By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

As a kid, I often heard the saying, “You probably wouldn’t eat the sausage if you saw how it was made.”

That literally applied to making sausage, but it was applicable to lots of things in life.

Both sides of my family lived in or near Ashdown, Arkansas, for many generations. The work they did on their homesteads sustained them. Any extra also brought in some of the money needed to buy the items they couldn’t create or manufacture themselves.

My generation was the first who didn’t have to raise and prepare everything on their plate. But there was still some of that when I was young.

I can recall going to my grandparents from church on Sunday and watching my grandmother catch and then take the necessary steps to turn a chicken from a backyard animal to the main course at lunch.

Today, this would likely turn most folks into a vegetarian. But I believe it taught my sister, cousins, and me the value of what we ate.

The amount of work it takes, farm to table, is significant. It’s why my wife and I grow a significant amount of our groceries.

My mother’s family grew up on a small farm in an area called Hopewell, Arkansas. It was near Fomby, which was close to Ashdown. The first two were and still are unincorporated, and inhabited by hardworking, proud people.

When you hear about people chopping cotton, you think of the 1800 and early 1900s. But my mother’s family was still chopping cotton in the 1940s and 50s. I never did it, but the tales my mother tells of how hard it was for the little money it brought are eye opening.

Chopping cotton, not even their own cotton, was just one of the ways the family made the extra money for flour, sugar, sorghum, and kerosene. Their home had no electricity. It was lit with kerosene lamps.

People today talk about living off the grid as if it is some new trend. My grandparents and their neighbors did it because they had no choice. If they wanted water, it had to be drawn. If they wanted heat, wood had to be cut. If they wanted supper, someone had to grow it, gather it, or hunt it.

There was no calling a repairman when something broke. There was no grocery store open late at night. There was no delivery service bringing necessities to the front porch. The family relied on their own labor, ingenuity, and determination.

They also raised cows. Molly was the family milk cow. There were a couple of other cows that were used for extra milk production.

My grandfather did anything he could to make a dollar. The extra milk was churned to make cream and butter. All was then sold on his ice route.

My grandfather was one of the few in the area who owned a truck. He got paid to take ice into homes for family iceboxes. While there, he’d offer milk, butter, and cream for sale.

Nothing was wasted. Every animal, every crop, and every byproduct had a purpose. If something could be repaired, it was repaired. If it could be repurposed, it was repurposed. Folks didn’t throw things away because replacing them wasn’t always an option.

The chickens, cows, and pigs on my mother’s family farm provided the protein. The garden offered the vegetables and fruits. The pecan trees bore the nuts for desserts. Pecan pie was a favorite.

The changing seasons dictated the work schedule. Spring meant planting. Summer meant tending crops and harvesting vegetables. Fall brought pecans, preserving food, and preparing for colder weather. Winter was spent maintaining equipment, repairing fences, and planning for another year.

Every member of the family had responsibilities. Children learned early that work wasn’t punishment. It was simply part of life. Feeding animals, gathering eggs, shelling peas, snapping beans, and helping in the garden were expected. Nobody asked if they felt like doing it.

The flour was bought in tow sacks, which were used to make clothing. Manufacturers eventually realized women were reusing the sacks, so they began printing them with colorful floral patterns, checks, and stripes. Some even included sewing instructions on the sack itself. A typical 100-pound flour sack provided enough fabric for a child’s dress, while several sacks could be sewn together to make an adult dress, aprons, shirts, curtains, or quilts.

Today, most of us are upset if we lose WiFi. Imagine losing your milk cow or all of your chickens.

That generation faced challenges most of us can barely imagine. Yet they rarely complained. They simply did what needed to be done.

I always remember that when I’m plowing, planting, or harvesting. And I tip my hat to my family and the others who came before. They did it all.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

In 868 A.D., according to Chinese historical records, a princess was said to have played a “leaf game.” One of the earliest known references to playing cards.

Since then, there have been a few more sessions of folks gathering with a deck to play.

In the small, red brick house on Beech Street in Ashdown, Arkansas, many a game of spades, hearts, bridge, and canasta went well into the night.

Games were an inexpensive way for adults to gather at the Formica dinette table in the kitchen, enjoy each other’s company, and drink copious amounts of coffee.

Children were relegated to a card table in the living room, where you’d find a game of Monopoly, Clue, Risk, or Sorry taking place.

Southern homes of the 1960s were rarely air-conditioned. We were lucky to have a swamp cooler (also called a water cooler) or an attic fan.

A swamp cooler cooled air by pulling hot outside air through water-soaked pads, while an attic fan exhausted hot air trapped above the ceiling in the attic. Together, they improved airflow, reduced heat buildup, and provided a poor man’s AC.

