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Success, Like Fashion, Is A Fickle Companion And Can Leave One In The Wink Of An Eye.

Then The Sun Broke Above The Crest Of The Hills And The Entire Countryside Looked Soaked In Blood, The Arroyos Deep In Shadow, The Cones Of Dead Volcanoes Stark And Biscuit-colored Against The Sky. I Could Smell Pinion Trees, Wet Sage, Woodsmoke, Cattle In The Pastures, And Creek Water That Had Melted From Snow. I Could Smell The Way The Country Probably Was When It Was Only A Dream In The Mind Of God.

If There Is Any Human Tragedy, There Is Only One, And It Occurs When We Forget Who We Are And Remain Silent While A Stranger Takes Up Residence Inside Our Skin.

Hackberry Holland's Greatest Fear Was His Fellow Man's Propensity To Act Collectively, In Militaristic Lockstep, Under The Banner Of God And Country. Mobs Did Not Rush Across Town To Do Good Deeds, And In Hackberry's View, There Was No More Odious Taint On Any Social Or Political Endeavor Than Universal Approval.

I Feel Blessed In The Knowledge That I Probably Belong To The Last Generation That Will Remember What We Call "traditional America."