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Home Country

Slim Randles, columnist

By Slim Randles

I was one of the half-dozen guys holding Isaac Okleasik's sled down while his dozen-plus sled dogs were screaming and lunging. It was the first Saturday in March back in 1973, and Isaac was one of the first mushers to leave on the first Iditarod Sled Dog Race. I was wearing bib number 37, and since we let a team go every two minutes, I had plenty of time to help others before it was my turn.

Home Country

Slim Randles, columnist

by Slim Randles

  Marjorie Pincus looked out the front window at her husband, Marvin, and smiled. No matter how old he gets, she thought, he'll always be the boy I remember, riding his bicycle through this town so many years ago.

Home Country

Slim Randles, columnist

By Slim Randles

Billy slowly raised one eyelid and looked around. Boots and Desdemona, Aunt Ada's cats, were curled up, one against his belly and one against his back. Billy hated to wake the cats, but when a guy has to go find a tree, well, call it collateral damage. He got up, stretched and yawned and trotted out to the kitchen. Aunt Ada greeted him with ear rumples and a bowl of kibble, and then opened the door so he could go to work.

Being the official town dog isn't always the easiest job, Billy thought. I mean, not if you take it seriously.

Home Country

Slim Randles, columnist

Slim Randles

 Steve reached up and put his cup of coffee on the floor of the turret in his cabin, then climbed the ladder until both he and the coffee were comfortable, looking out at the world.

The only people who didn't understand why he built a turret on his little cabin up here high on the mountain were folks who hadn't seen it. Once you actually sat in the chair, looked out the window at the weather and the world, there was no doubt.

You instantly thought, "I have to get one of these."