The attic fan also helped draw out the smoke emanating from the Marlboros and Pall Malls in the ashtrays on the Formica dinette set.

Each adult who smoked had their favorite ashtray. Dad’s looked like a Goodyear tire. Uncle Bill used one from a hotel the family had visited.

A complimentary ashtray, I’m sure.

Those were the sounds and smells of game night.

Oh, let’s not forget the RCA radio.

To complement the whirring of both the cooler and attic fan, a battery radio (pronounced bat-tree radio) played The Grand Ole Opry. I can still hear the distinct delivery of the Opry announcer. A booming, enthusiastic voice with a slow, deliberate delivery that made you feel like part of the family.

“You ain’t woman enough to take my man,” sang Loretta Lynn as you’d hear an adult in the kitchen ask their partner why they’d made the card bid they did.

“Six days on the road and I’m a gonna make it home tonight,” proclaimed Dave Dudley as one of the kids playing Monopoly begged a cousin not to charge them rent since they just paid to get out of jail.

Maybe not too dissimilar from situations that would lie ahead a few years later.

At the time, it was the family fun we knew. There were three channels on TV, but nothing on ABC, CBS, or NBC took priority over gaming with loved ones.

What has changed is how we now spend our time. Back then, entertainment wasn’t something delivered to us through a screen. We made our own. Family and friends gathered because there wasn’t much else competing for their attention. Nobody was checking text messages. Nobody was scrolling social media. If someone wanted to tell a story, everyone at the table heard it.

Hindsight, those card games were an excuse to spend time together.

The adults talked about work, church, family, and neighbors. The kids learned how grown-ups interacted. We learned when to listen, when to laugh, and when to keep our mouths shut. We learned that a disagreement didn’t mean a friendship was over. Two people could argue over a card game, laugh about it ten minutes later, and still be friends the next week.

There was something comforting about that routine. Friday night or Saturday night would roll around, and somebody would bring a deck of cards. Somebody else would put on a pot of percolator coffee. Before long, the table would fill up.

Nobody knew they were making memories. They were just living life.

Years later, after many of those players are gone and many of those houses have changed hands, the memories remain remarkably clear. I can still picture the cards spread across the table, hear the laughter coming from the kitchen, and the shuffling of a well-worn deck as another hand was dealt.

Funny how something as simple as a deck of cards can dominate that much of a lifetime’s memories.

Maybe there’d be more harmony among family and friends if we spent time together today like we did then. Sans the cigarettes, swamp coolers, and attic fans, and adding some AC.

There are advantages to living today (medical advances for example) but there’s a reason most of us would move back to something more like Mayberry, if just given the chance.

Getting together for a simple evening of visiting and cards was a great pastime in times past.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

Back in 2011, it didn’t rain. It didn’t rain for a long, long time. It didn’t rain for so long that fires began to pop up where I live.

One of them popped up near where our oldest son lived, which also wasn’t very far from where we live.

It reminded me of the extremely delicate balance that’s required for all of us to live what we consider a ‘normal’ life. Our normal life was upended and replaced by fear.

I prayed that if God would let it rain, I would never complain about rain again.

At times, my promise was tested.

It rained. It rained for a long, long time. It rained for so long that large amounts of water began to flood where I live.

It reminded me of how easy it is for each of us to complain or gripe about things that we have absolutely no control over.

Watching the news, I see people losing their minds over things, but they are things that they do have control over.

Everyone has the ability to control how they act.

Those who don’t like the politicians in power stand in the streets and scream, or do TV interviews where they discuss doing harmful things to the politicians.

Some of these same people, celebrities in some cases, were visited by the Secret Service because of the things they said.

My momma at least taught me well enough to not say things in public that would get me a visit from the Secret Service.

One elected congresswoman used extreme profanity on camera regarding her dislike for the president.

It seemed less extreme, but wasn’t much different when the last guy was president. The people who didn’t like him talked of the impending doom that would come because he was in charge.

Chain mail used to be passed around through the Postal Service. Today, similar material is passed around on social media.

The principal was the same with a letter in the mailbox as it is now with an instant message on Facebook. “Share this, or the world as we know it will end. Break the chain, and it’ll be all your fault.”

The end didn’t come when the last guy ran the country. It likely won’t end with the current guy, either.

I truly believe that we are our own worst enemy when it comes to enjoying life.

“Everything in life has its place,” the older folks in my family used to say when I was a child.

And that was how they lived their lives. Family time and work time had their places; civic involvement had its time, and church and politics had theirs.

But, the balance of those areas of life was kept in check by how much of each we discussed with others. My parents freely discussed most things, but religion and politics were considered personal decisions.

“Never discuss politics or religion,” the older folks in my family used to also say.

