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H. Neal Glanville

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H. Neal Glanville: Enjoying the years go by

As my love affair with Craig begins its 40th-plus year, I’m torn between a traditional anniversary gift or mourning the loss of a year or two that “snuck around the back” and got away. I’ll listen to reasonable gift ideas from residents, but please, though noble as it may be, keep the idea of “The Last Deer in Craig, America,” statue to yourself.

H. Neal Glanville: Tips for the day

As time passes, you’d think memory would kick in somewhere. But, oh no, we refuse to learn a freaking thing. Men, if you make any comment about your wife’s shoes, this is guaranteed — your baseball cap collection will start dwindling.

H. Neal Glanville: For honor, God and country

Through grade school and junior high, I, along with an untold number of other kids, were treated to a holiday each time Washington or Lincoln’s birthday rolled around. Of course, this meant the obligatory two-page paper on “What Freedom Means to Me,” and I, of course, had no true idea about freedom, or the honesty of its cost.

Hal Glanville: ‘Blue,’ a banner and an irate grocery getter

This has been the six days that were. Or, maybe it’s been more like the weekend I spent in Grantsville, Utah. Take last Saturday, for instance. I was unlocking the truck at City Market when a female voice, which sounded like it was coming from about three feet away, started talking to the back of my head about my stand on tree huggers.

H. Neal Glanville: Medicinal fat dogs the wrong topic

Every third blue moon or so, something happens or is said that starts a day off with uncontrollable giggle box attacks. For instance, take the 911 call from a disgruntled customer of Chinese takeout. The caller wanted the delivery person and the restaurant arrested for delivering the wrong order. I love Chinese food, but experience has taught me that Jane is the best reminder of what to order, and that no matter how hard I stare at the pictures, I’ll never eat the food.

H. Neal Glanville: Who’s it hurting attitude

It’s strange how the U.S. Food and Drug Administration is starting a new campaign against smokers, complete with pictures of various body parts rotting away, right on the cigarette package. While this may seem a credible use of taxpayer money, one could argue its effects will be noticed more by adults than the beginning smoker. This is certainly not because the younger smoker lacks intelligence of the reported diseases caused by smoking nor the obvious peer pressure that comes along for the ride.

H. Neal Glanville: 3-legged Monte

As kids, my brothers and I were surrounded by animals. They were mostly ranch stock, but on occasion there’d be a dog or cat that wouldn’t take your arm off just to stay in practice. Cats outnumbered dogs 4-1, “which keeps every mouse headed for La Barge,” as Grandma would say to the worthless cousin silly enough to call to a feline that loved fingers for dessert.

H. Neal Glanville: A hint before retirement

With the back and forth over the crushing national debt, it’s come to light that our government savings program will be broke in 2036. We could argue most of one day and the better part of the next one if Social Security is social or secure. The progressive Democrats of the 1930s gave us the social aspects of the idea. But, word to the wise: Don’t plan any big shindigs or a trip further than a tank of gas will carry you.

H. Neal Glanville: A bigger dash of pepper

As young men, my grandfather and his brother, Blaine, took any job they could find. Late one summer, Uncle Blaine, being a fool for love, volunteered them to move several flocks of sheep. As most men will admit quietly, they’ll do most anything a young lady requests of them.

H. Neal Glanville: An honest attempt at recovery needed

It’s a warm and cozy feeling knowing President Barack Obama is “concerned” about our economy. Not since President Jimmy Carter has our future looked so gloomy, or perhaps desperate is a better word for it. The unemployment numbers keep going up and the unknown number of people who have resigned themselves to being jobless is skyrocketing.

H. Neal Glanville: Downhill wheelchair

Maybe it’s my grandniece rolling up on 21 years, or living long enough to have a grand anything. Feeling great and grand is pretty fair, although the triple digit stuff is scary. For whatever reason, my 30th birthday party has been rolling around on the weak side’s side all week. I’m fairly certain that was the year Roy Southard and I started our foolishness over gifts on the major holidays.

