Paul Marchant

I was making my obligatory social media run-through a few days ago. As I scrolled down through the Facebook news feed, I came across a post from a friend of mine in southwestern Montana. One of her favorite old horses had moved on to the other side – not just the other side of the creek or the other side of the fence but the final “other side” of that veil that’s so thin yet so impenetrable.

A couple of years ago, we were anticipating a rather bland Christmas. I believe it was the first year after the youngest of the kids had left the house after his graduation from high school, so I guess that officially made my wife and me empty nesters.

I’m not a social media genius, but ever since my kids set up a Facebook account for me nine or 10 years ago, I dabble regularly in the medium. I now have Instagram and Twitter accounts to accompany my profile in Mr. Zuckerberg’s kingdom.

Bart has a lot going on. He grows barley, wheat, sugarbeets and hay on his southern Idaho farm. He’s got a little feedlot where he finishes a couple hundred head each year. He buys, sells and hauls about a gazillion loads of hay annually. He’s as conscientious a neighbor as you’ll ever find.

Jackpot, Nevada, is a wide spot in the road about 50 miles south of Twin Falls, Idaho. The town was founded in 1954, shortly after Idaho banned slot machines.

All four tires on my old beater trailer were mostly worn out, somewhere between another couple hundred miles and barely hanging on. The manager of the tire shop wasn’t surprised to see me, nor was he surprised at the sorry state of my tires. He was pretty familiar with my routine.