That meant with people inside or outside the family.

I can remember many discussions about which church someone else attended and how their beliefs didn’t match our own, but those discussions took place at the supper table within the walls of our house.

It never would have been considered appropriate to chastise someone else for where they worshipped, and it certainly was considered taboo to ask someone else who they voted for.

It was none of our business; anymore than who we voted for was theirs.

But 24/7 news and 24/7 social media have changed that. Some of the things that people say to folks they claim to care about can be pretty shocking. And it’s ruining lifelong friendships, relationships, and our ability to get along as a nation.

I’m always amused when one minute, I see a Bible verse on someone’s Facebook page, and a few minutes later they’re cursing someone over politics.

The odds of anyone changing anyone else’s mind about politics or religion are, and always have been, almost nil.

And now, people have joined factions. Just like a pack of animals that run and attack together, they watch, listen to, and read only what they agree with. This feeds their social media commenting – alienating, sometimes forever, friends and family members.

And it’s all so preventable.

Many of our universities have become extreme, only allowing one type of thought to be expressed on campus. News channels are extreme. One side of the news is highlighted, not both.

I’ve worked in and around the media since I was 16 years old. I started out working on our high school newspaper. Shortly after that, I worked in radio for three decades. I was taught that a reporter’s job was to go out, document what you saw and heard, and come back and report that. But that basic level of reporting is all but gone now.

Stories get twisted to fit an ideology, rather than relayed with just the facts.

On June 16, 1858, Abraham Lincoln stood before 1,000 delegates in the statehouse in Springfield, Illinois, at the Republican State Convention. There, he gave his famous, “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” speech.

Those listening were familiar with this because it was Jesus who said it first in three of the Gospels. The version in Matthew 12, Verse 25, says, “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself will not stand.”

And, so it is, I believe, with our country.

His colleagues thought that Lincoln’s reference in his speech was courageous, but politically incorrect.

It doesn’t look like much has changed since 1858. But if each of us is willing to change ourselves, maybe we can stop dividing our house before it falls.

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Data from the American Clean Power Association indicate that the state has 54 wind projects stalled as part of a nationwide delay affecting 165 onshore wind projects.

President Donald Trump has long opposed wind power. Energy experts such as Environment Texas Executive Director Luke Metzger say the administration is using the regulations, such as ensuring a wind project would not affect military airspace, as an attack on renewable power.

“It’s hard to see this as anything other than an effort to slow or stop wind power regardless of the consequences for consumers, the environment and grid reliability,” Metzger said.

In a statement, a defense department official said DOD is still evaluating the projects.

The department’s evaluation of wind turbines “is inherently complex and time-consuming because it involves balancing two critical, and sometimes competing, interests: developing energy sources while ensuring military operations and readiness are not degraded or impaired to the extent an unacceptable risk to national security is created,” the official said.

R&D plays vital role in state’s economy

Texas is one of the top five states contributing to research and development, according to a recent report from the state comptroller’s office.

The federal Bureau of Economic Analysis estimates R&D’s contribution to gross domestic product, “after accounting for the resources used to produce goods and services, employment and compensation from 2012 to 2023.”

The R&D value added by Texas businesses reached $29.2 billion in 2023, a 131% increase from 2012. Further, R&D in the state supplied nearly 195,000 jobs and $30.1 billion in wages, salaries and benefits in 2023.

Texas has 15 Tier 1 colleges and universities, the most in any state. In 2024, more than 11,800 patents were issued in Texas, the second highest in the country, after California.

“When investments are made in research, the returns multiply — strengthening our competitiveness, securing our future and improving the lives of all Texans,” said Fernanda Leite, interim vice president for research at UT-Austin.

First case in 2026 of West Nile virus reported

The year’s first case of West Nile virus has been reported in a Harris County resident, the Texas Department of State Health Services reported. The virus is transmitted through the bite of infected mosquitoes, though 80% of people infected with West Nile never experience symptoms.

“West Nile and other mosquito-borne illnesses are a fact of life in Texas in the warmer months, and all Texans should take precautions against mosquito bites to stay safe and healthy,” said DSHS Commissioner Jennifer A. Shuford. She advised removing standing water from homes and yards, such as in buckets, old tires and other items.

The symptoms experienced by the unlucky 20% include fever, headache, nausea, muscle and joint aches, and fatigue. Though rare, West Nile virus can be fatal.

In the past five years, there have been 976 cases of West Nile in Texas, according to DSHS, with 106 deaths during that period.

Franklin Mountains State Park grows by 1,000 acres

Franklin Mountains State Park, 15 minutes from El Paso, is now 1,054 acres larger to the east as the result of a new land acquisition, the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department reported.

