Paul Marchant

Well, he walks out in the arena
All dressed up to the brim
Said he’d just came down from a place
Called ‘Highland Rim’

My daughter Anna is in her junior year in college as a political science major. She’s strayed a bit off the family path in terms of her college career, but we still allow her to come home – on occasion.

When I was about 7 years old, an old horse trader, of sorts, showed up in our country with a truckload of Shetland ponies.

Last month, I went back to my hometown to attend the funeral of my uncle. It was kind of a surreal experience for several reasons, not the least of which being Uncle Reed was only eight years older than I am, the youngest of eight siblings and the first of those siblings to die.

Some of my earliest memories from growing up are of riding on the front of my dad’s saddle as he rode to and from the hay fields to irrigate.

I have a good friend who is a genuinely good, generous, down-to-earth kind of guy. Like a lot of us, he bounced around a few places at different jobs before he settled in in southern Idaho.