I Know Fall Weather is on the Way, but I Wish It Would Hurry.

With John Helms 

Still Waiting on Autumn Rain

Yesterday I wrote about the garden spot—how the ground’s too dry to work, how the dust hangs on like it’s got something to prove. We hadn’t seen a measurable rain in weeks here on our patch of land in central Mississippi. Well, yesterday we finally got a little something. I wish I could say it changed things, but I can’t.

Less than a quarter inch fell here. Just enough to dampen the topsoil and stir up hope. Meanwhile, folks just a few miles down the road—family and friends within a 25-mile stretch—measured an inch or more. Their fields soaked. Ours sighed.

So I’m still where I was: waiting on cooler weather to start building the greenhouse, and waiting on a real autumn rain to soften this stubborn earth. We need the kind that sinks deep and brings life back to the ground. Until then, I’ll keep watching the sky and listening to the land.

Hummingbirds Will Be Migrating Soon

Golden Rod in Bloom

Every fall, as the days shorten and the goldenrod blooms, ruby-throated hummingbirds begin one of nature’s most astonishing migrations. These thumb-sized dynamos leave their summer homes across the eastern United States—including right here in Central Mississippi—and head for the tropics of Central America. They don’t travel in flocks or follow a leader. Each bird, even the newly hatched ones, makes the journey alone, guided by instinct and the quiet cues of the changing season. It’s a solo flight that spans up to 2,000 miles, and every single one of them must make it.

Despite their size, ruby-throats are built for endurance. They fly about 100 to 200 feet above the ground, skimming treetops and fields where nectar and insects are plentiful. Their wings beat up to 80 times per second, and they can cruise at 25 to 30 miles per hour, with bursts up to 60. To fuel this journey, they must eat constantly—doubling their body weight before departure and consuming up to half their weight in sugar daily. Nectar is their main fuel, but they also hunt tiny insects for protein. Without this relentless feeding, they wouldn’t survive the trip.

Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
Created in CoPilot AI

So next time you see a ruby-throat darting around your feeder, know that you’re hosting a seasoned traveler. Whether it’s a returning veteran or a brave first-timer, that little bird has crossed mountains, oceans, and borders to find its way back to Mississippi. And it did it alone, powered by nectar, grit, and a compass written in its bones.

Their route takes them across the Gulf of Mexico in a single, nonstop flight—500 miles over open water, with no place to land. From there, they weave through the forests and fields of Mexico and Central America, eventually settling in places like Honduras and Panama for the winter. Come spring, they reverse the journey, returning to the same gardens and feeders they left behind. Some even find their way back to the exact patch of land where they were born. In Mississippi, their arrival is a sure sign that winter’s grip is loosening and the earth is waking up.

Despite their size, ruby-throats are built for endurance. They fly about 100 to 200 feet above the ground, skimming treetops and fields where nectar and insects are plentiful. Their wings beat up to 80 times per second, and they can cruise at 25 to 30 miles per hour, with bursts up to 60. To fuel this journey, they must eat constantly—doubling their body weight before departure and consuming up to half their weight in sugar daily. Nectar is their main fuel, but they also hunt tiny insects for protein. Without this relentless feeding, they wouldn’t survive the trip.

Flying solo isn’t just a quirk—it’s a survival strategy. Traveling alone reduces the chance of attracting predators, and it allows each bird to move at its own pace, stopping when needed and adjusting to weather and terrain. Even the fledglings, who’ve never seen a migration route before, somehow know when to leave and where to go. It’s a marvel of nature—no GPS, no guide, just a heart full of instinct and a sky full of possibility.

So next time you see a ruby-throat darting around your feeder, know that you’re hosting a seasoned traveler. Whether it’s a returning veteran or a brave first-timer, that little bird has crossed mountains, oceans, and borders to find its way back to Mississippi. And it did it alone, powered by nectar, grit, and a compass written in its bones.

