Yes, there will be a Book 2!

Quite a few people have asked if I'll write another book after Between the Fenceposts:Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure. The answer is yes! I'm working on it now, and if all goes according to plan, I'm hoping for a spring release.

This one picks up where Between the Fenceposts left off. We sold the livestock, bought a camper, and became snowbirds for several winters. Eventually, though, the road led us right back where we started—with fences, sheep, chickens, and more stories that probably wouldn't have happened to sensible people.

So here's your first peek at the working cover for Beyond the Fenceposts: Here, There, and Back Again. It's still a work in progress, but I think the cover tells the story rather nicely.

What do you think?

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The Zucchini Problem

It’s that time of year when gardens everywhere have stopped being polite little rows of hopeful green plants and have turned into full-scale food production facilities. Tomatoes hang heavy on the vines, and there's nothing quite like picking one that's still warm from the sun, wiping it on your shirt, and eating it right there in the garden. Fresh corn is even better. There's a very short window between “not quite ready” and “why didn’t we pick this yesterday?” but catch it at exactly the right moment, slather it with butter, and you have something close to heavenly bliss. Green beans are coming faster than you can pick them, cucumbers are hiding under leaves, and summer squash has suddenly decided it has something to prove.

And then there’s zucchini.

Anyone who has ever planted zucchini knows you do not plant it casually. Nobody with experience looks at a seed packet and says, “I think I’ll put in a nice big row of zucchini this year.” That's the sort of thing people do once. The following year, wiser and slightly traumatized, they plant one hill. Just one. Maybe two plants, because surely that will be reasonable. You tell yourself you’ve learned from past experience. You are exercising restraint. You are being responsible.

The zucchini does not care.

For the first few weeks, everything seems perfectly innocent. A few nice leaves appear. Then some blossoms. You stroll through the garden feeling smug about your excellent planning. You might even spot the first little zucchini, about the size of your finger, and think, Oh, how nice. We’ll have fresh zucchini for supper in a few days.

Do not turn your back. By the next morning it will be approximately eighteen inches long and weigh six pounds.

There's something about zucchini that seems to bypass all the ordinary laws governing vegetable growth. Tomatoes require adequate moisture, good soil, sunshine, staking, pruning, and the personal approval of several minor agricultural deities before they will produce properly. Zucchini apparently requires dirt. Possibly not even that much dirt. I suspect if you dropped a zucchini seed into a crack in your driveway and forgot about it, you’d have fourteen squash and a problem with the mailman by August.

At first, you keep up. You pick the nice little tender ones and feel wonderfully self-sufficient. You sauté them with butter and onions. You grill them, make zucchini fritters and casserole. You bake zucchini bread, which is really cake wearing a vegetable disguise so you can pretend it’s good for you. You shred some and put it in the freezer. You find a recipe online for zucchini pizza and decide to give it a try. Nobody is fooled. “It’s pizza!” you announce brightly. Your family looks at it. “No,” they say. “It’s zucchini with cheese on it.” You even feed some to the chickens, who by now have started turning their beaks up at it too. And inevitably you miss one hiding under the leaves until it has grown to the size of a Louisville Slugger and is no longer technically produce. It’s now lumber.

Eventually you reach the point where zucchini is no longer a vegetable. It's an inventory problem.

You begin giving it away. At first you offer it graciously. “Would you like some fresh zucchini from the garden?” you ask the neighbors. “Oh, yes!” they say. That works once. A week later you try again. “No, thank you. We still have some.”

Another week passes and now you’re approaching people in the supermarket parking lot. “Here. Take a zucchini.” “No, thank you,” they say. You reply sternly, “I wasn't asking!”

Soon everyone in town is in the same predicament anyway. You can’t give zucchini to someone who already has twelve of them sitting on their kitchen counter. That’s like trying to give snow to a New Englander in February.

Desperation requires creativity. You take some to church. You place a basket near the door with a cheerful little sign that says FREE ZUCCHINI, although by this point the word free doesn’t have nearly the appeal you’d hoped. Everyone walks past it on the way into services. Everyone walks past it again on the way out.

Fine. There are other methods. This is why, during zucchini season, experienced churchgoers should lock their cars. If you come out after services and discover three zucchini lying innocently across the back seat, you have nobody to blame but yourself. You knew it was August. You saw the gardens around town. You left the windows down. Amateur mistake.

There is probably an unwritten code among rural gardeners regarding anonymous zucchini distribution. You do not ask questions. You do not accuse anyone. You certainly do not attempt to return them, because that merely begins an escalation nobody wants. You take them home, shred them into something, and make a mental note that next Sunday the car gets locked.

I have long believed science is overlooking the obvious solution to world hunger. Forget complicated agricultural programs. Forget trying to coax delicate crops into producing more under difficult conditions. We already have the answer growing beside the garden shed.

Zucchini.

All we need to do is figure out how to cross zucchini DNA with every other vegetable. Imagine carrots that taste exactly like carrots but grow with the enthusiasm of zucchini. Sweet corn that produces fifty ears overnight. Green beans so prolific you have to sneak them into parked cars. Broccoli plants capable of feeding a family of six for the entire winter.

We could even improve vegetables nobody particularly likes. “Would you care for some Brussels sprouts?” “No, thank you.” “Are you sure? I have four hundred pounds.”

Within a few years, grocery store produce departments would become unnecessary. One tomato-zucchini hybrid planted behind the house would supply enough tomatoes for everyone within a five-mile radius. Farmers would no longer worry about crop yields. They’d worry about containment.

There might be zoning laws. NO ZUCCHINI HYBRIDS WITHIN 500 FEET OF RESIDENTIAL PROPERTY.

