. After the last break-in, you told your neighbor that you would be prepared next time. The District Attorney uses this to allege that you were lying in wait for the burglars.

A few months later, you go to trial. The charges haven't been reduced, as your lawyer had so confidently predicted. When you take the stand, your anger at the injustice of it all works against you. Prosecutors paint a picture of you as a mean, vengeful man. It doesn't take long for the jury to convict you of all charges.

The judge sentences you to life in prison.

This case really happened.

On August 22, 1999, Tony Martin of Emneth, Norfolk, England, killed one burglar and wounded a second. In April, 2000, he was convicted of murder and sentenced to a life term.

All of Martin's neighbors had been robbed numerous times, and several elderly people were severely injured in beatings by young thugs who had no fear of the consequences. Martin himself, a collector of antiques, had seen most of his collection trashed or stolen by burglars.

An appeal was considered in October 2001 by three senior judges. Submissions by the defense that Martin had fired in self defense were rejected by the appeal court. However, on this occasion the defense submitted evidence that Martin suffered paranoid personality disorder specifically directed at anyone intruding into his home. This submission was accepted by the Court of Appeal and, on the grounds of diminished responsibility, Martin's murder conviction was replaced by manslaughter carrying a five year sentence, and his ten year sentence for wounding one of the burglars was reduced to three years. These sentences were to run concurrently.

Martin was imprisoned in Highpoint Prison, Suffolk. When he became eligible for parole and early release, the Parole Board rejected his application without stating a reason. The chairman of the parole board, in an interview with The Times, described Martin as "a very dangerous man" who may still believe his action had been right. Martin challenged the decision in the High Court, where the parole board's decision was upheld. Probation officers on Martin's case said there was an "unacceptable risk" that Martin might again react with excessive force if other would-be burglars intruded on his Norfolk farm.

On 28 July 2003, Martin was released after serving three years of his five-year sentence, the maximum period for which he could be held following good behavior.

Also during 2003, the wounded burglar received an estimated £5,000 of legal aid to sue Martin for loss of earnings due to the injury he sustained. However, the case was thrown into doubt when photographs were published in The Sun suggesting that his injuries were not as serious as had been claimed. He later dropped the case when Martin agreed to drop a counter-claim.

How did it become a crime to defend one's own life in the once great British Empire?

It started with the Pistols Act of 1903. This seemingly reasonable law forbade selling pistols to minors or felons and established that handgun sales were to be made only to those who had a license. The Firearms Act of 1920 expanded licensing to include not only handguns but all firearms except shotguns.

Later laws passed in 1953 and 1967 outlawed the carrying of any weapon by private citizens and mandated the registration of all shotguns.

Momentum for total handgun confiscation began in earnest after the Hungerford mass shooting in 1987. Michael Ryan, a mentally disturbed man with a Kalashnikov rifle, walked down the streets shooting everyone he saw. When the smoke cleared, 17 people were dead.

The British public, already desensitized by eighty years of "gun control", demanded even tougher restrictions. The seizure of all privately owned handguns was the objective even though Ryan used a rifle.

Nine years later, at Dunblane, Scotland, Thomas Hamilton used a semi-automatic weapon to murder 16 children and a teacher at a public school.

For many years, the media had portrayed all gun owners as mentally unstable, or worse, criminals. Now the press had a real kook with which to beat up law-abiding gun owners. Day after day, week after week, the media gave up all pretense of objectivity and demanded a total ban on all handguns. The Dunblane Inquiry, a few months later, sealed the fate of the few sidearms still owned by private citizens.

During the years in which the British government incrementally took away most gun rights, the notion that a citizen had the right to armed self-defense came to be seen as vigilantism. Authorities refused to grant gun licenses to people who were threatened, claiming that self-defense was no longer considered a reason to own a gun. Citizens who shot burglars or robbers or rapists were charged while the real criminals were released.

