Wednesday, May 13, 2026
Virginia 250: Botetourt County in 1911
Tuesday, May 12, 2026
Monday, May 11, 2026
I Still Watch Commercials
Sunday, May 10, 2026
Sunday Stealing
I encourage you to visit other participants in Sunday Stealing posts and leave a comment. Cheers to all us thieves who love memes, however we come by them.
Saturday, May 09, 2026
Saturday 9: Like My Mother Does
Thursday, May 07, 2026
Thursday Thirteen
Monday, May 04, 2026
Virginia 250: The Stoplight That Stopped a Town
Sunday, May 03, 2026
Sunday Stealing
I encourage you to visit other participants in Sunday Stealing posts and leave a comment. Cheers to all us thieves who love memes, however we come by them.
Saturday, May 02, 2026
Saturday 9: I'll Get By
Friday, May 01, 2026
The Coyote
I had heard the coyotes howling late in the evening the
night before, a lonesome spine-tingling moan that made me shiver.
We had been to check the cows because the bawling from one
had reached us across the evening quiet. An escape attempt by the animals
earlier that day had probably resulted in a mix-up between a momma and a calf,
we thought, so we hopped in the truck to make it right.
The coyote was a long way off; that is how we knew she was
big. She was easy to see, dancing there, moving about the newly mown
field. Chasing a mouse, perhaps. We eased the truck to a stop and killed the
engine.
Before us, the alfalfa field was filled with deer. A doe with a fawn. A small buck with the velvet covering his
antlers, making the little prongs look huge. We had enough daylight to make out
the details. I could still see the spots on the little fawn. It and the coyote
looked to be the same size.
Darkness was falling quickly. My husband considered taking a
shot at the coyote. We’d lost a newborn calf a few weeks ago. A coyote seemed
as likely a culprit as vultures. My Audubon book says they eat small mammals;
newborn calves would qualify.
But he lost the shot as the twilight grew heavy and the
night fell closer. His gun echoed across the farm as he missed. The coyote took
off, as did the deer, their white tails waving goodbye to us as they jumped a
fence and raced for the woods. I pulled my hands from my ears.
One thousand and one fireflies blinked around me, their
light twinkling like stars fallen from the sky. In the distance, the train
going toward the cement plant raced clackety-clack over the rails, and then her
whistle let out a long moan. Unlike the coyote’s call, the train’s howl left me
feeling sad, not shaken.
The night was alive with sound, now. Tree frogs,
crickets. Not long after the gunshot
blast, I heard a faint “who-who” as an owl called from far away. Tires from a
truck on the road behind us hummed a tuneless song that crescendoed as the
vehicle sped by.
My husband turned the key to start the truck and take us back home. Once there, I sat out on the deck and lulled the night to silence with my guitar. I let the last note of Scarborough Fair linger, its sound meshing in with the calls of the frogs, and then surprisingly, the howl of a coyote.




