The Oxford Comma (and other pertinent affairs of the heart) By Bill Stork, DVM Throughout history journalists like Edgar R. Murrow, and in my time Walter Cronkite, were cultural icons. I had very little understanding of what was going on, but would not sit down to supper until Mr. Cronkite had summarized the chaos in Vietnam and signed off the CBS evening news "…and that’s the way it is.” When he gave his final sign-off in 1981, I was 16. The void is as deep and wide as the final episode of Charlie’s Angels. I expect neither will ever be filled. Some might say it is skill, or a lack thereof. I prefer to believe it is the full-time practice of veterinary medicine, baling hay, and a stout sens
You can’t handle the truth (aka John Humphries aka Lizard Head Cycling) By Bill Stork, DVM “Just outta curiosity, what the hell qualifies this, as a trail?” gasps Mike, through lips pursed tightly to drive every molecule of oxygen above 10,000 feet across his alveoli to his increasingly hypoxic blood. Framed by a snow-white, Hulk Hogan Fu Man Chu, you’re ten times more likely to hear a laugh like the back room of a bear cave come across the electrician’s lips, than anything resembling a complaint. Thursday, August 6th had started as most on a Lizard Head Cycling trip. The sun had begun to glow. Travis Tucker had two blue granite kettles of Ophir Spring Water to a rolling boil long before the
You may already know, but the cover photo of "In Herriot's Shadow" is of the Haack farm. Ryan Haack holds a copy of the book, in the doorway of the same barn.
Rocky VII By Bill Stork, DVM "And there’s nothing short a’ dying, that’s half as lonesome as the sound, of the sleeping city sidewalk…" I sat close enough to Kristofferson to count the crow’s feet in his temples, as he winced to retrieve the next verse first written on a bar napkin 50 years ago, or for the pain. The cracked leather of his boots belied the weather in his throaty off-key whisper. A founding father of the Holy Trinity of songwriters, he is known for his poetry and patriotism, rather than perfect pitch. "…and Sunday morning coming down." I was relieved as I looked down the row, my own emotion validated as Scott bent the index finger of his right hand to squeegee a tear down his
