Eating A Mountain

Eating A Mountain

I take off one afternoon to run up a mountain above my home to look for the false morels that sometimes grow in the burned forests there. It’s one of the mountains that feeds my family, one of the mountains on which we are fortunate enough some years to take a deer or...

John Madison Culler: Tinkhamtown Bound

John Madison Culler: Tinkhamtown Bound

The old man holds my hand in a frosty grip. But his weak, raspy voice and eyes warmly thank me for being his friend for almost 50 years. Staring past his fish tank and sagging shelves of sporting books through a window and into the far distance, he silently raises his...

A Good Dog Always Knows

A Good Dog Always Knows

Ain’t nothing to writing Papa Hemingway said, you just sit at the typewriter and bleed. I sat at the keyboard and cried for Zebo, damn near about shorted it out with my salty tears.   It’s a twisted tale, as good tales are. Me and Miss Biscuits built a house on...