Scientists would eventually lose control of the project, of course. One experimental cucumber-zucchini hybrid would escape the laboratory, climb a fence, and cover three counties before anyone noticed. National Guard helicopters would fly overhead while officials begged citizens not to plant anything from an unlabeled seed packet.

Still, world hunger would be solved.

And somewhere, on a Sunday morning in August, somebody would walk out of church, open the door of an unlocked car, and discover twelve tomatoes, four cucumbers, eight heads of broccoli, five dozen ears of corn, and one suspiciously large zucchini lying across the back seat.

Serves them right. They should have locked the car.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Will the Real Sandy Davis Please Stand Up?

One of the odd things about being an author is that your name starts turning up in places you didn’t put it. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it’s confusing. And sometimes you find yourself wondering whether you have accidentally become somebody else.

It started on a Facebook writing group called The Plot Thickens. They regularly post writing prompts designed to get people thinking, and one of them sparked a story idea for me. I developed the idea a bit and posted it in the comments. A man replied that he really liked what I had come up with and said he would read a book about the subject. Naturally, I was pleased. Writers are simple creatures. Tell us you’d read something we wrote and we immediately perk up like a dog hearing the cheese drawer open.

Then he asked, “Wait... are you the chaos Sandy Davis?”

I stared at the screen. The chaos Sandy Davis? Well, that certainly sounded possible. My book, Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure, is largely about the chaos of farming and rural life. Sheep escaping, goats making bad decisions, chickens making worse ones, equipment misbehaving, weather refusing to cooperate, even a neighbor who was drunk and naked in the middle of the road, and me standing somewhere in the middle wondering how things got so far out of hand. If there was a Sandy Davis associated with chaos, I had a pretty good claim to the title.

So I replied that if he meant the Sandy Davis who wrote about the chaos of farming and rural life, then yes. Guilty as charged.

That seemed to settle it. Then he told me that someone had given a friend of his my book, but she hated reading and was going to send it along to him. Now I was thrilled. This is what authors hope for. One person gets a book, another person hears about it, and the book gets passed along. No advertising campaign. No carefully designed marketing plan. Just a book finding its way from one person to another. Grassroots readership. I ended our exchange by telling him to let me know how he liked the book.

And that should have been the end of it.

Except I still didn’t know what he meant by “the chaos Sandy Davis.” The phrase kept rattling around in my head. Was that how somebody had described me? Had I been mentioned somewhere? Was there a review I hadn’t seen? Had I somehow acquired a nickname without being notified?

Curiosity eventually got the better of me, so I did what any sensible person does when confronted with a mystery in the twenty-first century. I Googled myself. More specifically, I Googled “chaos Sandy Davis.” And there she was. Another Sandy Davis has a podcast called Chaos to Calm. I sat there looking at the search results for a minute. Well. That was unexpected. Apparently there really was a Chaos Sandy Davis, and it wasn’t me.

Now I had a problem. Had this man mistaken me for the podcast Sandy Davis? That certainly seemed possible. But then what about the book? His friend had supposedly been given a Sandy Davis book and was going to send it to him. Except, as far as I could determine, the Sandy Davis behind Chaos to Calm hasn’t written a book.

So whose book did his friend have? Mine? Someone else’s? Was there yet another Sandy Davis wandering around the publishing world creating confusion?

Back to Google I went, and that was when I discovered there are quite a few of us. Sandy Davis. Sandra Davis. Authors writing in various genres. I even found a Sandra Davis who had written fiction involving chaos, which did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation. Instead of solving the mystery, I had expanded the suspect list.

I began to feel as though I had stumbled into a literary version of To Tell the Truth. Will the real Sandy Davis please stand up? Except I was already standing, and apparently so were several others.

The more I thought about the original conversation, the stranger it became. He had asked if I was “the chaos Sandy Davis.” I had assumed he meant the chaos I write about. He may have meant the podcast. Then he mentioned a book. I assumed he meant mine. He may have assumed the podcast woman had written it. His friend may actually have Between the Fenceposts, or she may have a completely different book by a completely different Sandy or Sandra Davis. It was entirely possible that every one of us had been having a different conversation while believing we were all talking about the same person.

There is something wonderfully human about that. We hear a familiar name, recognize enough of the details to make them fit, fill in the missing pieces ourselves, and keep right on going. I didn’t question “chaos” because chaos fits me perfectly well. He apparently didn’t question the book because he already had Sandy Davis filed away somewhere in his mind. Between the two of us, we may have constructed an entirely separate identity out of perfectly reasonable assumptions.

The best part is that the story isn’t over yet. His friend is supposed to send him the book. Eventually a package may arrive, he may open it, and Between the Fenceposts may be inside. If so, mystery partly solved. His friend really did have my book, although I still won’t know exactly how I became connected with Chaos to Calm in his mind.

On the other hand, he may open the package and discover a completely different book written by a completely different Sandy Davis. I hope he remembers our conversation if that happens, because I asked him to let me know how he likes the book. At this point, I really, really hope he does.

Until then, I seem to be faced with three possible endings.

Behind Door Number One, his friend really does have Between the Fenceposts, and somewhere along the way he simply confused me with the Sandy Davis who hosts Chaos to Calm.

Behind Door Number Two, his friend has a book by some other Sandy or Sandra Davis, and neither of us was talking about the same person from the beginning.

And behind Door Number Three, the package arrives, he opens it, stares at the cover, and thinks, “Who in the world is this woman, and why is she talking about manure?”

