Like a Mother Hubbard dress, the column is covering everything and touching nothing.
Honest-to-goodness columnists who write scatter-shooting accounts on miscellaneous topics often refer to such pieces as “potpourri.” This has always impressed me, since my using the word always requires a visit to Webster or Google — my predictable response to a spell check squiggle.
I usually call it a “Mother Hubbard” column, which, like the frontier dress so named, covers everything but touches nothing.
That’s the current intent, with thoughts and observations all over the map, some of them original.
Here’s a friendly warning to editors who may have just arrived at rural newspapers.
This is the time of year farmers bring in pictures of produce on hormones. They’ll brag that the trophy-sized cucumbers/squash/watermelons/gourds are the biggest ever grown in the county.
Run a picture claiming same, and do so at your peril. As surely as you do, expect another farmer next week to bring in identical produce, only larger. And the growing season still has a couple of months to run.
Instant racing (sometimes called historical racing) allows participants to bet on horse and dog races already run — some kind of video/automated/coin-operated deal.
How far along would red-nosed and fuzzy-minded gamblers need to be to fall for such a set-up?
My guess? Imbibers would be several drinks beyond amiable incandescence.
Kids are off to church camps this summer, and they come home with new songs, stories and table grace ditties.
One brought smiles repeating a mealtime prayer heard at a table of, uh, teen campers.
“Bless this meat. Leave the skin. Back your ears, and dive right in.”
One of our two rescue dogs, a red Dachshund, is a toe-licker extraordinaire.