Stumblin’ Pig

There is a bar in a neighboring town called the Stumblin’ Pig.  I always assumed the name referred to drunken bikers.  After all, they serve alcohol and there is usually a line of Harleys parked in front.  Which just goes to show what I know.  Because a stumblin’ pig is not a drunken biker.  Not […]

Farm Furrows

It’s a wobbly walk from the end of the garden to the mailbox.  Underneath what looks like a smooth stretch of grass (OK, what we call grass–the green weedy stuff interspersed with yellow flowers that covers dirt in the summer time) are the old hills and valleys of someone’s farm field.  You can’t see these […]