Paul Marchant

In my world, early fall is usually a season full of optimism and hope. It’s a time when I find it easy to cast my gaze forward to a bright future on the near horizon.

It’s been several years since I paid someone else to shoe my horses. That’s a chore I always do for myself. The main reasons for this are twofold: because I’m cheap and because I can.

I’m certain that I will never be accused of being a techno-wizard, but I feel like I’ve made a valiant effort to at least remain in the same solar system as the world becomes, at once, ever smaller and more complicated every day.

Late spring, for many reasons, is always one of my favorite times of the year. I know I’m not alone in that regard. The prettiest landscape I can conjure in my mind can’t match the beauty of my home country in springtime.

I have a favorite picture that’s hanging on my office wall. It was taken by my father-in-law in the summer of 1992. It’s a picture of me and my then-2-year-old daughter, Elise. My back is to the camera, and I’m holding Elise, who is facing the camera with her head resting on my shoulder as she looks at the camera with her big, Jersey cow-brown eyes.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite treats was a chunk of sugar and sour something-or-other with a Sweet-Tart label, if I remember right. It was the exact size and shape of a big old sulfa bolus.