At this point, I’m not ruling out anything. I only know one thing for certain. Somewhere out there is another Sandy Davis helping people move from chaos to calm. I may even need to tune in sometime when I’m having a particularly chaotic day. And, somewhere up here in northern New Hampshire is a different Sandy Davis who seems to have spent a lifetime proving that calm is highly overrated.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hot Air, Not Fresh Air

I opened my email one morning and nearly spit out my hot chocolate. There it was in my inbox—the email every author dreams of getting. An invitation from Terry Gross to be interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air. She had supposedly read Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure and thought my stories of life on a small farm would make an entertaining interview.

For about half a minute, I was already being interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air. My biggest concern wasn't what I was going to say. It was what on earth I was going to wear for such a prestigious event.

Like most women, I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. Actually, that's not entirely true. I have a closet full of perfectly good clothes that I've kept for the unlikely event my diet finally pays off and I lose enough weight to wear them again. They're hanging there in hopeful anticipation of the day I can once again button them without holding my breath. I just know someday I'll be glad I didn't donate them to Goodwill. Unfortunately, that didn't solve my immediate problem. Did I own anything that DOES fit me that didn't look like I'd just come in from feeding the chickens?

It was about then that my practical side finally wandered into the conversation. Why was Terry Gross emailing me from a Gmail account? That tiny little detail burst my bubble like a balloon at a porcupine convention.

I went back and read the email more carefully. It was beautifully written and surprisingly flattering. Then it hit me. They hadn't read my book at all. They'd read my recent OpenShelf interview and review instead. The glowing compliments sounded awfully familiar because they were little more than a reworded version of those. Whoever wrote the email had simply stolen OpenShelf's thoughtful observations about my book and presented them as their own. I have to admit, that's a pretty nice compliment to Justin and the OpenShelf team. Apparently, the scammers liked them well enough to plagiarize them.

They had done just enough homework to sound convincing without ever mentioning a single story, a single animal, or even one goat by name. The more I looked, the more obvious it became. Terry Gross wasn't inviting me onto Fresh Air. Some scammer was inviting me to become considerably lighter in the wallet.

A few days later another email arrived. Different sender. Different sales pitch. Same bait. This one came from someone calling herself a "Global Book Marketer & Discoverability Strategist." She assured me my book deserved a much larger audience and offered a complimentary "Book Snapshot" before explaining how she could help me reach thousands of eager readers.

Then came another one. Apparently, my writing career had reached the point where I was attracting professional admirers... all of whom would eventually want me to compensate them.

I never replied to any of them. Not because I was tempted to believe them, but because I knew replying—even to say "SCAM!"—would simply confirm that a real person had opened the email. Instead, I marked each one as spam and let AOL quietly escort them to the digital compost pile. From now on, they'll go there automatically. Then I wandered into the kitchen and raided the refrigerator instead. The leftovers were considerably more trustworthy. Unfortunately, they did nothing for my diet.

Looking back, I'm almost grateful for the experience. Not because Terry Gross never interviewed me. Not because I still haven't found the perfect outfit. And certainly not because those hopeful clothes are still hanging in my closet, patiently waiting for the day my waistline finally decides to cooperate.

No. I'm grateful because in the end, even though I didn't get an interview with Terry Gross, I did get another story. After all, when you're a writer, that's not a bad consolation prize.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Midnight Kibble Bandit

One raccoon, one barrel of dog food, and one very determined nighttime thief.

Every evening, just before I lock up the chickens, Gus makes a beeline for the coop. He slips inside, circles a couple of times, and settles himself in the far corner beneath the poop board for the night. I leave through the door into the main barn and lock it behind me.

Now, before anyone starts questioning his credentials as a livestock guardian dog, let me assure you that Gus weighs about 130 pounds and takes his job very seriously. Coyotes? Bring 'em on. Foxes? No problem. Bears? He'll stand at the fence barking until either the bear leaves or the sun comes up... whichever happens first.

But let the faintest rumble of thunder drift over the mountain and this fearless guardian of chickens, this knight in fluffy white armor, suddenly decides the safest place on earth is under a flock of laying hens. He has a perfectly good dog house outside, yet every evening he heads straight for the coop. I'm beginning to suspect the chickens aren't his flock—he's their dog. Or perhaps they're simply his emotional support chickens.

For the past week I've been hearing Gus barking frantically in the middle of the night. Every morning there was fresh evidence that something had been visiting my barn. The large barrel where I keep the dog food was open, its screw-on lid lying on the floor. One morning I found the entire barrel had been dragged nearly four feet from where I'd left it. Clearly, something was helping itself to the kibble. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn't read the "No Free Samples" policy.

I never actually caught the culprit in the act, but I had a pretty good suspect. Not many animals are clever enough to unscrew a lid, and raccoons have those little hands that seem capable of earning an engineering degree. So I moved the dog food into my farm store, set a live trap, and baited it with a handful of kibble.

The next morning, I headed out to let Gus out of the coop. As soon as I stepped into the main barn, I found one thoroughly irritated midnight burglar waiting for me in the trap, looking less than pleased with his complimentary accommodations.

No wonder Gus had been raising such a fuss every night. The poor guy had been locked safely inside with his emotional support chickens while some masked burglar was enjoying an all-you-can-eat kibble buffet.

It's probably a good thing Mr. Coon never figured out how to open the coop door. Thunder may send Gus running for cover, but I suspect even the bravest raccoon would lose an argument with a 130-pound livestock guardian dog if it laid a paw on one of his hens.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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Long Live Mike Crowe II

Mike Crowe had very strong opinions.

Chief among them was that every hen belonged to him, every human needed supervising, and every dog, regardless of size, should mind its own business. If I so much as picked up one of his hens, Mike took it as a personal insult and charged in to defend her honor. I admired his dedication, even if I didn't appreciate the bruises.

