Looking Out My Backdoor: A-hit-me-over-the-head look

The workmen are finished. Thanks to daily rain my damaged lawn is repairing itself. No more mud and crud. My house is in order. Trees are planted. I’m weeding the neglected flower beds.

Two-or-three-or-several times a week I am rendered speechless with gratitude with a-hit-me-over-the-head-look-at-how-different-my-world-is-than-it-coulda-woulda-been. Whew.

Think about it. I grew up in Harlem, Montana, in the 50s and 60s. A trip to Chinook was a big deal. The Harlem News used to report when so-and-so motored to Havre to visit relatives, told us who sat around the table, what the happy...