“I am excited about this acquisition,” said Superintendent Cesar Mendez, “which extends the buffer zone all the way to Martin Luther King Boulevard, adding some lower elevation and flatter land to Franklin Mountains State Park and securing access points (trailheads).”

With 28,000 acres — or 43 square miles ­— the park is one of the largest urban wilderness parks in the world. It has more than 120 miles of trail and is a popular site with birders.

The acquisition helps safeguard the main mountain area of desert bighorn sheep habitat.

Federal aid for Panhandle wildfire victims

The Federal Emergency Management Agency has approved a request for grant funds to assist victims of the Hunggate Fire in Randall County, which has merged with the Chocolate Chip Fire, burning an estimated 14,000 acres and threatening more than 1,245 homes. Aid has also been granted for the Sinky Fire in Potter County, which has burned more than 2,500 acres and prompted evacuation of more than 500 acres.

“Texas has secured federal resources to further guard against wildfire threats in the Panhandle,” said Gov. Greg Abbott. “With this grant approval, Texas has additional tools to help Texans remain safe from wildfire danger.”

The approval of a Fire Management Assistance Grant makes the state eligible for 75% reimbursement from the federal government for eligible costs associated with wildfire suppression. These grants are available to states, counties and cities to support the mitigation, management, and control of fires that threaten to become major disasters.

Broker imposter scams being reported

Several attempted broker-imposter scams over the past few months have prompted the Texas Department of Banking to warn that such ruses could pose a significant threat to financial institutions and consumers.

According to a TDB news release, “consumers are targeted after conducting searches for high-rate investment opportunities. Individuals contacted by the fraudsters are often not existing bank customers and are located across the United States.”

Some red flags to look for are cold calls, an incorrect or bogus email address, low-risk/high-reward offers, and unusual funding procedures.
Anyone who is targeted by a broker imposter is encouraged to contact the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority at finra.org.

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When I first picked up a guitar in 1970, my fingers didn’t make the sounds I wanted to hear. But I knew that if I kept trying, I could learn to play the songs I heard on the radio.

I was eight.

My teacher’s name was Mike and it was in his room in his parent’s home that I learned the foundations of what makes the guitar an amazing instrument.

At first, it was daunting. I was forming the chords with my left hand and holding the pick and strumming with my right on a guitar that was almost as big as I was. The 50’s era red and black acoustic belonged to my dad. The neck was wide and the strings were thick, but with blisters on my fingers, I kept going.

At age 10, a song came on the radio that had an opening riff so infectious, I was determined to learn it. That song was “China Grove,” by the Doobie Brothers. The crackle of my AM radio accented the song as it rode the late-night waves from WLS in Chicago to my small bedroom in Southwest Arkansas.

Gosh, I loved that song.

By age 14, I was playing in a garage band. In the 1970’s, every high school had at least one group of four guys who were able to convince their mothers to take turns lugging them and their gear from one house to another to practice.

More often than not, Doug, Paul, Keith and I would practice at my house. I’m not sure if that was because we had a large game room with doors that served as protective barriers for my mom in the house and our neighbors on our street, or if it was just easier than my mom having to fill the trunk of her 1971 Buick Electra 225 Limited with my gear and take me somewhere else and then pick me up.

Our band began by learning Johnny B. Goode, Jailhouse Rock, and other rock standards, but we eventually learned China Grove. I was very happy.

At age 17, I got my first job as a radio DJ. Our local station, KMLA (the K being a letter that virtually all stations west of the Mississippi start with, and MLA stood for “Millwood Lake Area”), hired me to work 8 p.m. until midnight.

Two years later, the rock station in nearby Texarkana, KTFS, brought me on for the same shift.

One of my favorite things to do at both stations was to cue up the vinyl record, fire off the local station ID at the top of the hour, hit the start switch on the turntable, and play China Grove.

”It’s Ten-oh-five at 14-KTFS, Solid As A Rock. And here are the Doobies, and China Grove.“

“…When the sun comes up on a sleepy little town, down around San Antone. And the folks are rising for another day. Round about their home…”

At age 20 while working at KTFS, the owner gave me tickets to see the Doobie Brothers perform in Dallas at the now-gone Reunion Arena. Jim was a nice guy. He knew how much I loved that band, and at the time, they were on their farewell tour.

The highlight of the concert for me was hearing China Grove.

Around the same time that the Doobies were breaking up, so was the band I was in. I mothballed my guitars and amps, got married, had kids, finished college, and held real jobs.

My parents, along with most other sensible people, never really considered playing in bands or working in radio, real jobs. For the most part, they were right.