With Gus Gus, Mike discovered something he'd apparently never encountered before—a creature considerably larger than himself that wasn't particularly impressed by his resume.

Gus, our livestock guardian dog, weighs somewhere around 130 pounds. Mike weighed... well... enough to make a decent pot of soup. Those are not favorable odds by anyone's calculations.

The first time Mike decided to challenge Gus, things didn't go especially well. Gus won the disagreement rather decisively, and Mike spent the next couple of weeks looking a bit humbled. He still strutted around the barnyard, but the swagger had lost a little spring. I thought perhaps he'd learned a valuable lesson about choosing his battles.

I should have known better.

A rooster doesn't spend much time studying military strategy, nor does he believe in strategic retreat. He simply assumes that next time things will work out differently. Sure enough, a few weeks later Mike started coming after me again whenever I got too close to his hens. His confidence had returned. His chest was puffed out. He was strutting again. Apparently, in Mike's version of history, he and Gus had fought to a draw.

A few mornings later, I walked into the coop and found Mike lying there, quite unmistakably dead. I didn't witness what happened, so I can't say for certain. My best guess is that Mike decided to reopen negotiations with Gus. If that's what happened, the second meeting ended much like the first—only with a more permanent conclusion. Gus, after all, does have the right to defend himself.

What surprised me wasn't finding Mike. I assumed it was only a matter of time before his bravado proved to be a fatal flaw. It was the hens. There they were, pecking away at him. They'd already moved on with astonishing efficiency. There wasn't a memorial service or a moment of respectful silence. There wasn't even a tiny chicken-sized expression of, "Well, this is terribly sad." Nope. They'd apparently looked at their former protector and collectively concluded, "He always insisted on providing for us."

If you've never owned chickens, that probably sounds horrifying. If you have owned chickens, you're simply nodding your head. Chickens are practical creatures. Sentimentality is not one of their stronger qualities.

As I stood there looking at Mike, I realized he had lived exactly the way a rooster ought to live. He protected his hens. He patrolled his territory. He feared absolutely nothing, including things that could squash him like a bug. He was bold, opinionated, occasionally exasperating, and completely convinced he could win any argument. You almost have to admire that kind of confidence.

Fortunately, the flock wasn't left leaderless. Russell Crowe, my 4-month-old Light Brahma rooster, had already been waiting in the wings. Since he looks so much like his predecessor, I've decided that Russell has earned a promotion.

His name is now Mike Crowe II. Around here, it isn't really a name anymore. It's a job description. As Mike Crowe's namesake, Mike Rowe, might say, "It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."

Mike Crowe is dead. Long live Mike Crowe II.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Guitar I Never Intended to Buy

I need a name for my funny-looking little travel guitar. Any ideas? Here's how it ended up at my house...

I was absolutely certain I knew what I needed. Now, whenever I find myself absolutely certain about anything, I get a little nervous. Experience has taught me that life has an annoying habit of smiling politely while saying, Oh really? Just watch this.

Several years ago, I bought an Ibanez guitar with every intention of learning to play. It was a beautiful instrument. It also spent most of the next several years leaning quietly in the corner, silently judging me.

It wasn't the guitar's fault. I faithfully watched YouTube lessons, practiced until my fingertips felt like I'd been petting porcupines, and waited for those magical calluses every guitar player promises will eventually arrive. Mine must have been shipped UPS and ended up on the wrong porch.

On top of that, the guitar itself was simply too big for me. Reaching around the body wasn't comfortable, and after a while my shoulder started complaining louder than my fingertips. Eventually I admitted defeat. The Ibanez stayed in the corner while I avoided making eye contact every time I walked past it.

After careful research, I diagnosed the problem. I didn't need another guitar. I needed a baritone ukulele. Smaller instrument. Nylon strings. Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

Living in northern New Hampshire changes the way you think about shopping. Around here, a trip to just about any specialty store is about an hour and a half each way. By the time you get home, you've burned enough gasoline to make Amazon Prime look like one of the greatest inventions since indoor plumbing. That's why we rarely head south unless we can combine several errands into one trip.

The nearest music store was in Littleton, about an hour and a half away, so one morning Jim and I headed south. Fortunately, Jim likes driving. I like sleeping. We've each found our niche.

When we arrived, I walked up to the front door only to find a neatly printed sign announcing they would be closed for the entire week. I stood there staring at it for several seconds, hoping maybe it only applied to everyone else. It didn't.

Out came my phone. The next nearest music store was in Plymouth. Another hour and a half away.

I walked back to the truck. "I found another music store."

Jim looked over. "How far?"

"Another hour and a half. You up for that?"

"Fine with me."

That was all I needed to hear. By the time I woke up from my nap, we'd arrived in Plymouth. Jim stayed in the truck while I went inside.

It wasn't a very big store. There couldn't have been more than a dozen guitars hanging on the walls. They looked like a jury, silently watching to see if I'd choose the wrong one, again.

A very young salesman greeted me, and I explained the two problems I'd been having with my Ibanez. He laid the guitar case on the floor, opened it, looked it over, then popped back to his feet in one smooth motion. No groaning. No grabbing one knee. No putting both hands on the floor while deciding whether getting up was really worth the effort. And no crawling over to something else to climb up assisted by his arms. He simply stood up. I remember being able to do that. I don't remember exactly when. But I remember.

He handed the guitar to me and I held it in proper guitar position.

"Yeah," he said. "This guitar's too big for you."

Finally, somebody besides me thought so. I explained that I'd come looking for a baritone ukulele because it was smaller and had nylon strings. He smiled. Then he completely ruined my plan.

He explained that because I liked the lower bass notes of a guitar, I'd probably be disappointed with a baritone ukulele. Yes, it's tuned lower than a regular ukulele, but it still has only four strings—the same notes as the highest four strings on a guitar. The two deep bass strings that give a guitar its rich, full sound are missing.

