It was a family-only service there at brother Dan’s graveside accompanied by abundant, often painful memories. One doesn’t bury his brother every day, thank God.

The brighter side, however was a visit from too-long removed family with invigorated kids. With the waning day, some had already departed. The pace of conversation was yet lively when an odd occurrence punctuated the overcast afternoon.

Jude had driven the Gator down to the horse barn for end of day feeding when a freakish disturbance was audible from there. A dog, our dog, started frantically barking at something in that direction.

The fracas was quickly enjoined by Jude, yelling at the dog, Echo, with fevered pitch to stop. What the heck was going on down there ? Best could be deciphered from my distance, up at the house, was that Echo was in some rip-snortin’ fight with a wild animal.

A few kids could now be heard at the location. Presently neighbor, Randy showed up at the house, but not before Echo appeared dragging in her mouth some near-lifeless critter. Turns out she had crossed paths with a coon.

The coon stood its ground.

The coon lost.

The most interesting dynamic of the whole thing was the remaining guest’s reaction to the happenstance. Wasn’t hard to tell which were country folks and which were city. A bit of innocent country killing is standard procedure for some.

I would love to have heard Dan’s take on what had just happened. He always had a sense of humor that could spin some measure of droll perspective on whatever the circumstance. I miss him already.

A date etched in our collective national soul, 9/11/01.

Those old enough to remember, know right where they were, just what they were doing when the ghastly news splayed across our media. It was a date, as Franklin Roosevelt once said, that will go down in infamy.

America had been attacked in a new sort of war, but indeed it was a momentous act of war.

A discussion stirred on Facebook yesterday as to whether or not our schools should mandate a moment of silence, a moment of recognition of this date in our history. Should there be teaching of what happened and the surrounding circumstance ?

The answer to those questions, to me, seems fundamental. You may have heard the adage about history repeating itself… lest we forget!

One has to hand it to Queen Elizabeth. For the record, I don’t generally heap praise on the royals. They seem to garner sufficient notice, anyway. (That, of course, is noted with tongue in cheek.)

To her credit, however, the 93 year old Queen makes her way out to the stables at Windsor Castle and gets in a ride from time to time. Good for her, at that tender age.

In past years, our local equestrian association has tied itself in knots over the wearing of riding helmets. Indeed, doing so is in our rules. Notably, some members won’t participate in events where those rules are followed.

Be it noted that the Queen will have none of it ! She is, after all, a privileged character! Or, is it possible that she has a harder head than most of us ? That doesn’t matter. At Windsor Castle, what the Queen says goes.

We serfs, in the meantime, still follow the rules… some of us, anyway.

As usual, I find myself not writing about what I intended to write about. Intriguing to contemplate, though. Just why do the British maintain the royalty tradition ?

It surely makes for a splendid show. It does singularly set apart England like no other country in the world. It is an embellishment beyond any other. Perhaps it is the English national vicarious experience . I’ve never really touched on the topic with a native.

I wonder if the British look at it with a collective sigh. Surely they’re not all heading to work this morning fraught with concern for the welfare of all who are castle bound !

Separately, my wife follows the correspondence of an international association of women that calls themselves Ageless In The Saddle. Their goal is quite as it sounds, rendering moral support to women who continue to ride regardless of advancing years.

Wouldn’t it be miraculous if these sisters arrived at some bionic formula that rendered an actual reversal of aging linked to their continued presence in the saddle?

We’d never see them again! Talk about one hellaciously long trail ride ! They’d make Lewis and Clark’s expedition look like a wee trot in the park.

I first heard the tune sung by one rockin’ band that played in a cafe in Bell Buckle, Tennessee. In fact, Bell Buckle’s only cafe. The band was out of Alabama, somewhere.

Immediately the question was begged: What is a muleskinner ? Not to mention, where the hell is Bell Buckle ?

Heck, everybody knows where Bell Buckle is. Middle Tennessee, 50 miles due south of Nashville. In fact, we owned a farm there once.

Former Civil War country, we once plucked from the dirt, with the help of a metal detector, a pile of Union minies and Confederate round balls, bullets, for those not familiar with the lingo. No doubt was left that we owned a little bit of a battlefield. ( Battle of Union Gap, Nov. 9&10, 1855 took place over the next hill from the farm.)

I digress. What was a muleskinner? By profession, he/she drove teams of mules that either pulled drays loaded with cargo or towed floating cargo barges using a towpath along a river canal.

Some Muleskinners were notorious bullies to their animals, but they had to keep moving. This was commerce.

It was said that some muleskinners were so deft with their whips that, from 20 feet, they could pluck a tortuous horsefly from a mule’s ear without touching the ear ! At least some skinners had a heart.

The crack of the whip, incidentally, sounded like a pistol. If it was brought to bear on a mule’s hide, it could possibly slice the skin. The term “Muleskinner” was thus born.

I love Dolly Parton’s version of Muleskinner Blues, complete with incredibly long-held notes and entertaining yodels.

So where is this tale going ? Hell, I don’t know! How did I even get on the subject? Was it something you said ?

I can tell you this: There was a standing ovation that night at the Bell Buckle Cafe.

Out here in the quiet country there seems an abundant supply of topics about which to write. At times they are assuredly “country “, not anything they’d be chatting about in the Hood.

But wait a minute. Maybe that’s not so. Today our hired farmhand, Sam, came out of the pasture requesting a rifle. Now that’s something you might hear in the Hood, right ?

The same request in the Hood, however, would be couched in a different reason. Sam had seen a suspiciously lethargic coyote, not a common topic in the urban ghetto.

Wait a minute, again! Coyotes, a term for drug runners, might be all the talk in the Hood. This is getting circuitous. I hope there’s a way out .

