“For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these,

It might have been.

from: Maud Muller by John Greenleaf Whittier

When was the last time that you proclaimed to yourself : “If I had only! If I had only done this ! Only done that !

I’ve tried to make a habit of never saying that, but when you think about it, it is a sentiment that applies to a whole lot of life. We humans have a never-ending capacity to second guess ourselves.

It is the proverbial question. What if I’d gone to this college and not that one ? What if the Old Man had never farmed ? What if I’d married that woman and the one that became my wife ? (Easy one there !)

What if ? What if ? What if ? Sounds like the stuff of a country song ! In fact, I was nearly prompted to write one while driving one day from our farm in Bell Buckle, Tennessee down to Muscle Shoals, Alabama.

What’s that you say ? Who’s the hick who’s writing this?

Well, if you’ve never been to Muscle Shoals, then study up . American music has a significant history here. Blues, Rock n’ Roll, Country… they all have stars who needed a “working vacation” at Rick Hall’s Fame Studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.

In fact, the immediate recognition automatic with fame and stardom is just what musicians were trying to get away from when they recorded in this non-descript building in Muscle Shoals, this remote location that is Muscle Shoals.

Truth be told, some stars would not have been recognized anyway, in Alabama. Nonetheless, the environment was a bit easier for Mick Jagger or Aretha Franklin when they recorded here.

What if, though, what if I had made a right on that windy road instead of a left ? No Muscle Shoals that day.

It would have been just another sleepy, dusty, Delta day. If you recognize a lyric there, then you might realize that I’m talking about the road to Tallahatchie, Mississippi.

To where ? Well, yes, I wanted to see just where Billy Joe McAllister jumped . Surely there’ll be somebody there just waiting to show me !

Don’t believe me ? There was a time when I showed up at Teddy’s bridge up there in Chappaquidick. An old duffer was leaning on the rail, just waiting to tell me the whole story.

These stories seem to take on a life of their own !

Maybe the fellow leaning on the rail at Tallahatchie can tell me exactly what it was that Bobbie and Billy Joe threw off that bridge.

It was 5:30 AM. Jude was up a bit earlier than usual. She appeared at the living room entranceway, a little drowsy and wanting coffee.

Coffee was made already. That protocol was established decades ago. Upon waking, Jude needs her caffeine, period.

I wish not to make it sound like the Gestapo, but, hey, welcome to the Gestapo ! Colonel Judy Klink in command and she wants her Java !

Me? I’m just happy that I don’t have to do the goose step while making coffee. That would sew bitterness into the brew. Juan Valdez would not approve.

I questioned Jude as to whatever the reason for her early wakening. She just sighed wearily and threw up her arms.

“What else”, she replied. “Coyotes!”

It is true. The little bastards will wake you up with the most hideous, forlorn, ghastly, dreadful, macabre and lurid howls ever known to Man.

And guess what . They’re getting bigger. Over the years, wolves from up around Saskatchewan way became enamored with their smaller brethren and decided to do something about it. The very logical result is bigger coyotes, or coy-wolves as some are calling them.

As bad fortune would have it, the coyotes made their way to Jersey. Not to introduce further confusion, but they’re breeding like rabbits.

We’ve heard no talk yet about howling “coybits, but that would seem to be the next progression.

There is chatter about bounty hunting.

I love it. Jersey’s becoming a pretty wild place !

I never thought I’d see the day. My hometown, Alexandria Township, is considering an ordinance change that would allow the growing of pot. Cannabis, that is. Green gold. Township tea. For medicinal purposes, of course.

No, I’m not high. I just wrote those words in full, clear-headed possession of my faculties, but something tells me that this “medicinal” thing will become one of the three biggest lies in Pot growing !

This news was made public last evening at a municipal meeting . The speaker there, cannabidiol consultant, Mary Jane Hempster, spoke in specific detail of the township’s plan to miraculously morph into a marijuana mecca.

Pardon me while I have a little fun with this. The preceding lines were only to make the point that this is uncharted territory. The township can expect a bit of rumor, innuendo and mistruth to grow around this development. It will come with the territory.

By accommodating a greenhouse grower, in the meantime, the township seeks to establish a modicum of revenue from some source other than real estate taxes.