H. Neal Glanville: Puttin’ on the long pants

We’ve had our moment of spring and it’s time to put those plants that won’t freeze into the ground. Maybe. It’s also time for the wrangling, hedgehopping politicians to start the grimy trail to the presidency. I believe several things are absolute in the next year or so. Of course, we’ll have the new, much better for you, blame game and the promises will be bigger than ever.

H. Neal Glanville: The interior loop

Being paid to hunt, fish and ski while raising your kids, though a gift from the parenting big dog, was at times beyond worry. When away on pack trips, we always tried to leave at least one wrangler at the lodge to feed and move horses from pasture to pasture. The kids would often saddle up and help with each move.

H. Neal Glanville: Rebuilding Joplin

On Thursday morning, I watched news footage of the remains of Joplin, Mo. Throughout the newscast, commentators were nonstop in their whining about how much it was going to cost to rebuild a city that for most residents, is no longer there. Not only is there a path of complete destruction, everything these people owned and cherished, old or new, is gone.

H. Neal Glanville: I tip my hat

One morning, I sat the weak side and Mr. Normal down in a quiet room and we discussed gathering money for the Children’s Miracle Network. Of course, there were a few giggles about just who would give “the grumpy old guy” anything but a bus ticket or a gift card to the liberal house of horrors. Then, someone suggested we look in the mirror and practice asking for money.

H. Neal Glanville: Little miracles

There’ll be no words this Friday of worthless cousins or the planet stupid. This is the weekend for the miracle of spring. By nature’s clock, I’m unsure how long it lasts. In real time, maybe an hour or so. Oh sure, it’s going to snow again before the end of June, but why worry on the inevitable?

H. Neal Glanville: In the nick of time

We each have rituals in spring, rituals that by thought or deed, cleanse our souls of the savagery the crud of adulthood has left upon us. The crud, as we have learned through modern science, enjoys nothing more than the solace of winter to gather his troops. You’ve seen his men out there smashing the season’s first mud pies, or driving down quiet little streets merrily squashing night crawlers.

H. Neal Glanville: Dinner in the clink

My uncle Blaine accomplished things most of us only dream about. Although some were firmly in the grey area, most were just about having fun. He and several friends decided looking up old girlfriends might be the way to spend a few early spring days. Only one of these men had ever been married — he’d lost his wife and three good horses to a schoolteacher in Heber, Utah.

H. Neal Glanville: Dinner in the clink

My uncle Blaine accomplished things most of us only dream about. Although some were firmly in the grey area, most were just about having fun. He and several friends decided looking up old girlfriends might be the way to spend a few early spring days. Only one of these men had ever been married — he’d lost his wife and three good horses to a schoolteacher in Heber, Utah.

H. Neal Glanville: Kinder, softer side out for a moment

For the next few minutes, the kinder, softer, gentler side of me is going outside to play. I’m having a very hard time understanding the latest concoction of dealmaking over a pedophile. There we see this insipid criminal face smiling at us in the newspaper, knowing his wrist is about to get slapped.

H. Neal Glanville: Of mice and fish

Most of my life has been consumed by fishing. I’d be more than happy to say all of it, but my earliest years were spent working babyhood for all I could get. My first fishing rod was a 6-foot chunk of quarter-round molding with string attached.

H. Neal Glanville: ‘Mummy bags’ and Monica

We hadn’t planned on seeing the worthless cousins that summer. But, as life will have it, they showed up. It wasn’t all of them mind you, just enough to screw a summer up. Of course, they had their itinerary all thought out — they wanted us to take them on a real camping trip.

H. Neal Glanville: A girdle turned invention

My grandfather’s life as a cowboy and railroad hand took its toll as he grew older. At one point, he could no longer ride a horse and needed forearm crutches to walk. He spent his time with Grandma and me, working around the house and traveling.

