No one ever explained where the question originated, but it was used randomly by youngsters and adults alike – “How now, Brown Cow?” [See hardfacts’ comment below for the history of the phrase 😉 ]
If a youngster had made a complete mess of an assigned chore, the question was a bemused inquiry, “How now, Brown Cow?” which could be responded to or not. Either way, the questioner would likely just start helping to straighten things up and get the wagon back on the road, so to speak.
It might also actually be addressed to a brown cow encountered in the barn yard, just for the sake of conversation. In that case, no reply was expected.
We had a good relationship with our one or two milk cows – they were gentle and useful. They did not have individual names – all were called Bossy. How we felt about close physical proximity to them depended somewhat on what time of year it was – more about that in a minute. (more…)

Warning: Might be uncomfortably graphic. Describes an accidental death. 

This MBOB describes a part of my husband’s heritage and is shared with his permission.
The physical context is his childhood surroundings. The river mentioned is where he fished as a young boy. The house described is the one in which his father was born, and is the house in which he grew up.
I find it a poignant representation of what life and death was like – back in the day. This article was published on September 22, 1892 in the hometown paper and presents aspects of community, pioneer life, and journalism of the times. (more…)

Mailboxes along the roads and old barns set back in fields overgrown with weeds often served as landmarks that told us where we were and how far we had to go in the prairie country where I grew up in northeastern Montana. 
Sometimes they signaled “home” and the end of the road.  At other times, barely visible through swirling snow they told us we had miles to go.  When I started compiling these word pictures I realized they were like those mailboxes and old barns—still identifying important places along the road, still signaling where I am and how far I have to go.  

Our summers were usually dry and seldom offered enough rain to keep things green beyond July 1.
There was just one–one summer in which there was enough rain that the water did stand deep enough and long enough in the roadside ditches to support a small and short-lived tick community. (more…)

Consider the tapestry which comes from threads. Threads of all kinds, including blog threads, create a tapestry which is yet to be understood or brought into perspective.
The paragraphs that follow are excerpts from recent comments of your fellow patriots. Each stands on its own and is worthy of further/repeat consideration. Read. Enjoy. Be strengthened. Pass it on. We’re weaving a tapestry.

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The big doors were not roll-up, but roll-to-the-side. Heavy to handle, for a girl, but efficient.
The garage had a certain clean smell on a summer day–resulting from fine-as-dust dirt floor, dust in the air, sunshine, grease guns, used and clean work rags, and an old-style five gallon gasoline can.
There were very few things that could go wrong with a piece of machinery in the field that couldn’t be fixed in the garage.
If we saw Dad return to the yard from the field in the middle of the day and head straight for the garage–or a more serious scene–not only drive back on the tractor, but return with the machinery still attached to the tractor, and park the rig up behind the garage near the small walk in door on the southwest corner of the building, it usually meant a quick run up there to see what had happened. Most serious of all was if we saw him come walking over the pasture hills, having had to leave the tractor in the field. (more…)

maryfrommarin is a frequent and thoughtful contributor to Treehouse threads, and authored the following post. We link and share here with permission.

DON’T BE A SOFT TARGET

American Thinker Article
The piece is about doctors “fleeing New Jersey”…. the comments cover the reality that we will have from sea to shining sea. This is NOT about New Jersey. This is your immediate future.

Read the comments thread—here’s the first one

This is a repeat today. It may actually be a three-peat. If you need another to read, check the drop menu and search categories under Mailboxes and Old Barns and pick an alternative.
The morning glories in bloom on our patio trellises remind me of September mornings on the farm in 1954.

 Somehow it seemed that the first day of school was always a perfectly sunshiny day that still had the smell of wheat chaff in the air.  The hollyhocks on the east side of the house were so tall by this time that they leaned over the sidewalk, the sweet peas were about done blooming and the cottonwood trees were anticipating cooler fall weather.  It was good to go back to school with a new plaid skirt or jumper, new blouses and a jacket or sweater.

My brother and I always stood for a picture just by the open door of the school bus that first morning.  It was a sign of the times that those in the photo didn’t resist and onlookers didn’t snicker at it.  The Photo By The Bus was expected ritual for any household boasting a camera.

The first grade teacher had taught first grade since the Civil War, as we understood things.  She was friends with the really old ladies in town, because she had grown up with them.  Her hair was always in a tidy little chignon snugged up against the back of her neck.  She was never unkind and her students were never unruly.
Her rules were few and clear, and she did not speak to her students outside of the classroom.  She was our Wizard of Oz but much better by far:  if the curtain had ever been pulled back on her most private life, she would have been proven to be wise, kind, helpful, prim, educated, sturdy (in her firmly laced, low-heeled black shoes) with absolutely nothing useless or pretentious in her life.
She had never married, but had more children of her own than anyone I’ve ever known. (more…)

Aliashubbatch and Josh formulated a great request–a post commemorating Constitution Day.
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