Columns

The mailbox posted at the old farm entrance was labeled, “DR McMurtry.” 

I caught myself daydreaming, once again, back to a time when days turned slowly under the Springfield sun.  
I think of it fondly and often, now that I am far removed from the life it supported during the era of two-cylinder tractors, tenant farming and hard labor.  
The caretakers of the land were people of strength and diversity in every way imaginable, yet they were all the same to me, at least as I understood them.  

His lips quivered as tears moistened his eyes, but maybe that was just my imagination.
No, I could have sworn I saw his lower lip quivering. And no mistaking it, I heard his voice cracking just a bit.