H. Neal Glanville: A brush with tree huggers

During my years in Northern Idaho, the spotted owl was flying amuck in the dark timber of the Northwest. Small bands of know-it-alls would climb trees or drive spikes into the trunks. They were hoping, they’d say, to save this winged creature from the evil loggers.

H. Neal Glanville: Rocks, spit and diapers

I, like the people I speak with each week, am fed up to the hilt with the useless baby babble our governing bodies feed us each day. In Washington, D.C., one side swears “babies will go hungry and the elderly will be forgotten” if we don’t raise taxes. How in the name of spit on rocks does that make any sense?

H. Neal Glanville: The last trade

My grandfather and his horse-trading cohort swapped stuff back and forth for more than 30 years. I don’t think either one got the upper hand for more than five minutes at the end of each trade. If anyone came out ahead, it was my Uncle Blaine, who made sure store-bought cigarettes and whiskey came to every event.

H. Neal Glanville: The great furniture race

I’m not sure who out there saw the Warren Miller film on furniture racing, but it didn’t take long before ski lodge/dude ranch employees started putting skis on furniture. One particular winter, I was in charge of the rental shop and we’d just acquired a large number of new boots and skis from Obermeyer in Aspen. So, I took the responsibility of weeding out all the “bad bindings” and beat up “rock skis.” Not wanting any of our guests to use a questionable ski, I removed the question and held the ski back.

H. Neal Glanville: Jane’s right — again

A bit before Jane and I were married, I received a baseball-sized kitten as a gift and something to keep me company. I promptly named him Fred, which as time past became Fredrico Ramone of Hollywood. As life will have it, Fred and I slipped into a very quirky relationship that includes attacking each other when I come home and leaving each other alone when necessary.

H. Neal Glanville: Observation — the sequel

Today’s column is brought to you by those who wonder, “Why on earth?” There’s also contributions from a gob of people who couldn’t be polite if it rained on them. As to the why question, the crud of adulthood would like to know if a reason exists that our time should be wasted with the televised exploits of a drug addict? We do not need to hear, see or read about every slightest thing this selfish man has done to those around him.

H. Neal Glanville: Bottoms up to spring

I was about to cast my vote over the swimming pool fix when low and behold, the state found more money. Not that the money was lost, mind you — it just hadn’t been counted. Well, maybe it had been counted, but perhaps it was placed in the wrong pile. According to The Denver Post, $75 million appeared after the discovery of a flaw in the formula used to forecast the state’s revenue.

H. Neal Glanville: A few words on Maybell’s event

I’m going to interpret, to the best of my ability, the attack of the Planet Stupid on the Maybell Cultural Heritage Days. As we all know, this event, combined with the Sombrero Ranches Horse Drive through town, has become a summer staple to the Moffat County tourist trade.

H. Neal Glanville: A few words on Maybell

I’m going to interpret, to the best of my ability, the attack of the Planet Stupid on the Maybell Cultural Heritage Days. As we all know, this event, combined with the Sombrero Ranches Horse Drive through town, has become a summer staple to the Moffat County tourist trade. Suddenly, it’s been brought to a screeching halt by the rumor mill of Planet Stupid’s do-gooders.

H. Neal Glanville: Land-speed record goes airborne

My brothers and I were obsessed with speed. We rebuilt every bike we were ever given, and some that were “borrowed” we used for pieces and parts. We went as far as going through our father’s books on aeronautical engineering, learning about lift, drag and vortexes.

H. Neal Glanville: Academics deserve elevation

The editorial in the Saturday Morning Press brought back a thundering rush of geekhood memories. Throughout my entire school life, I was the kid in the hallway with an armful of books and a shirt pocket full of pens and pencils. As the favorite target of every practical joke and hurtful tease known to children, I dove even further into my studies.

H. Neal Glanville: The energy save and $pend

Most of us have one or two things — in my case it’s in the hundreds — that just make us giggle for no apparent reason. It could be puppies or kittens playing, a cute baby babbling on about nothing in particular, or just plain babbling. On Thursday morning, when I saw the fresh snow, I started a giggle that turned into a belly-hurting laugh fest.