Well, that was information I could have used before we spent three hours on the road.

Instead, he began handing me one smaller guitar after another. Every one felt a little better than my Ibanez, but none of them felt quite right.

Then he mentioned they even made guitars designed specifically for women. Well, now he had my attention. I immediately pictured a regular guitar with a molded indentation in the back where one of my boobs would fit. Sort of like the little pocket in some men's underwear designed to accommodate the male anatomy. I thought that was a remarkably thoughtful design.

It turns out a ladies' guitar is simply thinner and smaller. Frankly, I liked my idea better. If anyone ever invents one, I'm sure it'll be a best seller.

By about the sixth guitar my shoulder loudly informed me that our audition was over. I didn't even know I had elderly shoulders. Apparently they'd decided not to mention it until that very moment. By then my shoulder felt like I'd spent the afternoon wrestling goats.

The salesman stood there for a minute looking around the room. Then he pointed toward an odd-looking instrument hanging off to one side. "Let's try the funny-looking one."

Funny-looking was an understatement. That's a bit like calling an aardvark "slightly unusual." I'd never seen anything quite like it. It looked like somebody had crossed a guitar with a mandolin, then wandered off before finishing the project.

"It's a travel guitar," he said.

That was fine with me. The only traveling I had planned was from the corner of my bedroom to my recliner.

He handed it to me, and the moment I sat down everything changed. My shoulder relaxed. My arm wasn't stretched halfway to Canada. The neck fit comfortably in my hand. After trying guitar after guitar, I'd almost forgotten what comfortable was supposed to feel like. It just fit. The guitar happened to be there on consignment, so it cost less than buying a new one. Before I left, he replaced the steel strings with nylon strings while I waited.

I walked into that store intending to buy a baritone ukulele. I walked out carrying something I didn't even know existed when I woke up that morning.

Looking back, what impressed me most wasn't the funny-looking little guitar. It was the young salesman. He never tried to sell me what I'd come in to buy. Instead, he listened while I explained the problems I was having and then worked on solving those problems instead of simply handing me what I'd asked for.

Had the music store in Littleton been open, I'd probably own a perfectly nice baritone ukulele today. Instead, I came home with a funny-looking little travel guitar that fits me perfectly. Turns out the funny-looking one was exactly the right one. I suppose there's a lesson in that somewhere... hopefully it won't involve another day on the road to learn it. 

(P.S. I'm serious about the name. If I pick yours, you'll forever have bragging rights that you named the guitar in my next stories.)

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Another Unapologetic Brag!

What do goats, sheep, livestock guardian dogs, and a naked neighbor all have in common?

Believe it or not, they all found their way into my recent author interview with OpenShelf.online, an online book discovery site that introduces readers to new authors through book reviews, interviews, and featured books.

We talked about the inspiration behind "Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure," what people often get wrong about farm life, why I believe stories don't just preserve events—they preserve people—and, of course, a few of the unforgettable characters (both two-legged and four-legged) who have made life on the farm such an adventure.

If you've ever wondered how a simple life in rural New Hampshire can produce enough stories to fill a book—and still have plenty left over—I hope you'll enjoy the interview here.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Unapologetic Brag!

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pasture of Memories

People occasionally ask me where I get my story ideas. This is usually asked with the expectation that there is some sort of method involved, perhaps a notebook, a filing system, or a secret room where story ideas are carefully organized and labeled.

I hate to disappoint them, but if such a room exists, nobody has given me the key.

My mind works less like a filing cabinet and more like the little brook that wanders through a pasture behind our house. The brook doesn't seem to have much sense of direction. Instead of flowing directly from Point A to Point B, it loops around rocks, wanders through clumps of grass, disappears into the trees, and occasionally appears to stop and admire a particularly interesting mud puddle. If you looked at it from above, you might conclude that the brook had forgotten where it was going. Yet somehow it always arrives where it's supposed to.

Apparently, so do I.

That realization came during a recent conversation that started with a news story and eventually wandered through personal safety, childhood memories, farm animals, dog training, Tony's pizza, my mother's philosophy on consequences, and somehow ended up with a story. If you're wondering what any of that had to do with the original topic, you're not alone. The funny thing is that none of it felt random while it was happening. The brook simply followed the landscape. Most people would probably call this getting sidetracked. A writer calls it research.

Somewhere along the way, I realized this may be why I've never suffered much from writer's block. Many writers sit down and imagine what the story will be about, how to develop the characters and the plot. That sounds exhausting.

People assume I sit down intending to write about something specific. I don't. The story appears somewhere along the way. I start with whatever happens to be rattling around in my head at the moment. One thought reminds me of another. That thought bumps into a memory. The memory opens a door to something that happened thirty years ago. Before long I'm wandering around inside my own brain looking at things I haven't thought about since I was a teenager. Eventually I stumble over a story.

Now, occasionally a story presents itself immediately. Walking outside and finding Gus standing over what appeared to be a dead rooster required very little excavation. The story practically introduced itself. The same thing happened with the chicks that spent several days touring New England through the postal system before finally arriving at my post office. Some stories show up on your doorstep carrying a suitcase and announcing they've come to stay.

Most stories aren't that cooperative.

Most arrive through the scenic route. A conversation reminds me of something. That memory reminds me of something else. Eventually a long-forgotten incident sticks its head out from behind a mental hay bale and says, "Remember me?" That's usually where the story is hiding.

Maybe that's one of the differences between writing fiction and writing memoir. A fiction writer often begins with a question: What if? What if a dragon lived in New Hampshire? What if a detective discovered a clue? What if a spaceship landed in a pasture?