Hummingbird Facts from the Porch Swing

Species: Ruby-throated Hummingbird (Archilochus colubris) 

Migration Route: Eastern North America to Central America 

Distance Traveled: Up to 2,000 miles one-way 

Gulf Crossing: 500 miles nonstop over open water 

Altitude: Typically 100–200 feet above ground; up to 1,200 feet over water 

Speed: 25–30 mph cruising; up to 60 mph in bursts 

Travel Style: Solo flyers—no flocks, no guides

Fuel Needs: Must double body weight before departure; consumes up to half its weight in sugar daily 

Diet: Nectar for energy, insects for protein 

Survival Strategy: Flying alone reduces risk of predation and allows for flexible pacing 

Navigation: Guided by instinct, environmental cues, and possibly Earth’s magnetic field

Return Accuracy: Many return to the exact garden or feeder they left behind

...until next time.

Copyright © John Helms 2025

Ramblings and a Bit of History from High School Years

A Country Journal with John Helms

It’s Autumn

Gardening and Weather Update: It is autumn, and though we can plant our fall and winter gardens late in this part of the country, I have not yet planted ours. It is too hot and too dry. If I got on my tractor or behind my tiller to get the soil ready for planting, I would end up with nothing but dust. If I planted seeds, they would rest, dry in the ground, until rain moistens the soil enough for them to germinate. If I planted small plants, they would wither and die. 

If it doesn’t rain soon, I may get nothing planted.

As I said, it is autumn, and the leaves from the sweetgums are beginning to fall and cover the ground. Although it is early, the oak trees are shedding their leaves and the pines are dropping their needles. When I walk through the woods, the leaves rustle under my feet, but because of the unseasonably warm weather, I find myself watching very closely for venomous snakes hiding beneath those leaves. Like many people, I rely on The Old Farmer’s Almanac for my long-term weather forecasts. To summarize, The Almanac predicts this November’s temperatures to be average, while precipitation will be one inch below average. 

On the first cool day, I will begin construction of my small greenhouse.  A greenhouse will provide me with the opportunity to control at least a small area of the environment to grow a small number of vegetables and herbs. 

Chickens vs. Raccoon Update

Since my last posting, we have had no hen casualties. I seem to have deterred the masked bandits from stealing and massacring our flock. On the other hand, we cannot let our hens roam free range in the daytime because we have five red-shouldered hawks patrolling our property. They seem to have culled a lot of our wild cottontail rabbits, and we don’t want to allow them to do the same to our chickens.

This means our egg production is remaining constant. We are still giving eggs to our friends, but far less than before the raccoon raids. 

Thinking Back to My High School History and Civics

I remember sitting in a high school classroom with the windows cracked just enough to let in the smell of freshly mowed grass mixed with the constant smell of the memograph duplicator—Mississippi spring trying to sneak past the blinds. The teacher, a wiry man with a voice of southern eloquence mixed with a coloring of gospel, stood at the chalkboard and wrote three words: “Bill of Rights.” He paused, turned, and said, “This is where liberty put on his boots.”

That line stuck with me.

Years later, after decades in marketing, research, business, and a lifetime of watching the world twist and turn, I find myself back on the porch, thinking about those first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution. The amendments to the Constitution are not just a legal text, but rather a covenant between the people and the power they have granted.

James Madison, quiet and bookish, was the one who carried the torch. He didn’t shout like Patrick Henry or thunder like Jefferson. He reasoned. He listened. He stitched together the fears of Anti-Federalists and the hopes of Federalists into something lasting. Madison worried that without clear protections, even a well-designed government could drift toward tyranny. He believed liberty needed scaffolding—something sturdy enough to hold up under pressure. Madison reminds me of the kind of man who’d fix your fence when the cows wandered onto his place, and do it without asking, then leave before you could thank him.

George Mason, on the other hand, was the stubborn neighbor who wouldn’t sign the Constitution because it didn’t protect the people enough. His fear was sharp and specific: that the federal government would overpower the states and trample individual rights. He had already written Virginia’s Declaration of Rights, and he wasn’t about to let the national version go without a fight. I respect that kind of grit and devotion in a person.

