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Again and again he went after his rival. 

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Old Doc came up, put his nose in my face and gave it a lick.

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Clay City is not Cuba City.

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Perhaps it was a death at sea in 1808 that led to my meeting three earnest young “wrenchers” at Sloan Implement last week.

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Wrenching!

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Pigs! 

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How free are we? Is our treasured American freedom only an illusion?

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My toes were bleeding.

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I don’t attend city council meetings nearly often enough.

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My son’s rented car pulled in at the top of the hill making my dogs leap for joy.

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Elizabeth S. “attempted to injure herself with a potato masher.”

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As I have continued my reading and research on poor houses, and specifically the Poor House (Poor Farm) of our county, I remembered the abject poor in various countries where I have done work. 

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