I begin with something entirely different. Remember when? Remember when I met my neighbor drunk and naked in the road? (Him, not me!) Remember when Jack kept getting bonked in the head by the tennis ball launcher? Remember when Dad refused to eat coleslaw because he didn't like mayonnaise, but somehow considered potato salad perfectly acceptable?

The raw material is already there. I'm not making stories up. I'm digging them out. For years I was convinced this wandering train of thought was simply evidence that I was easily distracted. Then it occurred to me that perhaps the wandering wasn't the problem. Perhaps it was the process.

After all, a creek doesn't travel in a straight line, but nobody accuses it of being lost. It follows the shape of the land. Along the way it discovers things. A rock. A fallen branch. A frog. A mud puddle. Eventually it arrives somewhere interesting. My mind seems to do the same thing.

The truly surprising part is that people actually pay money to read the results. I'm as astonished as anyone.

So the next time someone asks where I get my ideas, I suppose I should tell them the truth. I don't really get ideas at all. I simply follow a wandering brook through a pasture of memories until it eventually leads me to a story. And if the brook happens to stop and have a conversation with a mud puddle along the way, who am I to argue?

After all, that's usually where the good stories are.

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Mike Crowe Declares War

I have a question—if a rooster attacks a livestock guardian dog, who's at fault?

I wasn't entirely sure myself when I walked into the chicken yard yesterday morning and discovered what looked suspiciously like a crime scene. Standing in the middle of the yard was Gus Gus, my 130-pound livestock guardian dog. At his feet lay Mike Crowe, my Light Brahma rooster, looking like he'd just lost an argument with a freight train. Gus was standing over him while Mike remained perfectly motionless. Since Gus has lived peacefully with the flock for years, I couldn't imagine what had happened.

I immediately scolded Gus. He lowered his head and retreated toward the tent shelter with all the confidence of a teenager who has just been caught sneaking in after curfew. I picked up Mike and carried him to the coop, where he remained limp and unresponsive for several minutes. Then one eye opened. A few minutes later he staggered to his feet, rearranged his ruffled feathers with an indignant shake, and looked around to make sure none of the hens were watching. Then he disappeared into the chick pen to recover what little dignity remained. Meanwhile, Gus watched the entire performance from the shelter.

When I scolded him a second time, Gus apparently decided the shelter wasn't far enough away. He headed for the far side of the pasture and disappeared into the trees. That struck me as odd. A dog that intentionally decides to attack chickens usually doesn't look guilty afterward. Gus looked guilty enough to plead for a reduced sentence.

Mike Crowe

As he slunk away, I called after him.

"Gus! What did you do?"

He turned and gave me a look that said,

"But Mom, he started it!"

As I stood there trying to make sense of the situation, I noticed Gus's breakfast still lying untouched inside the shelter. Earlier that morning I had given him a large frozen meaty bone. Since he hadn't eaten it, I decided to pick it up and put it back in the freezer for another day. As I bent down to retrieve it, I discovered something I hadn't noticed before.

A dead hen lay beneath a nearby table.

That was when the mystery began to unravel.

My best guess is that Gus had been lying beside his prized bone trying to decide whether to eat it immediately or bury it for later. Dogs seem convinced that food improves with age. One of the hens apparently noticed the unattended treasure and decided to investigate. Chickens are not burdened by concepts such as ownership, personal space, or common sense. If a chicken sees food, she assumes it belongs to her. If another chicken sees it first, she assumes it belongs to her anyway.

I suspect the hen wandered over and pecked at the bone. Gus probably responded with the canine equivalent of, "Excuse me, but that's mine." Unfortunately, chickens are surprisingly fragile creatures. What would have been a harmless warning to another dog would have had much more serious consequences for a hen. I don't believe Gus intended to kill her. In all the years he has lived with the flock, he has never shown aggression toward any of the chickens. I suspect it was simply an unfortunate accident.

The hen almost certainly voiced her opinion about the situation at maximum volume. Anyone who keeps chickens knows there is a difference between ordinary chicken chatter and a full-scale emergency broadcast. A hen in distress can produce a sound capable of bringing every chicken within hearing distance running to see what's going on. More importantly, it can bring a rooster.

Somewhere in the yard, Mike Crowe undoubtedly heard the commotion and came charging toward the scene. Now, I've been on the receiving end of Mike's temper before. Mike does not believe in backing down. Nor does he believe in carefully evaluating the odds. Mike believes that if one of his hens is in trouble, it is his responsibility to charge directly into the situation and sort out the details later.

When he arrived and found a hen down with Gus standing nearby, Mike didn't bother collecting evidence or interviewing witnesses. He took one look at the scene, appointed himself judge and jury, and transformed into Inigo Montoya.

"You killed my hen. Prepare to die."

What followed was likely less of a fight and more of a sustained military campaign. Mike attacked. Gus backed away. Mike attacked again. Gus backed away farther. Mike attacked again because the previous attacks had not adequately expressed his opinion.

Roosters are not known for diplomacy. They tend to approach conflict with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

At some point Gus probably stopped viewing Mike as one of his chickens and started viewing him as a hostile feathered predator that refused to leave him alone. Livestock guardian instincts eventually took over, bringing us to the scene I discovered: one guilty dog, one battered rooster, and a mystery waiting to be solved.

What still makes me laugh is that when I found them, Mike wasn't fighting anymore. He was lying perfectly still beneath Gus. Apparently, after discovering that attacking a 130-pound livestock guardian dog was not producing the desired results, he had switched to Plan B and decided to play dead. To his credit, the strategy worked. By the time I arrived, Gus was simply standing over him looking confused while Mike was putting on an Academy Award-worthy performance.