But after I left radio, I began working with a couple of guys who played guitar. We began to get together and play the old favorites. We took turns playing at each other’s house, but most often, we wound up at my house. I’m not sure if that was because we lived in the country and had doors and distance that could protect my wife and the neighbors, or if it was because my buddy’s wives had a low pain tolerance.

Either way, I’d always try to slide in at least the opening riff to China Grove during each jam session.

After a few years apart, the Doobie Brothers reunited and began touring again.

Knowing how much I love the band, recently, my boss bought me a ticket and invited me to go with him to see the Doobies when they came through town.

Our seats were excellent. About seven rows back from center stage.

The lady who did the introduction surprised us. She said that we could take pictures and shoot video with our phones. And so I did.

The band took the stage and they rocked it. Almost 36 years had passed since I last saw the Doobies and they sounded as great as ever.

I kept my phone ready and hit record just as they fired off China Grove.

When I got home, I wasn’t sure what kind of audio quality I would have, but after uploading the video to my iPad and then to Facebook, I was very surprised at how great it sounded.

I made a post to Facebook to share this Classic Rock greatness with others. And I did it in my best, dusted-off radio DJ voice from days gone by. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to also do that for you now.

”…Its Twelve-Oh-five at my house. And here are the Doobie Brothers, on my iPad…with China Grove.”

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

In the early 90s, there was a self-help, relationship book called, “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.” The goal of publishing this was for the author to show how differently men and women communicate.

Anyone who grew up in the South doesn’t need a book for this.

Now, technically, men and women are both speaking English. But if you’ve ever sat in a kitchen in East Texas or in Ashdown, Arkansas, and listened to a husband and wife discuss curtains, directions, or supper plans, you realize one side is communicating while the other side is simply trying not to get blamed for something.

Southern women notice everything. Southern men notice if something is on fire.

A Southern husband walks into Lowe’s and says, “We need white paint.”

His wife replies, “No, not white. Antique pearl linen.”

He wonders why somebody invented fourteen shades of eggshell.

To men, there are only about seven colors total. Red, blue, green, yellow, black, white, and truck primer.

Southern women also know every emotional event affecting every child in the family.

They know which child cried after prom, which one got their feelings hurt in third grade, and which one is “going through something right now.”

Men are vaguely aware that several smaller humans live in the house.

A Southern father can usually identify his children correctly if they are standing still and wearing a baseball cap with their school name on it.

Mothers know allergies, shoe sizes, favorite foods, best friends, and dating history.

Fathers know one child “plays an instrument or something.”

Women also remember conversations with terrifying accuracy.

Not just the topic.

The exact date.

The weather.

What shirt you were wearing.

And the tone of voice.

The husband claims, “I never said that.”

His wife answers immediately: “Tuesday after supper, while unloading groceries from the GMC, you said, ‘I guess that’s fine,’ and you rolled your eyes afterward.”

Southern men don’t remember conversations. They remember fragments.

One wife asked, “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Her husband replied, “Sure did.”

She asked, “What did I say?”

He answered, “You were talking about… somebody.”

Then there are directions.

Southern women provide directions using landmarks and family history.

“Turn where the old Piggly Wiggly used to be before it burned in 1987. Pass Aunt Trudy’s first house, not the double-wide she moved into after the divorce, and if you get to the fireworks stand, you’ve gone too far.”

Southern men give directions like military commanders.

“Go north.”

Women also understand decorative towels.

Men do not.

A Southern woman may have towels for guests, towels for decoration, and towels nobody is allowed to touch under any circumstances.

Men believe towels exist because people occasionally get wet.

That misunderstanding alone has caused more tension than SEC football rivalries.

Women notice when furniture has moved two inches.

Men can miss an entire kitchen remodel for six months.

Wife: “Did you notice anything different?”

Husband: Looks around nervously like a hostage negotiator.

“You got a haircut?”

Wrong.

Always wrong.

Southern women also possess supernatural hearing.

They can hear a child whisper “stupid” from three rooms away while vacuuming.

A husband can stand beside a chirping smoke detector for three weeks without noticing a thing. “Has that battery been beeping long?”

She answers, “It’s been doing that since Easter.”

Another communication problem involves the word “nothing.”

When a Southern woman says “nothing,” she absolutely does not mean, “nothing.”

She means there is definitely something wrong, but you are now expected to figure it out yourself.

Most Southern men fail this test instantly.

Husband: “What’s wrong?”

Wife: “Nothing.”

The husband smiles with relief like he had just escaped a tornado.

Three hours later he was sleeping under a quilt his grandmother made in 1972 wondering what happened.

But somehow, Southern couples make it work.

Maybe Southern women understand men better than men understand themselves.

And maybe Southern men provide balance by not over-thinking everything.