There are, of course, a few vulturine residents holding out hope that some clippings might occasionally fall from a harvest wagon and be left for dead alongside some township road. Now wouldn’t that just add to our local color ?

Who knows ? Perhaps some of these abandoned silos on former dairy farms will find new use . Imagine. Nouveau Smoke Stacks ! Ya see . This is how those rumors get started.

Much as it tried, the new day dawning did not imbue me with glad tidings.

It wasn’t as though the weather was anything short of lovely, though daylight had barely had a chance to display its nuance. There was a new crispness in the late September air that harkened me to another time.

My childhood summer had been the delight that it was supposed to be. Yet the season waned. The days became shorter. School had started again. That sweet Summer bubble had met the grindstone.

Early morning feeding of the heifers was now clumsily accomplished in the darkness. The warmth of summertime had given way to an unwelcome, chilly edge.

How did this portent of winter arrive with insufficient warning ? It was too abrupt ! But then, wasn’t it always ?

A kid , nay, adult dreamily clings to yesterdays that were kinder.

It’s a mixed blessing, these devices that we’re constantly glued to. We watch them, listen to them, scream at them and create with them. Our culture has become infused with them.

I would posit this: Are they, at the same time, dumbing us down a bit ? For example, I sit here on the writer’s perch pecking away on my IPad, assuming that it will correctly spell each word that I started to type.

Most of the time it does, but the publisher in me disallows any such assumption. That caution seems a good thing. It is no longer extraordinary to find a typo ensconced in the radically fewer lines of TIME magazine.

I guess spell-check doesn’t always check ! No, that’s no fair. It’s more a matter of technology not yet having caught up with the vicissitudes of the human mind.

Huh! Fat chance of that happening, but never say never !

I had the unbridled (no pun intended) pleasure of passing the day today while 77 horses and riders intermittently rode past the writer’s perch. The bridle path for this year’s Alexandria Trail Pace happened to pass right through the farm. Talk about a front row seat !

I give my dear wife, Judy, unbridled kudos for gluing the whole affair together. Finally she can relax a little. It was a successful trail pace, the result of a swath of helping hands from our AEA (Alexandria Equestrian Association.) Great work, all.

I was joined by three others on the perch today. We had frequent conversations with the riders as they passed through. They gushed over the trail, a full 8 1/2 miles without the crossing of one public road.

Not to mention, today’s was at least the third Trail Pace of recent years hosted in Alexandria Township, none of which utilized the same path. That fact certainly speaks well of the surrounding country.

It is notable at the same time that this event is quite the social mixer. There were riders from Bergen County, from Bucks County and other mildly distant locations, all mixing it up with us local folks. It is gratifying to be able to share for a day the countryside that is dear to us.

Special thanks go to those AEA folks who set up the jumps in the course of the trail. No Trail Pace would be complete without at least a bit of challenge ! Those jumps don’t just magically appear… or disappear after the event.

Here’s a good parental story , born of the goings-on today. A close neighbor of ours arranged a free lease of a gorgeous draft horse, Shire is the breed. This Mom’s daughter was spending an excessive amount of time in her room with video games, but then was altogether taken by this new horse.

Daughter now spends most of her off-hours with this horse. In fact, the good-looking pair was one of the 77 who rode by today.

We on the perch were quite taken today by the outstanding display of horseflesh that passed us by. WOW . What a show !

Drowsiness was just starting to set in up here on the “writer’s perch” this morning, but it was not to be. Many, if not most visits here are of the mounted variety, so this occasion was usual. My dose would be postponed.

It was a “country conversation”, if you will. My wife, still mildly riled over her coon incident the other day, imparted the most recent drama. Sightings of a “gigundo” groundhog near the horse barn have lately been dominating the banter.

At the risk of affronting any sensitivities, I will posit this: I hate groundhogs ! Surely they don’t belong on a horse farm.

Why? Short course: They dig holes, holes wherever. Horse steps in hole. Horse breaks leg. Horse needs to be put down. End course !

Not to mention, they are snarly, viscous beasts! The notion of Jude confronting one in the barn is unsettling to me, to say the least.

The groundhog that Judy saw this morning took one look at her and immediately scampered… to the barn. It had discovered a way to scrunch under a door and inside the barn. This, of course, the very same barn that Jude works in every morning.

