Chris Hardie

Let me tell you a tale about the fool who measured two times but then forgot the number. In fact, I can tell it from a first-person perspective.

From my great-grandparents, to my great-aunt and uncle, to my parents and now to my wife Sherry and I, there has been a vegetable garden of some sort on the Hardie Farm for four generations.

Technology is a monster that both fascinates some and terrifies others. It can quietly creep into our lives like a slithering creature when we least expect it or come straight at us and hit us in the face like a sledgehammer.

It’s the same song every day from our morning maestro. Some mornings I hear it and roll over for more slumber. Sometimes I sleep straight through.

Summer has arrived. The garden is growing, the birds are singing and the woodchuck is chucking.

Who we are today is because of those who came before us. That’s the story of history and it’s on full display at Stonefield Village near Cassville.

Here is Hardie’s Hemmings. It could also be called Chris’s Scraps, but that doesn’t sound as polished and alliterative. 

Back Home by Chris Hardie Time has an uncanny and relentless way of simultaneously sneaking up on you and passing you by. What seems like

The public ownership of the Packers, the unique small market feel of the team, as well as culture and pride were on display recently in Green Bay for the annual NFL Draft.

The calendar may say we are nearly a month into spring, but for me it doesn’t really arrive until I start digging in the dirt.