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And so there is. In the Bible, the book of Ecclesiastes, a famous King and familiar Bible character, King Solomon, wrote a book on philosophy. You can read a lot of different ideas into this book in the Old Testament. But the most familiar thing is that word time. He basically reminds us early in this book that there is a time for all things. Dying and living and everything in between. Last week I wrote a little story about mine and Gerald’s quest as boys to look at where the Butterfield Stage’s Station on Wolf Mountain down in Leflore County, Oklahoma was located. Marshall’s Station was the first stage stop after the stage crossed into Oklahoma—an outlaw infested area.
Read moreMy knowledge of stagecoaches is from watching those old black and white movies of the 40’s. People like Roy Rogers and Hop-along Cassidy saved breathless passengers from the jillions of robbers that hid behind every rock waiting to remove the “strongbox” which nearly always contained a gold shipment. And sometimes they would rob and/or kill the passengers. That was over at The Main Theatre in Stonewall.
Read moreMeasures to prevent the spread of the flu virus take on an added urgency during the COVID-19 pandemic. Health professionals say efforts to minimize infl uenza may help preserve hospital capacity that may be needed if COVID-19 cases continue to rise.
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Born in the 1930s and early 1940s, we exist as a very special age cohort. We are the “last ones.” We are the last, climbing out of the depression, who can remember the winds of war and the war itself with fathers and uncles going off. We are the last to remember ration books for everything from sugar to shoes to stoves. We saved tin foil and poured fat into tin cans. We saw cars up on blocks because tires weren’t available.
Read moreJust how much longer must we wait? And on who? Well, it is coming they tell us. And we might just add: “come soon.”
Read moreSometimes being a little senile pays off . . .
Read moreThe North wind was about as strong as you can imagine on a bright January day, long ago on a hilltop called Highland Cemetery South of Stonewall. My wife’s Uncle Jack had died the week before and he wanted to be buried there in Stonewall. So here we all were. I had never met or seen this uncle before, but I noted he looked very respectable in his casket dressed in a fine cowboy suit.
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