I will endeavor this morning to set a trap. Now don’t worry, all of you groundhog huggers. A HavaHart trap. Once the monster is caged, I make no promises.

As if you could kill time

Without injuring eternity.

-Henry David Thoreau

Well, if that’s the case, then I’ve put a hurtin’ on eternity lately ! I never thought I’d see the day when I wile away untold hours playing a game on my ‘device’ like some mesmerized eleven year old.

No, such is not really the case. I’m sure I’d lose patience with “Unknown Battlegrounds” in a hurry! I am a little consumed, however, with a game called Words With Friends, quite similar in nature to a game we played as kids. Surely you remember Scrabble .

It is a new generation, however. I play a lot of “Words” with my dear daughter in law. She’s in Laguna Niguel, California. Who knew ?!

Then, of course, if one lingers on the “Words” platform for any length of time, there are challengers.

They might come from someone you know, or your challenger might be Pam Laurett in Taos, New Mexico.

No. I wouldn’t know Pam if I found her in my soup, but she plays one lethal game of Words.

The game provides a means to communicate with your playing partner, but, of course, that invokes the matter of my technical ineptitude. Ability to communicate with the challenger might be counterproductive, anyway.

My undivided concentration is necessary!

It’s no secret that what will happen tomorrow is a secret!

Yes, your level of clairvoyance might be remarkable, but there is always some leveling circumstance that will mar its varnish!

The fact is we never know what will happen tomorrow until tomorrow happens. It’s simple. Predict as you might try, you’re guaranteed to miss a detail or two before sunset.

That’s not a bad thing. That’s the way it is; the wonder of the world. Just let it happen! I did so yesterday and look what took place.

Seated on the balcony, the writer’s perch, if you will, I was, as usual, immersed in the loveliness of the day. That entails the writing of a line of two, then a panoramic absorbing of the view in front of me. Then repeat. (A grueling exercise, as you might imagine.)

At one of my repetitions, my eyes returning to the view, I spied a white pick-up truck slowly making its way down the lane. From the distance, the driver seemed to have his eyes fixed on me. I did not recognize the truck as one belonging to a neighbor.

I waved. He waved, rolling down his window.

“I’m looking for 52 Airport Road”, the stranger yelled to me.

I yelled back, inquiring if he had a name, explaining that I don’t recognize anyone on the lane by a number. We easily concluded that he was looking for the one house on the lane that is on the market. I told him where it was.

As he started to pull away, he volleyed one more item.

“Are you a Tucker ?”, he yelled.

I confirmed, holding my head at an inquisitive posture. Who the heck was this guy ?

“I’m Chris Wettstein”, he voiced to me.

Holy Smokes, I thought to myself, a character straight out of my childhood. Haven’t seen him since he was, maybe, eight years old. We used to play together right here on the farm.

What was I just saying about the unpredictability of the next day? Sure, I had just been thinking this morning that I’ll bet Chris Wettstein would make an appearance today. After all, it had only been 55 years since I’d seen him.

He’s due. It’s about time.

“We’ll get your ass up here and pay me a visit “, I hollered down to him.

Chris was tight on time, but at least we got a half hour chat in. It was superb!

Lesson surely learned: we start each day with a clean slate.

Anything can happen here in the woods!

Jude was between the trees yesterday doing some light trail clearing. The Alexandria Trail Pace will grace the farm in a few days.

While at the duty, Jude inadvertently riled a Yellow Jacket or two. Inadvertently ? Does one ever do that intentionally ?!

To her good fortune, she had not encountered a full hive of bees. She was stung on her hand once.

Oddly, another bee managed to creep underneath her pants. She could feel it in there frantically buzzing. Obviously, if it wasn’t released immediately, she would be stung again.

Jude did what she had to do, there in the middle of the woods. She dropped her pants as quickly as she could. In so doing, and as if by miracle, the bee flew off !

If she were to have been stung a second time, it surely would have been cruel to poke fun at this situation, but indeed, Jude was spared a second stinger. That was certainly the prelude to a jocular comment or two !

I mean, c’mon ! It was there on a silver platter. It’s not every day that Jude carries on like that betwixt the Beech trees ! The woods will hardly be the same.