Indeed, after the Martin shooting, a police spokesman was quoted as saying, "We cannot have people take the law into their own hands."

When the Dunblane Inquiry ended, citizens who owned handguns were given three months to turn them over to local authorities. Being good British subjects, most people obeyed the law. The few who didn't were visited by police and threatened with ten-year prison sentences if they didn't comply. Police later bragged that they'd taken nearly 200,000 handguns from private citizens.

How did the authorities know who had handguns? The guns had been registered and licensed. Kinda like cars.

Sound familiar?

WAKE UP AMERICA, THIS IS WHY OUR FOUNDING FATHERS PUT THE SECOND AMENDMENT IN OUR CONSTITUTION.

"..it does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds."--Samuel Adams

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Here's to the Heroes

My husband amazes me. Every single time he sees someone in uniform, he goes out of his way to shake their hand and thank them for their service. Doesn’t matter where we are—grocery store, gas station, fairgrounds. It’s instinct for him, like breathing.

We were at the Lancaster Fair on Monday, and sure enough, we came to a full stop at the Army exhibit. Took us a while to move on. I said to him, “If you were younger, you’d probably be over there right now.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I definitely would.” And I didn’t hesitate either. “Well, I’m glad you’re not younger.”

But he’s right. The men and women who wear that uniform? They’re not superheroes from the movies. They’re ordinary folks, moms and dads, neighbors and friends. The same kind of people who ran into burning buildings on 9/11 instead of away from them. The same kind of people who stood up to terror on Flight 93 and said, “Not on our watch.” The same kind of people who sign up to serve in our military and put their lives on the line, day in and day out, to keep the rest of us safe.

These are the heroes. Every day. Quiet, steadfast, and humble.

Today marks the 8th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. We lost so much that day, but we also saw the best of who we are. So let’s take a moment to remember, not just those we lost, but those who stood up in the face of evil and said, no more. And let’s not just remember on anniversaries, either.

Fly your flag. Shake a hand. Say thank you. Because freedom isn’t free, and somebody paid for ours.

God bless them all.

GoD and DoG

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Jack

We have a new English Shepherd pup named Jack—and I’m pretty sure he’s made of fluff, mischief, and some kind of voodoo that makes you hand over your snacks without even realizing it. He’s impossibly cute, smells like puppy breath and sawdust, and has already climbed the ranks to become Grandkid's Favorite and Local Celebrity.

Nate, who’s almost 17 and suddenly aware that girls exist, took Jack to a local soccer game and returned glowing with success. Jack, it turns out, is better than cologne, a gym membership, and a pickup truck with a lift kit. He drew in the girls like moths to a porch light. Now half the teenage boys in the area want to rent Jack for their own social advancement. I may need to start charging a handling fee.

Fun fact: Jack is Roxie’s half-brother, which means they share DNA but not personal space. On the ride home, Roxie gave him the full “older sister” treatment—glared at him, huffed dramatically, and made it crystal clear that sitting on her tail would be considered an act of war. But after a long car ride and a post-arrival nap, she discovered he plays tug-o-war like a pro and decided maybe he could stick around as long as he remembers who’s boss. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)

Now I’m surrounded. Today I was minding my business, working on my computer, munching a peaceful bowl of popcorn, when two fuzzy heads slowly popped up on either side of my screen like a screen like a furry periscope. I swear they rehearsed it. I held out for about ten seconds before crumbling like a stale cookie.

So, Jack’s officially one of us. Roxie’s accepted him. The kids are obsessed. And I’ve learned that it’s impossible to say no to a tag-team of furry con artists with eyes like melted chocolate and a well-timed head tilt.

Welcome to the farm, Jack. Try not to chew through any electrical cords before breakfast.

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Got Corn?

Not only does this farm sell fantastic corn, they have quite a sense of humor, as evidenced by their series of roadside signs.