Patrick Henry—now there’s a firebrand. “Give me liberty or give me death,” he said, and meant it. He feared that the Constitution created a president too much like a king, and a Congress too far removed from the people. He didn’t trust centralized power, and he made sure everyone knew it. I imagine him as the kind of man who’d argue with his preacher and still invite him over to Sunday supper.

And then there’s Jefferson, off in France, writing letters to Madison like a long-distance mentor. He feared that without a Bill of Rights, the government might slowly erode freedoms—especially freedom of religion and speech. He believed in the rights of man, in the power of ideas, and in the need to keep government in check. His fingerprints are all over the Bill of Rights, even if he wasn’t in the room where the sausage was being made.

These men weren’t perfect. They disagreed, they compromised, and they carried the weight of a nation still learning how to walk. But they gave us something enduring: a set of promises. Promises that say you can speak your mind, worship freely, and be secure in your home. Promises that still matter, even when the world feels loud and uncertain.

I think about those lessons often—especially now, with hens to feed and stories to tell. The Constitution may have built the house, but the Bill of Rights hung the front porch swing.

National United States Debt: Frightening

Here is a quick question. 

Our national debt at the time of this writing is roughly 37.4 trillion dollars ($37,434,9776,225,430 to be exact). If you laid 37.4 trillion one-dollar bills end to end, how far would they reach? 

The answer: From Earth almost to Pluto. 

Step-by-Step Calculation

• Length of a U.S. dollar bill: 6.14 inches

• 37.4 trillion dollars = 37,400,000,000,000 one-dollar bills

Total Length in Inches

$$\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">37</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">400</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">\times </span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">6.14</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">=</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">229</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">636</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">,</span>\mathrm{<span\; style="font-size:\; small;">000</span>}\text{<span style="font-size: small;"> inches</span>}37,400,000,000,000\; \backslash times\; 6.14\; =\; 229,636,000,000,000\; \backslash text\{\; inches\}$$

Convert that to Miles

There are 63,360 inches in a mile:

$$\frac{229,636,000,000,000}{63,360}\approx 3,625,000,000\text{ miles}\backslash frac\{229,636,000,000,000\}\{63,360\}\; \backslash approx\; 3,625,000,000\; \backslash text\{\; miles\}$$

Cosmic Comparisons

• Earth to Moon: ~238,855 miles

• Earth to Sun: ~93 million miles

• Earth to Neptune: ~2.7 billion miles

• Earth to Pluto (average): ~3.7 billion miles

So your 37.4 trillion dollars in one-dollar bills would stretch:

Over 3.6 billion miles—just shy of Pluto’s average distance from Earth.

 Maybe that is a little dramatic. Let’s stack those greenbacks sky-high, like a column rising from your the Earth's surface at sea level into the heavens.

Step-by-Step Calculation

• Thickness of a U.S. dollar bill: ~0.0043 inches

• 37.4 trillion dollars = 37,400,000,000,000 one-dollar bills

Total Height in Inches

$$37,400,000,000,000\times 0.0043=160,820,000,000\text{ inches}37,400,000,000,000\; \backslash times\; 0.0043\; =\; 160,820,000,000\; \backslash text\{\; inches\}$$

Convert to Miles

There are 63,360 inches in a mile:

$$\frac{160,820,000,000}{63,360}\approx 2,538,000\text{ miles}\backslash frac\{160,820,000,000\}\{63,360\}\; \backslash approx\; 2,538,000\; \backslash text\{\; miles\}$$

How High Is That?

• Earth’s atmosphere: ~62 miles (Kármán line)

• International Space Station: ~250 miles up

• Moon: ~238,855 miles away

• Stack height: Over 2.5 million miles

That’s enough to stack past the moon ten times over—a tower of currency so tall it’d make NASA do a double take.

I guess I have covered a little bit of everything in this post. Until next time...

Copyright © John Helms 2025

Choosing a Simple Life

 A Country Journal by John Helms

Some mornings, as I sip coffee on our front porch and watch the light shift across the pasture, I think about how different life feels now compared to the pace I kept just a few short months ago. These days, the calendar is shaped more by weather and chores than meetings and deadlines. And I’ve come to realize: that’s by design.

