Back in the 1950s and ’60s, when the Ruston Fire Department received an alarm, a series of fog-horn-like blasts belched from an apparatus atop a pole behind what’s now the Historic Fire Station on the corner of East Mississippi Avenue and Bonner Street.
My father was not the outdoor type. He didn’t like mowing the yard; gave up on golf, didn’t fish, and as far as I know, never shot a gun, although he owned a .22 rifle for a while.
Each Sunday in our paper we feature a column written by local outdoors legend and award-winning writer Glynn Harris, whom I’ve known since I was a young scribe way back when.
When my wife was pregnant with our son, naturally everybody and their neighbor had advice for us, as well as predictions of things that would change in our lives with a child in the house.
The last two weeks we took a walk down memory lane as we looked at a slower life that was every bit as fulfilling and enjoyable as life today. Let’s continue to look at what it was like to live in rural north Louisiana when a man’s word was his bond and honor and integrity were important to our everyday life.