H. Neal Glanville: Sickness instead of Santa Monica

As I lay in the corner last week, I pondered my next coughing fit with the weak side and his companion, Mr. Normal. Normal, by the way, was convinced he’d been the first to say I was sick. He thought it was oh so funny to try and pronounce the names on my medication bottles.

H. Neal Glanville: Starting the day

Yesterday included one of those shifts in my upper hat holder when everything seemed to line up and make that momentary bit of sense. It started normally. (Whoever thought any dose of normal might be healthy? Never mind, I must obey the laws of political correctness.)

H. Neal Glanville: Snow snakes out of the dent

During the winters my family and I spent working on the ski resort/dude ranch, I was either in the ski rental shop or finding reason to be on the ski hill. It should be noted here that ski-aholics, like other addicts, are very inventive in their reasoning for a fix. I invented the dreaded snow snake, the scientific name of which is fallus downus, which for reasons I can’t recall lived just inside the tree-line and only ventured on the open slopes when there was enough ski traffic to warm the hill and warrant a wiggle out in the open.

H. Neal Glanville: A nonsensical statement

The editorial in the Saturday Morning Press was well-written, making several important points along the way. I contend that “appearing childish” is the understatement of the year, if not the last five years. I keep picturing two small bands of fifth graders pouting over who gets stuck with the kid who can’t play ball or who bats first.

Glanville: The great photo raid

It’s once again time for the old man to embarrass his twin girls, Ericca Francis and Eileen Catherine. This was not at all the column I’d planned to write this Monday. Actually, I don’t plan very many of them, they just seem to come out of my fingertips moments before they’re due.

H. Neal Glanville: A crash with Gerry — Part 2

I became reacquainted with attorney Gerry Spence during the Randy Weaver trial in Boise, Idaho. During the horrific debacle at Ruby Ridge, I was living and working just inside the reception area of television and radio on the high plains desert of southwestern Idaho. Not being one to rely on the sound bites of any media outlet, I listened to the shortwave radio each night and spoke with my gray area friends who lived in or near Bonner County, Idaho.

H. Neal Glanville: A crash with Gerry

Meeting people should be an experience that’s both enjoyable and somewhat rewarding. After all, there’s someone new in front of you, and there will be enlightening conversation and possibly a new friend in your future. Should be … The first time I met, rather bumped into, Gerry Spence, renowned trial attorney and author of several best-selling books, he had just pulled his motor home to a stop in front of the Caterpillar grader I was operating.

H. Neal Glanville: Singing a hero’s song

We all have heroes, but mine are far different than most, given they’ve spent their lives in the gray area. Now, the gray area isn’t in your version of the good or the bad society has to offer — it’s the place you pick where free will and the need to live that way are your responsibility, and you accept that fact. One such person who has lived that way for the past 40 odd years is my baby brother, Gerald Kris Glanville, the toughest kid in all of Butler, Utah, history and holder of the number two spot on my list of heroes.

H. Neal Glanville: A brush with Pig Biscuit

Yup, there I was, surrounded on a side-and-a-half when I said to myself, “Self,” I said, because that’s what I call myself when I’m talking to myself, “we need to bring the horses round the back and start searching for the normal side. Monday’s column may be brought to you by …” Meanwhile, back at the evil computer whatcha call it, the weak side is popping his knuckles in anticipation, humming the tune from the real “True Grit,” and remembering what it’s like to ride a “green broke horse” full out.

H. Neal Glanville: Traditions held and then broken

It’s the end of January and I’m going to break with an almost lifelong tradition of being resolute about resolutions. I’ve always thought that coming up with something you may or may not be doing that needs some sort of repair is fibbing to your friends and then truly lying to yourself. Of course, that’s not to say we shouldn’t try and live our lives a little better, but it is my firm belief we should chip away at the crud of adulthood a little each day and fall asleep knowing we did our best, instead of being prideful we stole a bigger piece of the pie than our neighbor and got away with it.