If Southern women ran the whole world, every pillow would match, every casserole dish would have a lid, and every child would feel emotionally supported.

If Southern men ran it alone, somebody would repair a lawn mower with duct tape and a butter knife while asking if leftover catfish was still safe after sitting in the truck all afternoon.

Together, though, it somehow evens out.

That’s probably why Southern marriages last.

One side remembers the location of a dusty book from the early 90s.

The other side remembers where the jumper cables are.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

Southern folks don’t need proper nouns. We have whatchamacallits and thingamajigs.

My grandfather had the only blacksmith shop in Ashdown, Arkansas. That’s where I learned the important terminology.

Papa’s shop, didn’t have labeled drawers. There were coffee cans. Each one held something useful, Bolts of every length, nuts that didn’t quite match anything, washers that had seen better days, and little pieces of metal whose original purpose had been forgotten somewhere around the Eisenhower Administration.

“Hand me that piece right there,” Papa would say, not even looking up.

If you hung around his shop long enough, you knew exactly which one he meant. I’d dig through the right can, rattling metal against metal, until I’d found the right one.

Things didn’t need their government name if everybody understood what you meant. A grocery cart was a buggy. And any soft drink on earth, no matter what the label said, was a Coke.

“What kind of Coke do you want?” Somebody would ask.

“Dr Pepper,” might be the response.

The tool you couldn’t find yesterday but needed today was a doohickey. And the piece of equipment that had been patched, wired, and coaxed into service for the last 10 years was that old rig.

We didn’t lack vocabulary. We just didn’t waste it.

There’s efficiency to that kind of talk. You point, you nod, and you get to work.

In the corner of Papa’s shop, there was always an old percolator, working away to keep the energy up. You could hear it before you saw it, that steady perk-perk-perk sound, followed by the smell of coffee that had been working just as hard as Papa had. It was thick. A spoon could almost stand up in it.

Each time he wanted coffee, it was called something different. It was a “tin” one time and maybe a “hootis” the next.

Working on his old GMC truck always required coffee.

“What’s wrong with the pickup?” I asked.

“That little gizmo ain’t doing what it’s supposed to.”

That explained everything and nothing at the same time.

He reached in, loosened something, tapped something else with the handle of a screwdriver, and then nodded like the problem had finally admitted defeat.

“Crank it,” he said.

The engine turned over and settled into a steady rumble. This was when you could still fix your own vehicle.

“What was it?” I asked.

He paused, thought about it, and then shrugged. “You know… the dingus was stuck.”

There’s a kind of trust wrapped up in words like that. You trust the other person to understand you, and they trust you not to steer them wrong. It’s the same trust that lets somebody say, “I’m fixin’ to head out,” and everybody knows they’ve got about five minutes before they’re actually gone.

Or when somebody says, “It’s over yonder,” and points in a general direction that might cover a quarter mile of territory. You don’t need a map. You just start and go.

Over time, those words become more than shortcuts. They become markers of where you’re from. You can leave a hometown, move to a city where everything is labeled and categorized, where aisles are numbered and parts are inventoried, and still find yourself saying, “Where’d I put that widget?”

And somebody nearby will either look at you like you’ve lost your mind, or they’ll nod and say, “You mean that piece over there?”

If they know, you’ve found your people.

I’ve been in places where folks insist on the exact name for everything. They want the model number, the proper term, and the technical description. There’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. It has its place. But there’s something to be said for a way of speaking that leaves room for memory and experience to fill in the blanks.

Because those filler words aren’t just forgotten names. They’re a shared understanding. They’re a lifetime of handing tools back and forth, of fixing what you have instead of buying something new, of making do and getting by.

It’s the sound of coffee cans rattling in a shop, the smell of hot metal, motor oil, percolator coffee, the low hum of a radio playing somewhere in the background. It’s a grandfather and a kid standing over an engine, not worrying about what something is called as long as it works.

And in the end, that’s the whole point.

You don’t always need the right word. You just need to know a doohickey from a thingamabob.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

There wasn’t anything accidental about blackberry season in our family. When harvest time came, dad had the harvest trip mapped out long before the berries ever ripened.

The same narrow country roads, year after year. Ditches, fence lines, and creek beds. None of them were the main roads in or around Ashdown, Arkansas. These were the back roads. Roads that originated as wagon paths in the 1800s, and wound their way through what just decades before had been thick, Little River County timber.

Roads my parents, their parents, and their parents’ parents all knew well.

Dad’s 1963 Ford Falcon provided the transportation. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Mom would hand us a big bucket; the kind that seemed oversized when empty, and never quite big enough once you got started.

The assignment was simple. Fill it up.

My sister claimed the front seat. I didn’t mind. I had my own spot in the back seat. It always felt as if we were driving into the past. I’d face backward and watch now turn into then.