 “Soft luminous quality” of August light
- Illustration created in Copilot.

There’s a quiet movement happening—not loud or flashy, but steady. More folks are choosing to live simply. Not because they have to, but because they want to. They’re trading excess for enough, noise for quiet, and speed for stillness.

Recent studies back this up. Researchers at the University of Otago in New Zealand found that people who practice “voluntary simplicity”—living with less, choosing local products, and repairing items instead of replacing them—report higher levels of happiness and well-being
. Not just the fleeting kind, but the deeper sort rooted in purpose, connection, and peace of mind.

It’s not about deprivation. It’s about intention.

Living simply means making room—for relationships, for meaningful work, for time spent outdoors with a hoe in hand or a hen underfoot. It’s about choosing what matters and letting go of what doesn’t. That might mean fewer possessions, but it often leads to more fulfillment.

The study found that those who embrace simplicity tend to be more involved in their communities—sharing tools, tending gardens, helping neighbors. That kind of life fosters what psychologists call “eudaimonic wellbeing”—a sense of purpose and growth that goes beyond pleasure.

I see it here on our small family farm. The satisfaction of gathering eggs, the joy of spotting a fox kit near the woods, crows and hawks flying overhead, the rhythm of mowing and mending. These aren’t glamorous tasks, but they’re grounding. They connect me to the land, to the seasons, and to something older than any trend.

In my last blog, I stated that Faulkner once wrote about the “soft luminous quality” of August light in Mississippi. That same light seems to shine on those who choose simplicity—not because it’s easy, but because it’s real.

In a world that often equates success with accumulation, choosing a simpler life is a quiet rebellion. It’s a way of saying: I have enough. I am enough. And I’d rather spend my time living than chasing.

Until next time, John

False Fall, Faulkner, and a GardenTomato Pie

William Faulkner - Copilot Illus.

 A Country Journal with John Helms 

Most mornings begin with coffee by the pool. That’s where I read, sip, and sketch out the day’s plans while the sun climbs over the treetops and the hens begin their chattering conversations. It’s a quiet ritual, and one I’ve come to cherish. The pool water is swirling gently, the breeze is soft, and the day hasn’t yet asked much of me.

But the chores don’t wait long.

I was welcomed by a dragonfly
when I ventured out for my
morning coffee today.

The lawn and grounds never stops asking for attention. This week I’ve mowed the lawn, built and prepped the new herb garden just outside the kitchen door, and laid fifteen bales of pine straw around the house borders and beds. The pool gets its daily tending too—it’s where we spend a couple of hours most afternoons, soaking in the stillness and the sound of cicadas.

The chicken run got a refresh—new pine shavings for the girls' laying boxes, who continue to lay with remarkable consistency. Our flock is smaller than it was just a few weeks ago, but we’re still gathering 8 to 10 eggs a day. That’s plenty for us, with enough to share with family and friends. There’s something deeply satisfying about that rhythm—hens laying, eggs gathered, breakfast made.

A tiny fence lizzard hunts
for insects on the tarp
covering pinestraw.

While mowing near the edge of the woods this week, I nearly disturbed a fox’s den. I caught sight of a couple of young kits, barely bigger than a squirrel, tumbling in the shade. I backed off, hoping they’ll stay and grow into guardians of the forest. We’ve also spotted a doe with a new fawn, bucking and bounding through the underbrush like a wind-blown leaf.

False Fall

And now, Mississippi is teasing us with what we call “false fall.” If you’re not from around here, let me explain: every August, we get a few days of cool nights and gentler days, when the humidity lifts and the air feels like it’s been borrowed from October. It’s a brief reprieve, a whisper of autumn before summer tightens its grip again.