Glanville: War in a horse pasture

Each spring, the half grown June grass would mark the time my two brothers and I would start building forts in Buck’s pasture. Buck was one of Grandpa’s favorite horses. I’m fairly certain he was as old as Grandpa, but he didn’t mind the forts, as long as we didn’t use him to try out the Wild West tricks we’d seen on TV. These forts, there were always three, were to be our only defense against marauding neighbors that crossed the Cattle Guard into the Kingdom of Glanville to lay pillage to Grandma’s apricot and apple trees.

H. Neal Glanville: Remember our roots

Here’s a startling revelation: I love Craig, and other than my childhood haunts, I can think of no better place to live and grow older than Craig. Oh sure, I’ve made more than my share of trips over the hill, which is why the sign was posted directly across from Lake Dumont on Rabbit Ears Pass that simply reads “it’s time to go home now, H. Neal.” I know you’re either smiling or grumbling about what we have or don’t have, but Craig has a quality that you can’t quite put your finger on and that keeps us here.

H. Neal Glanville: Life lessons of the bucket

As a teen, my beloved Aunt Ruthie took me under her wing with the hope she could save me from myself and the rest of the world. I wasn’t a bad kid by any stretch of the imagination, I just saw things differently than most kids and was constant about my search for answers to things I may or may not have had a reason for. Various adults thought this a tragic miscarriage of parenting and my two brothers thought it a crime against boyhood that I could ski all winter and appear to be goofing off all summer.

H. Neal Glanville: The results are your answer

I read Monday’s story in the Craig Daily Press, “Scoring the schools,” three times and had yet to make heads, tails or even apples and grapes out of it. “Without jumping to any conclusions,” I decided I was going to set the paper aside and try again later. It was 4:30 a.m. Thursday when I went for a fresh start on the Moffat County School District’s assessment of our student test scores.

H. Neal Glanville: Don’t send it to the stupids

I’ve spoken about my visits to facilities with very caring people and special doctors for those that let their weak and normal sides square off to nose bleeding fisticuffs to resolve issues that seemingly don’t affect anyone but them. Had it not been for a long-haired psychologist — older than Pikes Pike I’d like to add — walking up to me on one of my many visits saying, “Go home, Mr. Glanville, you’re better than most of us,” I’d still be worrying over how I was going to explain to the normal side that eating soup out of a colander was fine. But, was I about to have this giver and teller of tests come along and tell me I’m a step and a bit ahead and should go home, never to worry again that my brain is just a sponge with a few minor leaks?

Glanville: The normal side raises his hand

I’m torn between the year we should have had and the year that’s sneaking up on us. As life will have it, at present we’re stuck between “a Barack” and a hard place and even as his licked thumb raises to face the direction of the new breeze, we can’t be sure of anything along his version of the beltway. His smiley face idea of ram it down your throat health care was a bust before it was even read. Oops, no one had time to read it before the vote was taken and still nobody stands up and says they did. Now it’s bouncing around the courts as unconstitutional.

H. Neal Glanville: Post-traumatic Santa stress

Notice: This is a real, honest-to-goodness disclaimer. I took no part in this misadventure, and studies have shown that parents who attempt this may cause phobias even Santa Claus can’t buy his way out of. Long ago, when Roy and I were much younger (I believe I was younger then than our sons are now), my beloved brother caught a bit of the weak side flu and decided dressing up as Santa Claus on the eve of his getting there was the way to go. Now, I’m a bit on the sinewy side, but Roy was always older, taller and, much to his dismay, skinnier. Was that, combined with the lack of a Santa suit, going to halt this man on a mission ordered by the weak side?

H. Neal Glanville: Crazed hippies doin’ Ajax

This light snow sure brought back memories of my ski bum days, especially the year of John the Canadian, the Norwegian, Carl Washington and I in Aspen. It was in the 1960s, and we all lived in an old motel downtown we called “the dorm.” As life will have it, the “hippie” what-cha-call-it was just starting steam, and we we’re often surrounded by whatever that brought forth.

