If you ever say that the old Poopster isn't a dreamer just take a look at the backyard out there between the porch and the barn. I remember sittin' on those back steps staring a a barrel grill overgrown with weeds and thinkin' to myself " Self..that's a nice spot for a shade garden." True to form, it took about fifteen years to make it happen, but I'll be dang if it ain't downright gorgeous. I hauled the stones one October when it wasn't heatstroke weather and slowly began to fill the thing with dirt and little bitty transplants from everybody else's yard. I'm collecting bricks if y'all know anybody who has some to spare. Gomer hauled me in some two year old cottonseed hull and we're good to go in the growin' shit department.

Jim wanted to know about the cute little blow-up pool that we cool off in. It's plastic and brightly colored and does the job well enough when it's not even summer yet in the magnificent area of the Western district of the Great State of Tennessee. The humidity and the heat? That's the part that I just despise about being Poopie. We're takin' up money for the next utility bill.

This newspaper guy told me one time long ago that I had stories to tell. Everybody does, ya know? I can't imagine not having the history that is me and my family to keep me company, yet so many never hear it except for the bad parts. That, my friends, is a tragedy even by Shakespeare's standards.

I'm on vacation from the blog. Y'all know where to find me.

^j^