Current events nearly overshadowed Banned Book Week 2025. It’s already Friday—but I didn’t forget. I just finished reading Percival Everett’s 2024 masterpiece, James: A Novel, and I can honestly say it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. It retells Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the perspective of Jim, the slave who accompanied Huck on the journey down the Mississippi River.

My new Substack newsletter is up and running. It differs from this blog in that it is more about YOU than about me or my work. Its purpose is to explore the world of personal anecdotes and inspire you to share a few tales of your own. This blog will continue to be the place where I share my own musings and articles.

I just set up a Substack account . . . Haven't posted anything there yet, but that is coming soon. Please follow me at https://sgb212739.substack.com/

The Carolina asters are just starting to bloom, and here it is, nearly the end of September. It’s a nice bonus for the hummingbirds as they start their southward journey.

AI. I’ve lived for over a half century in ranch country, much of that time in places where cattle outnumber humans. When I see the initialism* AI, I immediately think, “Artificial Insemination.”

Scaling back, paring down, downsizing—whatever we call it—I’ve reached that stage in life. It actually started eight years ago, when my husband and I decided to relocate halfway across the country.

The forests in the southern Appalachians are responding to recent dry days. Although only a hint of color appears in the woods, I can smell change in the air. It makes me think of a song I wrote when I lived in North Idaho many years ago:

This morning’s walk brought, literally, a breath of fresh air. After weeks of heat and mugginess, a cold front pushed in cool temperatures and lower humidity. The wildlife I encountered seemed to appreciate the break. A doe watched over twin fawns, spots now barely discernable, as they frolicked and kicked up their heels. Raucous crows strutted and squabbled over a neighbor’s compost pile, and a couple of squirrels played grab-ass in a white oak.

“There are two types of folks,” my mother used to say. “Nesters live in valleys and on the flats. Perchers prefer hillsides and mountaintops.”

August is American Artist Appreciation Month, during which we celebrate the creativity and cultural impact of our homegrown talent. Mural is an art form, as is writing. Our local library found a way to honor both. Kudos!

Podcast Host Randell Jones told me that he just learned a new factoid: The inability to get a good night's sleep before having to get up for an adventure the next day is called being "journey proud." That’s a pretty good descriptor of my pre-adolescent self in this piece that details the time my childhood bestie and I embarked on a surreptitious quest to observe an astronomical phenomenon.

An early morning walk in the southern Appalachians immerses me in wonder. The sun hasn't yet risen over the surrounding mountains, their tops mostly shrouded by fog. Dripping from an overnight rain, trees and wildflowers wear muted colors that gradually intensify as daylight strengthens. A few songbirds twitter tentatively, then swell into a chorus.

It’s such fun living in a rural community that knows how to celebrate its people, its roots, and life! The town square in Hayesville, North Carolina is “THE” place to be on a summer weekend. It’s here we bring our lawn chairs and catch up with new and old friends as we congregate for Friday night concerts, holiday parades, and special events.

It seems that Americans have lost much in the decades since my youth. Our nation has never been perfect, but there have been times throughout U.S. history when our government cared for and worked to better the conditions for “We the People.” Of course, there are other times, such as in recent years, when the government seems to care only about the wealthy, and works to suppress and intimidate the people.

Last week I interacted, from a safe distance, with two falling trees. Driving on old US Highway 64 as an intense thunderstorm wound down, I stopped behind the blue flashing lights of a sheriff’s patrol car. I rolled down my window when the young deputy approached through the rain.

Persimmon Tree Magazine published my contribution to the Forum section of their Diamond Jubilee issue. The topic: The Assault on the Cultural and Intellectual Life of America—our collective trepidation about the future of art, culture, and learning under this regime. You can find my two cents here, about ¾ of the way down the page, and read the other contributions, too. We are all elders, and I'm grateful for the platform.

I’m not a poet, but my friend, Carroll Taylor, is. She’s been demonstrating different forms of poetry lately, and I’ve been paying attention.

My short story, The Man with the Silver-Handled Mop, earned a “Staff Favorites” designation in Carolina Woman’s 2025 Writing Contest. I’ve experimented with fiction from time to time, but this is my first published piece. I won’t be abandoning nonfiction, of course, but it sure is fun to try new genres.