Why, you might ask, did Sam need a rifle ? You might further ask why the coyote was lethargic ?

The coyote in the Hood might well be a user, himself. That might explain his lethargy. The coyote in the pasture might well be rabid, which would explain his lethargy. Then again, rabid might be an apt description of the coyote in the Hood.

Maybe there is no way out here.

For all concerned snowflakes out there, any rabid animal on the farm has to be eliminated, thus the need for a rifle. In this case, Sam missed !

Tomorrow is another day. The danger lingers.

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That I should be so dignified!… at least at this very spot in the world, at this very moment. I sit unaccompanied. A change is noticeable that was not here at yesterday’s dusk. It is Nature’s announcement of a new season and she has permitted me the only one to witness from this perspective.

Two Poplar trees are punctuated with yellow this morning. The yet green leaves that surround them provide notable contrast in the lush woods. Indeed, we shall all soon luxuriate in Nature’s annual choreography. We will again be graced by Her Godly hand.

Is it whimsical to wonder what we have done to deserve this ? Or do we even ?

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Could it be true ? I guess it is ! My birthday yesterday was accompanied by 91 well-wishers on Facebook. Wow ! Not to diminish it, but at least that many pushed a button on my behalf ! Wait a minute. Maybe that does diminish it !

The emphasis was palpable. Go to college. Amount to something ! The career path was that simple. If employment doors were to be opened to the graduating youngster, then go to college to make that happen.

I quite expect excoriation for what I am about to write. After all, my thinking flies in the face of the traditional Mom and Dad with kids coming of college age. Not to mention, I have grandkids in college myself.

Back in my time, off I went in pursuit of a liberal arts curriculum. It became evident in short order that a quirk in terminology held sway. It was actually a curriculum of liberal thinking, a bastion of such.

That, in and of itself, was not offensive to this conservative. What was offensive was the seeming intransigence of the professorial norm of the place. There was no room for any different type of thinking other than their own. So much for the liberal approach!

It didn’t take long for this to annoy me. I thus reasoned: How the hell will I ever make enough money in four years to get through this place ? College wasn’t exactly motivating.

I was painting houses in the Summer, so the work-a-day world was no stranger. I could already make at least a meager living. I could either do that or bury myself in studies of Thucydides and the Peloponnesian War.

Let me see. What better served my interest ?

See ya later, Rutgers !

It was not a regrettable decision. I stumbled here and there, but embraced an unusual notion. Just work hard and apply my own God-given capabilities. Go with the gut.

Funny how it worked out. Twenty three years later, at 49, I sold my advertising publishing business and retired. Now, at 66, life is still quite blissful!

On a serious vein, a close look at debt attributable to college studies in America is already at crisis level. Years ago colleges should have been avoiding their culpability in the foray rather than assuming post position.

Our colleges need to come down from their high horse. They’re not completely indispensable.

1969 was a momentous year in America. The Vietnam War persisted. The Mother of all Rock concerts punctuated Woodstock, New York. Indeed, the country was still finding her way. Times were tumultuous !

In ’69, I was a fairly serious sophomore at Delaware Valley Regional High School. Last night Judy and I attended the 50th reunion of the Del-Val class of 1969.

Wait a minute. What was I doing there ? I was in the class of ’71.

I’m tempted to suggest that my accelerated graduation was the result of exceptional academic work, but that was hardly the case ! Actually, I was requested by organizers to write a poem in deference to the Class of 69. Somehow word got out that I could write. I was there to read the poem.

Enough about that. It is the remarkable characteristics of such a reunion that make the occasion worthwhile, especially the fifty year milestone. They are the closest “real life” example of a time machine that exists.

At what other gathering is one peppered with faces not seen for the last 50 years ? “Surreal” barely describes it ! The machine prompts its guest to instantly piece together hundreds of ethereal details nearly lost to time, but that’s part of the fun.

Sally no longer remembers Ron just by face and Ron isn’t offended. Neither is Sally when Ron falls short in like manner. They’re all in the same boat. Each has been to enough of these gigs in the past to do anything but laugh at themselves.

With such equal footing, everyone can just relax. It was a great time.

My friend Albert posits a provocative question on Facebook this morning.

How do YOU define success ? Is it a matter of accumulated wealth, enough money to live comfortably ? What is comfortable living ? Does it really require plenty of money for you to live comfortably ?

Does success have anything to do with money ? Is success, rather, a matter of happiness ? Why, when our founding documents were written, did Jefferson not mention the pursuit of success ?

Was he of the thinking that success and happiness are one in the same ? OR, does happiness necessarily come first ? Is it a prerequisite of success ?

My vote is the later !

Judy sauntered by and asked what I was writing about. Upon my explanation she launched what I thought to be such an unwarranted comment:

“Oh, you’re such a Capitalist Pig”, she said.

That, of course, evoked another question. How does a Capitalist Pig define success ? Was he/she happy from the start ?

“I loved your book! When are you writing another one ?”

Thank you to the many folks who have said that since I first published MEMOIRS OF A JERSEY FARM BOY.

Armed with your cue, indeed I did publish another one, MORE MEMORIES from DOWN the LANE.

But, enough already ! Publishing a book is a mountain of work. Who needs it ?

This blog is my suggested compromise. I get to write, which I love to do. You get to read which presumably you enjoy. I don’t have to schlep any books. Everybody’s happy.

If you’re not, I’m not sure what I can do.

Do note that my initial blog entries are few and far between. They didn’t get regular until + or – August 2019. I’ll be attempting to pick up the pace a little now that I have this blog thing glued together.

If something is still not satisfactory, I’m sure you’ll let me know !