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Farmers Will Drive Lamborghinis

Jim Rogers, famous investor and all-around money guy, predicts that the next wave of wealth will come from farmers. Yep, you heard that right. Not Silicon Valley hotshots or crypto bros in their hoodies. Farmers. Folks with dirt under their fingernails and a list of chores that never ends. According to Rogers, farming is the vocation of the future.

Now, I don’t know if we’ll ever be rich. Around here, we’re still trying to get the chickens to stop pooping in their waterer. But I wouldn’t mind surviving better than most. You know—paying the bills without checking the bank account twice and maybe fixing that sagging gate, instead of replacing it, before it becomes a full-blown livestock jailbreak.

But let’s be honest: most farmers I know are far too practical to be caught dead behind the wheel of a Lamborghini. First of all, have you seen our roads? That thing wouldn’t make it down the driveway without bottoming out or collecting a full garden’s worth of mud.

And where would you even put the feed bags? Or the dog? Or your dignity, after the neighbors see you trying to pull a stuck hay wagon with a sports car that costs more than your barn?

No, if we suddenly struck it rich, we’d probably just buy a newer used pickup and maybe splurge on a zero-turn mower with cup holders. A souped-up tractor though? Now you're talkin’. Something with horsepower and hydraulics. Maybe even a cab with air conditioning, Bluetooth, and a seat that doesn’t make your backside go numb after two hours.

Let the Wall Street guys keep their flashy cars. We’ll take practicality and peace of mind, with a side of fresh eggs and the satisfaction of doing honest work.

But hey—if the day ever comes when a farmer does roll up in a Lamborghini, just know it’s probably hauling a sack of grain and has a chicken riding shotgun.

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Hint of Autumn

Up here in the north country, summer always feels like it’s trying to sneak out the back door before the party’s really over. Already, there's a nip in the night air—a quiet little whisper that things are about to change. Mornings greet us with that crisp stillness, the kind that makes you pull your sweatshirt a little tighter and breathe a little deeper. Change is coming, whether we’re ready or not.

The bright summer greens are starting to blush with yellow, not from embarrassment, but from exhaustion. The fields are going golden too—ragweed’s in full bloom, cheering us on into the next season whether we like it or not. And the trees? Well, some of them just can't wait. They're already trying on their autumn wardrobe like ladies in a dressing room, spinning in front of the mirror and asking the wind, “Does this crimson make my branches look bold?”

We're fast approaching my favorite season of all—Autumn. There’s something magical about it. The leaves put on the kind of show that no Broadway production can match, and the smell of ripe apples in the orchard makes you want to grab a basket and pretend you’re living in a simpler time. (Spoiler: you might be, if you live out here.)

I still find joy in scuffing through fallen leaves like a kid who forgot how grown-ups are supposed to act. There’s a simple pleasure in that sound—the crunch underfoot, the scent of earth and apple trees... and goodbye. Daytime sunshine is like a warm hug, and evenings bring that perfect kind of chill that makes sitting on the porch with a blanket and a mug feel like luxury.

Some folks say they can’t enjoy Autumn because winter follows close behind. That’s like refusing to eat pie because the plate might be empty after. Sure, winter’s coming. It always does. But right now, this moment—this golden, crunchy, apple-scented moment—is here. And it’s beautiful.

Summer and fall may be short up here, but that only makes them more precious. Each day is a gift, and I plan to unwrap every last one of them with both hands and savor them as long as possible.

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Some Days Are Just Like That

Some days start off sideways and just keep veering off into the weeds. Yesterday was one of those days.

It started out like any other charming day on the homestead—except my dog was limping, my patience was already on empty, and I had no idea I’d be involved in vehicular assault by 11 a.m.

Indy, our refined, older Weimaraner (read: moody senior citizen in a dog suit), started limping around like he’d just come back from a Civil War reenactment. His front paw was swollen, and since he’d already had a foot infection in the other paw. I figured we were just collecting them now, like vintage coins or unpaid parking tickets.