The more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect that Gus's defense may have contained at least a grain of truth. From his perspective, he had been minding his own business, guarding his breakfast, when a hen interfered, a rooster declared war, and somehow he ended up being the one in trouble.

Of course, the dead hen under the table weakened his argument considerably.

In the end, the scorecard was mixed. The hen was beyond caring about the outcome. Mike lost several feathers and a considerable amount of dignity. Gus lost his good standing with management and received a stern lecture about proper workplace conduct. I, however, gained valuable information.

From now on, Gus gets to finish breakfast before the chickens are released from the coop.

The funny thing is that I doubt either of the boys learned anything. Gus will still guard his food. Mike will still defend his hens. The only creature involved with enough sense to change future behavior was me.

Still, you have to admire Mike. A ten-pound rooster willingly attacked a 130-pound livestock guardian dog in defense of one of his hens. That's either courage or insanity. With Mike, it's usually both.

So back to the original question—whose fault was it? Gus? Mike? Or the idiot who handed out the bone?  

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Not Just Small Talk

The older I get, the more I realize there are two kinds of people in dentist waiting rooms. There are the people who sit quietly and read their books, and there are the people who want to tell you their entire life story before your name gets called.

I'm normally a very friendly and social person, but that particular morning, I was hoping very strongly for the first kind.

Back in December I had my lower teeth extracted. Years ago, pregnancy had already claimed most of the back ones. Apparently my children were not content with simply being born. No, they also helped themselves to calcium reserves like squatters stripping copper pipes out of a vacant building. One by one, my molars gave up over the years, sometimes dramatically. I’d be innocently eating toast or bread and butter when suddenly something crunchy appeared that definitely had not come from the bakery. Nothing gets your attention quite like realizing your sandwich has developed structural components.

Eventually the remaining lower front teeth decided to migrate backward like retirees heading south for the winter. The roots became exposed and sensitive. Brushing my teeth hurt. Rinsing my mouth hurt. Even breathing cold air started to feel like somebody applying jumper cables directly to my gums. Now, the brushing and rinsing part I probably could have tolerated, but when ice cream became painful, negotiations officially ended. Some sacrifices are noble. Giving up ice cream is not one of them. So out the teeth came.

Today was my second of four appointments for impressions for dentures, and I was not particularly looking forward to it taking the time away from the many projects on my to-do list. I wanted to get in, get out, and get home to finish painting a room. I had mentally scheduled the entire day already, and nowhere in that schedule had I allotted time for unexpected social interaction.

When I walked into the waiting room, I spotted a woman quietly reading a book. Perfect. I silently blessed her. Readers are usually safe. Readers understand boundaries. Readers understand the sacred social agreement of public silence. She looked up briefly and smiled.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I answered politely.

Then she returned to her book.

Excellent. This was going exactly according to plan. For approximately thirty seconds.

“Beautiful day, huh?”

Well, technically, yes. It was a gorgeous day. After a solid week of rain, the sun had finally decided to make an appearance, and apparently I was foolish enough to answer honestly.

“Yes,” I said. “Nice to finally see the sun.”

That was all it took. Like accidentally pulling the pin from a conversational hand grenade, I had opened the door.

She began making small talk. Now, I’m not proud of this, but internally I had already placed her into a category. We all do it. In my mind she became One Of Those People. The people who can begin with the weather and somehow arrive forty-five minutes later at their cousin’s gallbladder surgery in 1987. Fortunately, my name got called pretty quickly, and I escaped into the dental chair before learning the full family history.

The appointment itself involved molds, measurements, adjustments, and several minutes of trying to answer questions while another human being had both hands inside my mouth. Dentists somehow expect coherent responses from people who currently resemble a trout pulled onto shore. I answered as best I could with a series of muffled sounds that could have meant anything from “yes” to “please alert my next of kin.”

When I finished, I walked back into the waiting room expecting blessed silence. Unfortunately, the woman was still there. Her son was still in with the dentist. Jim had dropped me off, gone to run an errand, and hadn’t returned yet. In other words, I was trapped.

There’s a particular kind of resignation that settles over a person when they realize their ride home has not yet returned and the conversationalist has made direct eye contact.

I sat down and she put her book down, which should have been my warning. She began telling me about her husband, who had been a pilot, and her daughter who flies helicopters. She talked about how, when they all get together, the conversations go on for hours because pilots apparently speak a language entirely made up of airplanes, weather patterns, and near-disasters that somehow become funnier with age. It turns out aviation families are a lot like farm families. Once they get started, there’s no such thing as a short story.

Trying to contribute something to the conversation, I mentioned that years ago I had actually taxied a 747 at Logan Airport in Boston. That little detail deserves a story of its own someday, but for now let’s just say it drove less like a giant aircraft and more like a very expensive luxury car that happened to weigh several hundred tons. She thought that was fascinating, which surprised me because I was fairly certain most people would respond to that story with concern and several follow-up questions about airport security.

Then she smiled and said, “I mostly just sit quietly and let them talk. Some people just talk and talk and talk.”

I nodded sympathetically, feeling completely validated in my earlier assessment of the situation. Well, they’re not the only ones, I thought.

Funny how quickly the Lord can humble a person.

Because somewhere between the pilot and helicopter stories, she stopped being “that talkative woman in the waiting room” and became genuinely fascinating. Her father had run a large department store in New York. She told stories about growing up there and about her older brother, who never wanted his pesky little sister tagging along. Apparently she solved that problem through strategic blackmail.

“If you don’t let me come,” she’d tell him, “I’ll tell Mom what you did.”

Honestly, that level of negotiation skill probably should have led to a career in government.

