Oh, the places we’ve gone. Serving as a small-town journalist is much like the role of a tour guide. For the last 12 years, I’ve proudly worn that badge, taking
Cruising south on I-35 through Texas, a state I had in the hip pocket of my powderblue, soft cotton leisure pants — the pants with the elastic waist? Ahh. Makes an old boy’s life worth living. I kid you not — I understood once again that the best thing about being retired is not having to drive in traffic.