Up ‘til the economy tanked, “staycation” wasn’t even a word. There’s a reason for that. See how only half the word resembles “vacation”? That’s a hint as to the outcome of most staycations. At best, they’re kind of like a vacation. At worse, they’re more like a week spent in the Gulag. Charlie and me learned this the hard way a few years back. We’d never taken a staycation, so we thought we’d give it a try. We even made a plan, well kind of. We’d scrape and repaint the deck the first weekend,  because it needed it wicked bad. Then we’d spend the rest of the week doing little day trips, you know, makin’ …

I run into Bucky Dumont down to the A&P on Friday. He’s the fella with the horses who gives sleigh rides during our Down Home Holiday Festival. I was doing a little shopping after work, and he was “picking up a few things for the Mrs.” Sure enough, there in his shopping cart were milk, sugar, and a dozen eggs. “How ‘bout that case of Pabst, Bucky. She ask you to pick that up?” “Nope. Them’s what I call my “office supplies!” I’ve seen Bucky’s “office.” It’s that shed off the barn where he fixes his farm equipment and maintains the horse tack. Oh, he’s got it all decked out: ole pot bellied stove, TV, …