Daffodils were in bloom alongside the highway. Flocks of migrating birds speckled the pastures and spacious fields thereabouts.
Livestock grazed on a mix of winter's leftovers and extra tender developing blades of grass, including those wild spring onions.
My nostrils don't mind smelling the garlic-like odor, at least once or twice each spring.
I cracked my window to get a quick smell of the pungent perennials.
My late brother, John Wayne Lynch, loved them, about as well as any wild green gathered during the season of rebirth.
To him, they rated right up there with sappy young sprigs of sassafras.
There were times when that boy stood out alone.
Filled up to the gills, during the smooth ride home, I felt like going back to sleep, but with all the signs of spring to observe, my tired eyes glued to the landscape.
Besides, I do a little driving from the passenger side when need be or not, if nothing else, the action is just to remind myself that all of that driver's training that Babe Wheeler gave me back in 1957 meant something to this girl. To this day, she remains a non-driver.
I still lean strongly toward my father's advise, and truth is, I wish I could move past that and a dozen or so other fears and uncertainties that cripple me.
The clocks and other timepieces in the little blue house at the end of the road are all set for spring.
For two seniors who do not watch the clock much anymore, we sure have a fair amount ticking around here.
We did give a timeout to the junior grandfather clock.
It sounds more grown up in the night. When the foghorn sounds off on the hour and half-hour, a certain "old salt's" language is not good for Tootie's ears, either.
As for me, I hear ringing bells, rattling bones and gongs all the time. And, where are those feisty crickets that I hear all of my sleepless hours? I surely must have some faulty wiring. Maybe I heard someone mention that before. I am sure that I did.
This writer enjoys all of Tiffany Fry's articles. When I read about the history of Jack's Fine Foods, owners and previous owners, it brought a smile to my face.
I am not old enough to remember Mr. Jones, but two of my uncles worked for him, both John Jay Lynch and Clarence Crouse followed in that mentor's footsteps and became proprietors of their own successful businesses.
I remember Bill Grass vividly.
Not only did my mother shop there, when in town, we visited with him twice or more a week when he stopped by the house in his shiny black delivery truck, on his way to the dumping grounds at the time.
My dad was very much interested in animal husbandry. He raised many rabbits, poultry and other livestock, including pigs. Every animal, with the exception of the largely populated kennel of registered beagle hounds consumed culled out vegetables, lettuce leaves and discarded fruits supplied by local grocers.
Those hounds loved butcher bones, loaded with bits of meat or bare. Mr. Grass and Mr. Jenkins and his crew at the poultry market provided that for us. In those days, it sure did help tame the dog food budget and served other purposes.
Dad was the meat cutter at Lynch Brothers Grocery during that time as well.
Those fortunate dogs had nothing to complain about.
One time, Mr. William Grass must have been in a rush. He came down the dirt road lickety split, paying no mind to the ruts and scattered ashes and small clinkers.
He drove on past the house headed for the empty tubs, which awaited him toward the back of our place.
Well, the grocer failed to fully negotiate the curb, and the black shiny truck slid into the ditch and landed, thank God, not quite sunny side up.
Lucky for Mr. Grass, he came out of that lightly loaded paneled truck with not as much as a goose egg on his head.
That was a blessing, because the only belt that he was wearing in those days was around his waist.
Raymond Rogers was at our house with his team of strong horses plowing the north garden that morning. He and the team solved the grocer's problem in no time. The rabbits enjoyed the toss salad, too.
We liked Ike and Josephine Winstead and the good food behind the sparkling glass. Ike always seemed to be happy, in the best of moods.
When my friends from junior and senior high school went to lunch uptown, we patronized his store every day.
Jack Withers is one of the finest gentlemen that my family and I have ever met. He knows the trade and served his customers well.
He placed his faith and his store in the capable hands of Mr. Stylesburg and for good reason. He has continued armed with the same values and expertise.
After all of the years that has come and gone, the "little hometown meat maker that proved could" has rightfully earned it's place on Main Street, Brazil.
We can be grateful to the people that made and makes that happen for us.
I am thinking corned beef and cabbage, in celebration of St. Patrick's Day, would be befitting.
I will need a perfectly cut brisket for my holiday meal.
Now, I must spring into action and get some work done. Tomorrow, I have an appointment in Terre Haute with a medical specialist and a meat market to visit when I get back home.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.