There was something about that moment when the tires left the pavement and hit gravel. You could hear it before you felt it. A soft crunch, then a steady hum. Then came the dust. It rolled up behind us in thick clouds, hanging in the air like a signal that we were headed somewhere different, somewhere older.

Town gave way to country. From houses and storefronts, to fences, fields, and woods. And the edges of those woods held treasure.

Dad didn’t waste time once he found the right stretch. He’d ease the Falcon off to the side, cut the engine, and step out. He knew exactly where to look. Along fencerows, at the edge of ditches, anywhere the sun hit just right. That’s where the blackberry vines took hold.

We’d spill out of the car and get to work.

There was no graceful way to pick wild blackberries. You reached in, careful at first, then less careful as you went along. The vines fought back with thorns that scratched your arms. You learned quickly to watch where you stepped. Snakes liked those same sunny edges. Ticks and chiggers were just part of the deal, even if you didn’t realize it until later. And poison ivy had a way of hitting you, right where you didn’t want it.

None of that stopped us.

The berries themselves were worth it. Deep purple, almost black, and warm from the sun. Some went straight into the bucket, but plenty never made it that far. You’d pop a few in your mouth along the way, tasting that mix of sweet, and just enough tart to make you pucker. It was the kind of flavor you couldn’t buy in a store.

Dad moved steadily down the line, never in a hurry, never wasting motion. He didn’t talk much while we picked, but he didn’t need to. Every now and then he’d point out a better patch or remind us not to miss the ones tucked underneath. My sister and I turned it into a quiet competition, each trying to outdo the other without saying so.

The bucket slowly filled.

Time had a different pace out there. No clocks, no schedules, just the sound of insects humming and the occasional rustle in the brush. The spring air still carried a little kindness to it. Not the heavy, pressing heat that would come later in the summer.

By the time we finished, our hands were stained and our arms told the story of where we’d been. Scratches, dirt, sweat. But we didn’t dwell on that. We had what we came for.

Dad would take a look at the bucket, give a nod, and we’d load back up.

I’d turn around in the back seat again as we pulled away, watching the dust rise up behind us, just as it had when we came in. Only now it felt different. We weren’t just heading back home. We were bringing something with us. Something for which we had worked.

Those berries didn’t stay berries for long. Mom would turn them into cobblers, jams, or jellies.

Hindsight, it wasn’t about the blackberries. It was about the roads, the hours with two people I loved, and the way dad taught us without ever saying much. He showed us where to go, how to do it, and what it meant to stick with something. How to set and reach goals.

We never failed to fill the bucket with berries. Not once.

Today, my wife grows large, tasty blackberries from a cutting of her father’s thornless blackberry bush that lives in Ponca City, Oklahoma. He gave it to her over 20 years ago. Since then, many other family members and friends have received cuttings from her.

The best part is that we have both. Berries from her dad’s plant, and the wild blackberries that grow on our 10-acre homestead.

Each spring, I make my way around the fencerows on our land and work to fill the bucket. My arms show the scratches, and the ticks and chiggers find their way into places I wish they didn’t.

But it’s worth it. It always will be.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

New music coming out used to be an event. Most of the time, you and your friends knew it was coming and you were waiting, money-in-hand, at the record shop to buy it.

I worked in the radio business for several decades beginning in the 1970s, and became very well acquainted with how records were produced and promoted.

Radio, television, newspaper, and magazines were driving forces in promoting new music. Today, we can open our electronic devices and get the entire World Book Encyclopedia in a matter of seconds. But during what is arguably the best era for American music and promotion, we had the four mediums to deliver the news.

Record companies and radio stations made sure they had worn out the possibilities of the last record before they went to the next.

Also, it was no coincidence that whenever a new record came out, your favorite band was launching a new tour. And where they played was also connected to whether their music sold well in that area.

Local radio stations were promoting the show, and usually had a prize package with front row seats and backstage passes to meet the artists.

Over the noon break, students would sit around the high school lunch area and talk about which band had the next album coming out.

John: “Zeppelin is releasing In Through The Out Door soon.”

Stanley: “And they’re supposed to tour, but I don’t know if they’ll make it to Shreveport or not.”

For Stanley, me, and all of the other Ashdown, Arkansas, music officianados, the Shreveport area was our main destination for concerts. Some of the first big-name artists we saw were at Hirsch Memorial Coliseum in Bossier City, Louisiana.

The entire vibe of that era was unique. We’d listen to the radio to hear new music and to learn when a concert was scheduled.

Rolling Stone Magazine was an excellent source for music information for rock acts. Country acts had TV shows and Nashville publications.

