“People like the idea of I take care of them, and they take care of me,” she said, explaining that the personal agrisystem of feeding food scraps to chickens that, in turn, produce breakfast, has enormous appeal.

Rock oil was considered, then, a local nuisance, a malodorous black gunk that floated like a rumor down the creek, filthening whatever it touched: a farmer's overalls, a cow's hide, a child's shoes.

His armies, in the following day, / On those fair plains their standards proud display.

It was Mr. Womble that tied the rope to the car that was bogged down, and I was the one that tied the other end of it to the end of the truck...