If ever I find my mind in a prolonged state of writer’s block, I need only spend an hour or so with Jeff and I have a bucketful of stories, some of which are fit for print in a family-friendly publication, such as the one you’re reading right now.

I’m not usually much of a breakfast eater. I’m not exactly sure where that habit came from, but I suspect it may be a by-product of my growing-up years.

It was the very first day of the new year, a Sunday, and although I’m not really a resolution-maker per se, I was determined to start the year off right. It was a few minutes before daylight when I slipped out the door to get after the morning chores.

Every year, just before the first game of the season but a couple of weeks after the start of practice, the Oakley High School girls’ basketball team holds an annual potato fundraiser. As one of the coaches of the junior varsity part of said team, I am privileged to take part in the dreaded festivities.

I’ve been fortunate the past few years to have carved out a nice little niche for marketing my calves.

I’m probably not really unique among the throngs of mankind when I pause, take a look back and marvel at the passage of time. My kids are all grown with children of their own, and it feels as though I’m mislabeled in my generation. 

It was an odd, if not downright goofy fall in south-central Idaho. Until winter hit the first week in November, we didn’t truly realize that summer had left.

In all likelihood, most of the good habits and traits that my kids acquired in their youth, and subsequently developed in their adult lives, most likely came from the bottom side of their pedigree.