Brad Nelson

I told the grandkids that their grandpa could fix anything except for a broken heart. Quite some time back, Dan’s oldest, Ashton, came to me with a broken toy. It was made of what we used to call “pot metal.”

A grandson and I were at a luncheon the other day. He found the dessert table before I did, and I had to threaten to confiscate his goodies to get him to show me where it was. The fellow who had been sitting across from me joined me at the dessert table.

Way back when typewriters were the hot deal for putting one’s thoughts on paper, the advent of the typewriter ribbon with a white correcting side was a miracle.

A wooden frame, with most of a roof still intact. No window glass remains, if ever there were glass windows. Even the doorway stands – minus any form of a door.

The other day, I was happily engaged at keeping the vehicle I was driving where it should be on the road. I was on a two-lane road in Nevada, and I was driving a Freightliner tractor with the good old 550-horse Cat engine. I was pulling triple hay trailers and the usual high, gusty winds west of Tonopah were making it an interesting drive.

I just explained to Feather, our Lab/cow-dog cross, that if marshmallow “Peeps” are not the traditional Easter colors of yellow or pink, then you don’t have to wait until Easter to eat them.