H. Neal Glanville: Tickle Me Elmo, and season’s miracles

“De plane, de plane.” Well, maybe not de plane, but Moffat County sure has been hit by the gravy train. First, the county gets a goober of cash, but we still aren’t sure where that’s going. Maybe after all the head-butting is over regarding the rent at the Moffat County Public Safety Center, someone will give us a breakdown of that cash flow.

H. Neal Glanville: Carpe diem, and stay to the light

On Saturday, my twin girls are celebrating another milestone birthday. Well, it’s not actually a milestone for them but for me, that I’ve lived long enough to see them and their sister and brother mature into adults any parent would be proud of and might pay money for, in case someone needs an older child stand-in for the holidays. This year, as in years past, I shall pass on a story to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, so they will know a bit more about their respective parents and their weak-sided grandfather.

H. Neal Glanville: Stupidity incurable

Until about five seconds ago, I had a good column brewing in my head, and then that thinkable thing occurred that causes the weak side to take command. I had one or two paragraphs, OK, a complete sentence, on Gov. Bill Ritter’s endorsement of the Clean Air, Clean Jobs Act, also known as “B.S.” Bill 10-1365, when it dawned on me: Ron White is right when he says “you can get new eyes that see better than an eagle’s, and legs that will make you run faster than the Bionic Man, they can build you a new hand that can pick up dimes, but you just can’t fix stupid.”

Cool head turned circus head

I enjoy the spontaneous conversations I have with you, the readers, about these columns. But, it’s often surprising when you walk up to me and start a conversation about something I’ve written, or take the time to comment on the newspaper’s website, like the gentleman who said, “You must have a three-ring circus in your head,” after reading my thoughts about the Moffat County Public Safety Center. He went on to add that I obviously knew very little about the complicated and often confusing world of politics and perhaps I should stick to the “simple stories” of my youth and forget about “the big stuff.” Well, he’s right about the circus wandering around the weak side of my brain, but in my defense, I’ve been involved in politics since 1960 something, when I ran for school president of the Utah Trade Technical Institute. It all started in my drafting class when the candidates, all 11 of them, started marching through each class convincing us they were the best person for the job.

H. Neal Glanville: Falling into a common sense coma

Once again, I’m confused by the apparent inability of the Craig City Council and Moffat County Commission to either reach an agreement or explain to the citizens what the big deal is over sharing the Moffat County Public Safety Center. Is there some internal spat going on over rent, or does somebody want to own the only suitable building? I’d heard from several people and then read in the Craig Daily Press about the county’s early reason for a happy Thanksgiving — a gift of $866,908 from an oil auction.

H. Neal Glanville: A chat with Mr. Weak Side

It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I, such as you should be, am reasonably thankful we’ve made it this far. Though it is confusing that the day after Thanksgiving has been given the same name as the day the stock market crashed in 1929. This past Tuesday, on that Wally world street with its own landing strip from the Planet Stupid, all the major retail stores posted losses.

H. Neal Glanville: Lems-fertile and trips to Planet Stupid

We are wandering into my favorite time of year. I know how could a fish-aholic even daydream of winter as a favorite time of year? I don’t have a clue; you’ll have to ask the weak side. Anyway, it would seem we’ve come to terms with the tree huggers’ outcry over the deer cruising town. After all, it’s gone to committee and there’s enough snow on the ground that the splintered branch of the tree hugger party — I think it’s called “knot heads” — will start their campaigning over the poor little dears being all cold and hungry for the next five to six months.

H. Neal Glanville: Cider or moonshine?

A few years ago, when wet behind the ears was commonplace, my worthless cousins would travel from the land of earthquakes and oranges to visit the “little people” living in Utah and Wyoming. News of their visit came by individual letter to each family they intended to invade along with an itinerary of what they expected to do during their occupation. Grandma and Ruthie would start cleaning as soon as they saw the postmark on the letter. They’d giggle like teenage girls talking about how big and handsome the boys would be. And the girls, Ruthie would say, “Oh my heavens, they’ll be so cute, there won’t be a boy safe in the valley.”