Since I needed the truck to get him to the vet, I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to take my grandson to work. I came back, tried to sleep for twenty more precious minutes, then called the vet’s office right at 8:00. Or tried to. I got their cheerful little voicemail letting me know their hours are “from 8 to 6!” I guess that means for them, not for us poor saps who call. I’ve learned not to leave a message because they apparently check voicemail sometime between now and the Second Coming.

So I called every 15 minutes like a woman trying to win concert tickets on a radio station. At 9:00, someone finally answered. “Sure, bring him in at 9:45. We’ll squeeze you in.” Right. The vet’s office is about 45 minutes away, and I still hadn’t done the barn chores. So I made a mad dash to feed everyone, break up two chicken arguments, unhook the sheep from whatever weird thing they got into this time, and speed off like I was late for the Kentucky Derby.

I arrived at 9:55, breathless but victorious, only to spend the next 40 minutes in a waiting room that felt like the seventh circle of Dog Hell. A very enthusiastic teenage girl and her boyfriend sat beside me. She was taking photos of every animal that walked in. Then she showed me her entire pet photo album. I nodded politely like I wasn’t wondering if chewing off my own arm would be less painful. Her boyfriend didn’t say a word the whole time, which I think was a survival tactic.

Enter: Junior.

Junior was a boxer puppy. A very young, very enthusiastic, very untrained boxer whose sole purpose in life seemed to be pulling his owner’s arm out of its socket. And he was a “puppy” in the way a wrecking ball is a “pendulum.” His owner, a woman who clearly hadn’t planned for this level of chaos when she got dressed that morning, was practically choking him in an attempt to keep him from launching into orbit.

“Junior! Junior, come here!” “Junior, don’t eat that!” “Junior, get off the lady!” “Junior, that’s not a chew toy—that’s her leg!”

And then came the cat.

The vet has a couple of resident cats who clearly have a death wish, and of course one decided this was the perfect moment to strut through the hallway, like a Vegas showgirl, in front of a pack of drooling, under-medicated dogs. Indy was frozen like a statue, his whole body trembling with suppressed cat-homicide instincts. I could feel the leash vibrating like it was attached to a jackhammer. He lay at my feet looking calm on the outside, but inside he was screaming, “LET ME AT HER!”

Finally—finally—we got called in. After examining Indy (translation: poking his paw for 14 seconds while Indy vibrated like a tuning fork aimed at the cat buffet), the vet nodded and said, “Yup. Probably cellulitis again.” Then he added those magic words every dog owner dreads: “Just keep him quiet at home for a few days.”

Oh. Okay. Sure. Let me just explain that to my Weimaraner. You know, the breed that was specifically designed to chase things forever, run on nuclear power, and sleep only when dead. But, blessing of blessings, Indy was getting older and finally calming down.

I laughed. “What you see in here is not what he’s like at home,” I told him, as Indy continued trembling with unspent rage at the hallway cat and the scent of liver treats. “This whole vet office experience has him juiced. The other dogs, the cat—who he clearly sees as lunch—and the endless treat potential have his brain lit up like a pinball machine.”

“Honestly,” I said, “at home, he’s a couch potato. A nap-loving, snore-barking, sofa-hogging lump of fur. He’s basically a furry sack of potatoes with legs.”

The vet paused, looked at Indy, who was still trembling with violent hope that the cat would make a fatal hallway detour, and then turned to his assistant and said, dead serious: “That’s what my wife says about me. If I were a dog, I’d be this dog.”

And just like that, I didn’t need a vet degree to know this man gets it. Because honestly? I, too, aspire to be a dog that naps hard, snacks often, and only gets riled up when there’s drama in the hallway.

After a total visit of 5 minutes, including the conversation with his assistant, we had this: Diagnosis? Probably cellulitis—again. Prescription? $58. Time wasted? Somewhere between one and three years off my life expectancy.

