was still contemplating the implications of Albert and Susannah in Biloxi, when Shaherazade, in her typical cyclonic way, changed course. “Did Harlan tell you where he got Uncle Charlie’s bones?” “Not exactly,” I told her. I realized then that Harlan had managed not to tell me anything specific about any of the subjects we touched on in our visit. I drank a good deal of Cynthia’s iced tea and watched magpies play catch-me-if-you-can with one of the stray cats hanging around the McCoy place. Every farmer or rancher has to contend with strays like this half-starved calico. City people seem to think that dropping off their unwanted felines along some stretch of country road is a reasonable thing to do. Like most of the folks around here, the McCoys put out meal scraps, and a bit of milk and let the half-feral cats fend mostly for themselves. Some take up…

Guest Post by Shaherazade Budreau   ust as I finished typing up my last entry to Susie’s blog, she showed up on her bicycle looking like she had just completed some kind of marathon. Her face was all red. I don’t mean just a little pink. I mean red. The way only white skin can get. When she took off her helmet, her hair was all flat to the top of her skull and wet with sweat. She was sweating all over. I set the laptop Susie lent me down on the picnic table in her backyard and went for the garden hose. “Hang on, Susie,” I said. “I’ll get you some water.”  She was sitting on the grass under the elm tree when I gave her the hose. She took a couple of long drinks then closed her eyes and pointed the stream of water right at her face.…