By Jim Bates
Growing up, my brother and I spent as much time as we could walking those rolling fields and hardwood forests, like our hero. We learned to identify wildflowers by their color and birds by their song. I’ll never forget squishing through springtime bogs listening for spring peepers and wandering fragrant summertime meadows happy among the butterflies and bees. We had our own Walden, a magical pond over the hill, hidden from the progress of man. I scattered his ashes there last week, watching as they drifted away becoming one with nature, and maybe, if he was lucky, finally finding Thoreau.
“I hope my stories bring people a little pleasure and make them smile.” – the writer