I put Indy back in the truck and went back in to pay. While I was standing there, Junior decided he hadn’t done enough damage yet and tried to eat my shoe—while it was still on my foot. This dog was a one-dog demolition crew. I told the receptionist I wasn’t sure if the dog wanted a snack or just had strong opinions about footwear.

I paid the bill, headed out, and while backing out of my very tight parking spot in a lot designed for lawnmowers, I gently (and by gently, I mean barely) clipped the fender of the gray car next to me.

Not just any gray car. A gray car with a vanity plate that read “BIG GUN.”

Of course it did.

I sighed, walked back into the waiting room (now a circus missing only a guy in a top hat yelling, “Behold the bearded lady!”) and asked, “Who owns the gray car with the plate ‘Big Gun’?”

Guess who? Junior’s mom. Of course!

At this point, the woman practically short-circuited. She was leaving for Florida tomorrow and now couldn’t remember how to breathe. I told her it was a little dent, nothing major, and she still looked like she might throw Junior at me and flee the scene.

Out she came, dragging Junior, who by this time looked like he’d just done a marathon through a swamp—tongue hanging out, eyes wild, drool flying. Her daughter, who looked to be about ten and had braved tagging along, trotted behind them like this was all just another Tuesday.

While Junior the Wrecking Ball tried to body-check the bumper off my truck, she called her insurance company right there in the parking lot. I handed over all my info, took photos of her car (thanks to my daughter-in-law, who’s trained me to document every moment like I’m prepping for a congressional hearing), and wished her the best.

My truck? Unscathed. Her fender? Slight dent, paint scuff. Her dog? Still possessed. Her stress level? Catastrophic. Her vacation? Probably going to need another vacation from her vacation.

So yeah—some days are just like that. You wake up thinking, “I’ve got this day, no problem,” and by noon you’ve footed a vet bill, been photo-bombed by a teenager, had your footwear attacked, and accidentally assaulted a car named Big Gun.

Next time I’m staying in bed—with Indy.

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Go Ahead, Make Our Day!

Dirty Harry's got nothing on these fellas.

This weekend, the backyard turned into a makeshift shooting range (because what else is a farm for if not a little old-fashioned target practice?). Jim’s oldest son, James, came to visit with our granddaughter Riley in tow. It wasn’t long before the menfolk seized the opportunity for some much-needed man time—translation: making loud noises, comparing firearms, and pretending they weren’t melting in the summer heat.

Lined up in the picture like a testosterone-fueled Mount Rushmore are, from left to right: 16-year-old Nate (our grandson who lives with us), James, and my husband Jim, looking every bit like a crew ready to defend the homestead from rogue soda cans and the occasional paper target.

And Riley? You may ask where she was while the guys were out channeling their inner Clint Eastwood. That gal was doing it right—curled up on the couch in the blessed air conditioning, living her best life and wisely avoiding the bugs, sweat, and bravado.

Now that’s my kind of smart.

Hairdos for Dogs

Who says fashion is just for humans? Meet our latest trendsetter in the canine world—a pup with naturally fuzzy head fluff that’s just begging for a little creative styling.

This morning, I looked at her and thought, You know what? With a dab of gel and a bit of nerve, I could give her a full-on punk rock makeover. Think Joan Jett meets Lassie. Or Sid Vicious, if he had four legs and a wagging tail.

I haven’t broken out the safety pins or leather collars yet, but give it time.

She’s not too sure about her new look, but I told her if people can dye their poodles pink and bedazzle their Chihuahuas, then a little punk attitude isn’t out of line. Next stop: maybe a mohawk.

Of course, I can’t roam around with a camera without having lots of help from the girls. Brownie, my favorite Nubian doe, is always the first one to offer assistance. Whether I’m trying to snap a photo or just breathe in peace, she’s there—supervising, photobombing, or trying to eat the lens cap.

Who knew farm life came with a built-in entourage?