She talked about childhood adventures, family dynamics, and little fragments of life that would have disappeared forever if nobody took the time to listen. And suddenly I realized something uncomfortable. I had assumed she was merely filling silence, but she wasn’t. She was sharing herself. There’s a difference.

The truth is, older people carry entire worlds around inside them. Histories. Stories. Adventures. Regrets. Funny moments. Hard moments. Lives fully lived. Give them ten minutes and a willing listener, and suddenly you’re hearing about 1957, somebody’s cousin Earl, and a pie recipe nobody bothered to write down before Aunt Martha passed away. But most of the time nobody slows down long enough to hear any of it.

We glance at each other in waiting rooms and think we’ve seen the whole person in thirty seconds. Woman reading book. Talkative. Older. Friendly. Category assigned. Case closed.

Meanwhile she had lived a life involving pilots, helicopters, department stores, childhood schemes, and enough stories to fill several books.

By the time Jim arrived, I found myself genuinely disappointed to leave. What had started out as a dentist appointment I wanted to rush through turned into the most interesting part of my morning, which frankly is not a sentence anybody usually says about a denture fitting.

I went home and still finished painting the room that afternoon. The project got completed exactly as planned.

But somewhere between the dental impressions and a stranger’s stories about pilots, helicopters, department stores, and childhood blackmail schemes, my day had quietly become something more than productive. I got my room painted, and my life was enriched by the stories of a stranger I almost dismissed as just somebody who talked too much in a dentist’s waiting room.

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Where’s a 6-Year-Old When You Need One?

I have reached the stage of life where I can remodel a room, install flooring, raise livestock, stitch up minor injuries, drive a tractor, cook from scratch, play the piano in church, and write a book. But apparently I now require the assistance of a first grader to operate modern technology.

I’m not against technology. I enjoy my Windows laptop and my Android phone. I even recently purchased a robo vacuum because, between my back and my ankle, pushing a regular vacuum around the house had become less “housekeeping” and more “where's my heating pad?” As I told a friend recently, yes, it’s difficult slowing down physically, but at least my floors are clean. She laughed after a slight delay. My best comments usually require a few seconds for processing.

What I don’t enjoy is technology that requires seventeen hidden steps, three passwords, an app, an update, and a blood sample just to perform a simple task. I remember our first home computer—a Texas Instruments TI-99/4. It was small, clunky, and had less computing power than today’s microwave ovens. I sat there carefully reading the instruction manual, terrified I would hit the wrong button and somehow blow up the machine. Meanwhile, my thirteen-year-old son wandered over, casually pushed a button, and instantly made the contraption do exactly what I’d been trying to accomplish for the last twenty minutes.

“Mom,” he said, with the confidence only teenage boys possess, “just start pushing buttons and something will work.”

This approach horrified me. I came from the generation that believed buttons should not be pushed casually. Buttons existed for a reason. Pushing the wrong one could launch missiles, erase bank accounts, or possibly summon government officials. At the very least, I was certain smoke would start pouring out of the back of the computer while expensive repair bills floated gently down from the ceiling. Apparently children are born without this fear.

Take Apple products, for example. My husband owns an iPad and spends a surprising amount of time saying things like, “Why can’t I do this?” while poking the screen with increasing irritation. Meanwhile I’m sitting beside him on my laptop casually dragging files around like a civilized human being. Apparently with Apple, there is always A Way. Unfortunately, that way is usually hidden behind a tiny symbol in the upper corner that only becomes visible during a full moon or after chanting softly near the charging cable.

Recently I was trying to set up my author profile on BookBub, an online site where readers discover and follow authors and books. This sounded simple enough. Upload a photo. Add a biography. Link the book. Done. Except then BookBub wanted links from places like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play Books and Apple Books. Amazon and B&N worked perfectly, the others did not. 

Suddenly I found myself wandering through the dark underbelly of modern publishing distribution systems. Google Books informed me my book might exist but perhaps not in the correct dimension. Apple offered me a lovely preview page where apparently I could admire my own book but not actually purchase it unless I entered the Sacred Apple Ecosystem through an approved ceremonial pathway. At one point I found myself muttering, “WHY DOESN’T IT WORK?” loudly enough to alarm the dog.

This is exactly why I hired Palmetto Publishing to handle formatting and distribution. I’m a writer, not a publishing infrastructure technician. As Bones from Star Trek used to say, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer.” In my case it becomes, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a storyteller, not an EPUB engineer.”

People assume older folks struggle with technology because we can’t understand it. That’s not necessarily true. Most of us could figure it out eventually if we absolutely had to. The real issue is that we come from an era where tools were expected to cooperate. You picked up a hammer and hammered something. You picked up a drill and drilled something. You sat down at a piano and pressed a key and music happened immediately. A violin may create beautiful music, but first you have to spend half your remaining lifespan fiddling with strings and tuning pegs before the thing stops sounding like a distressed goose. That's why I play piano and not violin.

Now every device requires an account, a verification code, synchronization, permissions, updates, and a tutorial narrated by a cheerful twenty-three-year-old who says things like, “It’s super easy!” No. No it is not.

This is why every family now needs at least one technologically gifted child under the age of seven. Somewhere there is a first grader who can solve in ten seconds the problem that has caused three adults to lose their tempers and consider throwing electronics out the window. The child walks over, sighs heavily, presses two invisible buttons, and says, “There.” Meanwhile, the adults stare in humbled silence, realizing that the future no longer belongs to us.

Still, I suppose every generation eventually reaches this point. Someday those same children will be old too, muttering at holograms and asking their grandchildren why the toaster now requires facial recognition. And somewhere, hopefully nearby, there will be another six-year-old ready to save the day.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm