“The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest,” wrote E. B. White, adding, “I have always been aware that I am by nature self-absorbed and egoistical, to write of myself to the extent I have done indicated a too great attention to my own life, not enough to the lives of others.”

White further noted, “There are as many kinds of essay as there are human attitudes or poses…The essayist arises in the morning and, if he has work to do, selects his garb from an unusually extensive wardrobe: he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person, according to his mood or his subject matter—philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast.”

A low-lying area in the hayfield, circled by higher ground, turns into a pond each spring. Melted snow and a steady supply of rain have created about an acre of water surface. The clay soil and underperforming drain have kept it from drying off until early summer.

Standing water has, in turn, killed off the hay, making the field less productive than it should be. In the interest of economic well-being I’ll probably fix the drain this year, thus speeding up the run-off and hopefully making that acre more hospitable to forage crops.

The presence of the pond has had an upside; one that causes me to pause with my planned remedy. Some puddle ducks usually show up to nest and then raise their young. This spring I noticed a pair of Canadian geese—a mating twosome I’d guess. I’ll soon find out if geese and ducks are compatible in a constricted area.

The story line in the Western movie is a familiar one. The family, full of both anticipation and anxiety, has left the comforts and security of their Eastern settlement to join the wagon train for the trek to Oregon or California or some other destination. The lure is abundant and inexpensive land, perceived riches, a fresh beginning, or a simple wanderlust.

The family, to offset their anxiety, has packed their wagon with a few heirlooms along with the vital provisions. Mementoes of home that they’re taking with them; links to their past that they can’t imagine leaving behind.

The plot usually thickens. Somewhere out on the parched Great Plains or up in the rough passage of the mountains, faced with needing to lighten their load, cornered by the hard choice of survival or else, the precious heirlooms are finally dumped by the wayside.

By Steve Horton

(Note: I wrote this essay 21 years ago about the arrival of our son, Bradley. This past Oct. 31 he became a legal adult so, for no other good reason than this recent rite of passage... for him and his parents... I'm offering this re-visit.)

The birth of an infant stands always as the centerpiece of our annual Christmas celebration. Whether that event holds a profound religious significance for you or whether you view this holiday on more secular terms, the Christmas Story still looms large above the rest of the trappings that accompany this special season.

There is the delight of Santa and his reindeer, the various customs like decorating trees and hanging mistletoe, the enjoyment of family and friends at such events as dinners or caroling or concerts. We have all kinds of stories and shows that add to the richness of this tradition – be it Dr. Seuss or Dickens’ Christmas Carol or Miracle on 34th Street.

We recall Virginia’s letter about Santa or re-read Clement Moore’s ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas or hear the singing of “Silent Night” whenever our Christmas Spirit needs some rekindling. And we all have those many individual memories and family customs that give December its unique magic.

But always, above it all, superseding it all, encompassing it all is the fact that “a child is born”.