For those of us who grew up in that era in the South, musically, we liked a little bit of all of it.

To see Peter Frampton at Hirsch, we took my buddy Scotty’s VW Beetle. I sat on the passenger’s seat and my girlfriend at the time sat on my lap. The backseat was reserved for large quantities of 8-track tapes.

The proof that we liked a little bit of all of it was right there. We alternated listening from Joe Walsh, Boston, David Allen Coe, and of course, Peter Frampton.

Today, there is little left that resembles how music used to launch and arrive. The radio stations have been replaced by Spotify. YouTube and other sources have taken Rolling Stone’s spot.

There was a unification of a generation when radio, magazines, and concerts kept us all on track to make sure we knew when a band’s music was being requested, promoted, and they were playing a show. One of the best ways a new song could get a boost was to hear the local DJ ask a caller what song they wanted to hear.

DJ: “Hey what song is it I can play for you on KMLA?”

Caller: “That new Eagles song, Hotel California!”

The technology of today has pushed (or allowed) people to become silos. There’s little shared experience when it comes to music.

You no longer go to work or an event and ask someone if they’ve heard the new Eagles song on the radio. Or wonder if everyone there will be able to carpool to the concert with you. Sometimes, we’d all pitch in to help a buddy get a ticket because he had to put brakes on his Firebird or was struggling in some other way.

Today, we can all talk to each other instantly, but what do we really have left to discuss in this arena? Odds are, if you were asked about the next album or concert of a favorite artist of yours, you’d look it up on your phone.

Before cell phones, we didn’t need to look it up. We all just knew.

Hirsch Coliseum is still around. Mostly, they play minor league hockey there. The days of the the person next to you at the concert reeking of 70’s herb, your favorite live band, and a great musical time are pretty much gone.

But the memories remain. Including the recollection that my leg didn’t wake up for two days after Bonnie got off my lap, and when we went inside, Frampton came alive.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

There are two true tests for how solid your marriage is — COVID-19 and hanging wallpaper together.

As I awoke from 9½ hours of sleep, all rested and ready for another day of hand sanitizer and staring out the window, I thought about how many scenarios there could possibly be that would force two people into close quarters for days on end. After eliminating the age range of 18 through 29, I was able to narrow it down to two things: a pandemic and hanging wallpaper.

One of the early moments of clarity I had in marriage was when my wife decided to save a few bucks on home improvement. Instead of paying a professional wallpaper hanger to bring our master bath out of the Beaver Cleaver decade, she announced that we’d do it ourselves.

Now mind you, the only thing I can really do well without any training is sleep 9½ hours, use hand sanitizer and stare out a window. I can even perform those tasks in any order.

But hanging wallpaper? Uh, uh.

On top of deciding to do this ourselves, it was August. In Texas.

If there’s an air conditioner on earth that can cool the ceiling of a tiny bathroom in August in Texas, ours wasn’t it.

After wedging a ladder, a stepladder and two hot, newly married people into said bathroom, it was on.

I tried to do what I was told, but I have a hard time with that. I don’t like sitting still. Or standing still on a stepladder. And that seemed like all I was doing.

“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked, like a kid from the back of a Buick on his way to Astroworld.

“John, be patient, please,” she said.

She obviously hadn’t asked enough questions before she said, “I do.”

Patience wasn’t a gift I was given.

“Why do you have to measure?” I asked. “Can’t you just slap it on the wall and we can cut it in the right places?”

Sweat fell angrily from her nose.

“Do you know how much this would cost us if we paid someone to do it?” she asked.

“If I said I was willing to rob a bank, would it matter?” I answered.

The last of the words rolled off my tongue as it dawned on me that she was holding a pair of scissors.

It would be easy. Very plausible.

“Officer, we were hanging wallpaper and I slipped and accidentally stabbed him 17 times with these scissors,” she could say.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve seen this same accident dozens of times,” he’d say. “You’re free to go.”

I thought better of saying anything else and just decided to think happy thoughts while I waited for whatever it was that she was doing above me to be finished.

I shoved everything through my brain — puppies, fishing, cheerleaders — anything I could think of, but my mind kept coming back to the fact that we were stuck in a tiny bathroom, in August, in Texas, hanging wallpaper.

“If I’d robbed a bank, I’d already be on parole by now,” I said, not being able to help myself.

I could tell that she was not thinking about puppies or fishing or cheerleaders. By the look of the now even angrier sweat dripping from her nose, she was having thoughts that could lead to our brief time together becoming an episode of Dateline.

After what seemed like an eternity, she announced that we were done.

Just for clarification, I asked if she meant the wallpaper.

She said yes.

It could always be worse.

We could be hanging wallpaper. In a bathroom. In August. In Texas.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com