H. Neal Glanville: Lost marbles and common sense

Remember grade school, when looking forward to recess pretty much carried the day? Waiting for your turn on the big slide or getting tangled up in the monkey bars was little kid stuff compared to getting on the swing to see if you could make it go all the way around. It was also memorable trying to find your oiled baseball glove with last year’s ball wrapped tight inside with the belt you were supposed to use to hold up Sunday pants.

H. Neal Glanville: A debt that can’t be repaid

As I’ve grown older, not old mind you, my memory sometimes gets a nudge from something that happens close by and I’ll recall a person or event that had an influence on how I’ve turned out. My grandparents and their immediate families have had the greatest influence on how I’ve tried to live my life. I just now understand some of the things they said on a daily basis that I’d been taking for granted. I once overheard my grandfather and his brothers talking about being “land and cattle poor.”

H. Neal Glanville: How the lame duck was injured

As a kid, the land of politics and all that came with it was about as interesting as pulling weeds in one of Grandma’s gardens. My two brothers, myself and the occasional worthless cousin would wander all over the place dragging any tool that might pull a weed out of the dirt by itself. Of course, this would end with Uncle Blaine herding us all back to the tool shed with his simple — yet direct to our bottoms — speech about the joys of a short-handled hoe and the many reasons we had opposable thumbs and sheep didn’t.

H. Neal Glanville: An unorthodox Halloween tale

In the 1900s, when large nations were beginning to realize how easy it was to grab power from smaller, basically unarmed countries, it was casually observed and often laughed about in the American newspapers of the day. The politicians of the time saw no real reason to worry about some European country squashing another country just so they could “crow” about how big and powerful they were getting. This was all about to change the first week of October 1904.

H. Neal Glanville: Night vision and spotlights on the great deer hunt

I had thought better of speaking about Craig’s deer “problem,” having poked common sense at it several times in the past, but in light of comments by my 11-year-old grandson, Trey Daniel Gallegos, I thought common sense should raise its ugly head, once more. While Grandma Jane was cruising town with Trey, the subject of killing the city deer came up and Trey remarked “the only deer you see in town, Grandma, are does and fawns, and they just come to town to stay safe.”

H. Neal Glanville: Sewing up the loopholes

As we approach the mid-term elections, the majority of us realize any change no matter how slight is a step in the right direction. The name-calling and attempts at degrading an opponent’s character are in fact “much ado about nothing.” Very little can be said about a candidate’s personal life that hasn’t been magnified tenfold by some pork barrel-fed rug rat that’s been in office long enough to know just how hard to pull on anyone’s string and just when to let go.

H. Neal Glanville: Odd observations from a grumpy old guy

How can something be “new and improved?” If it’s new, then isn’t everything inside the box or bottle just plain new, unused, or unchanged in any way? And yet they throw “improved” on the label to have us believe they’ve improved something that’s never been used, or perhaps they’ve added light purple dye No. 56 to improve the newness so we won’t notice it’s really the old stuff tossed in a different container. What about “all new, but still the same original scents you’ve come to love and trust?”

H. Neal Glanville: Volunteers and snow tires

I’m a great believer in volunteerism. It’s one of a very few things you can give away just for the fun of giving it away. There’s nothing to buy, sell or rent. You gather with a group of people that prefer giving back to the community in a quite, no-nonsense manner, and just pitch in the best you can.

H. Neal Glanville: If it’s fun, it’s illegal

Each year at this time, the normal side starts remembering all the hunting expeditions my brother and I shared together. Unfortunately, a particular “hunt” was under the control of the weak side and didn’t include Roy — he was working and I was kind of, no, I was just goofing off. It all started late one afternoon with a lady complaining about the vultures and/or buzzards spending their nights in the trees surrounding her home and causing a great gooey mess for both her yard and two vehicles.


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