ON HE RODE — Chapter Thirty

Ha-wong! Or would that be kara-whong!? Just what sound does a meteor make when it plows full-speed into hard desert rock? Anything like the Smack! of horsehide on cowhide of a Big Jim Wilson fastball to the open pocket of a catcher’s mitt? Of course I jest. It’s more like the sound of one giant…

ON HE RODE — Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nothing much going on botanically as far as I can tell, but the truth is, Northwest greenie that I am, I can’t tell much. Drifting along, tumbleweed’s love to the ground, etcetera sounds great from Pioneer’s Sons, but I’d sure like right now to hug a smelly, fat-barked old Douglas fir. Protection. Security. Aspiration. The…

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