William Faulkner captured it perfectly in Light in August:

“…in August in Mississippi there’s a few days somewhere about the middle of the month when suddenly there’s a foretaste of fall, it’s cool, there’s a lambence, a soft a luminous quality to the light, as though it came not from just today but from back in the old classic times. It might have fauns and satyrs and the gods and—from Greece, from Olympus in it somewhere. It lasts just for a day or two, then it’s gone…”

Faulkner's statue welcomes
visitors to Oxford, where he
once sat contemplatively.

Faulkner’s words linger like the light he describes—soft, haunting, and true. I first read him in high school, then again in college, both times as required reading. It wasn’t until later, with more years and more miles behind me, that I began to appreciate the art in his tangled prose. I am currently buying his books and reading them now with my new understanding of his time on this planet.

His writing style is famously intricate—baroque, dense, emotionally charged. He favored long, winding sentences that feel like a walk through thick woods, each phrase layered with memory and meaning. His stories don’t unfold in straight lines; they circle, stagger, wind and sometimes collapse under the weight of their own truth. He understood that life isn’t tidy, and neither are the stories worth telling.

Faulkner himself was a Southern eccentric—quiet, proud, partial to bourbon, and prone to speaking in riddles. He once said, “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art,” and he lived that creed with stubborn grace. His satire was subtle but sharp, exposing the contradictions of the Old South without romanticizing them. He wrote about decay, injustice, and the slow erosion of tradition with a kind of mournful irony that still resonates.

In a world that’s always changing, Faulkner stood firm in the mud —watching, listening, writing. His work reminds us that progress and memory often pull in opposite directions, and that truth is rarely simple.

Back to the Farm

Poke berries - beautiful but poisonous.

Late summer, early blooming
fall iron weed.

 
Our Massey Ferguson tractor has been out of commission for weeks—a leaking seal sent it off to the mechanic, and I’m hoping it returns soon. Without it, the list of undone chores grows longer by the day. The pasture where our horse grazes is overgrown and needs clipping before winter. I’ve got old bridge timbers to move up to the garden area, where they’ll serve as the foundation for a greenhouse that needs to be completed before our first frost, which is usually around the second week of November. There’s an old barn to tear down and a new seller barn to finish. And the half-mile stretch of driveway? It’s looking more wild than civilized these days.

But we press on. That’s the rhythm of country life—plans made over coffee, chores tackled one by one, and stories gathered along the way.

A Recipe to Share: Garden Tomato Pie

There’s something about late August that begs for tomatoes. They’re heavy on the vine, sun-warmed and bursting with flavor—too ripe to ignore, too good to waste. Around here, we slice them thick, salt them generously, and let them speak for themselves. But when I’ve got a few extras and the weather’s teasing us with cooler evenings, I like to make a garden tomato pie.

This dish is simple, hearty, and tastes like summer winding down. It’s good warm or cold, and it pairs well with a porch swing and a glass of sweet tea.

Ingredients

• 1 pre-baked 9-inch pie crust

• 4–5 large ripe tomatoes, sliced thick

• 1 teaspoon salt

• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper

• 1/2 cup chopped fresh basil (or a mix of basil and parsley)

• 1/2 cup thinly sliced onions

• 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese

• 1/2 cup grated mozzarella

• 1/2 cup mayonnaise (preferably homemade)

• Optional: a pinch of red pepper flakes or a dash of hot sauce for kick

Instructions

1. Lay the tomato slices on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Let them sit for 20–30 minutes to draw out excess moisture, then gently blot them dry.

2. In the pre-baked pie shell, layer the tomato slices, chopped herbs, and sliced onions.

3. Mix the cheddar, mozzarella, and mayonnaise. Add pepper and any optional hot sauce. Spread this mixture over the top of the pie.

4. Bake at 350°F for about 30 minutes, or until the top is golden and bubbly.

5. Let it rest for 10–15 minutes before slicing. Even better the next day.

This pie is a celebration of what’s still growing and what’s about to fade. It’s a good dish for sharing—whether with family, neighbors, or just the quiet company of a good book. 

Note: A close friend of mine shared a delicious recipe for his tomato pie with me. Since then, he passed away far too early, our home burned to the ground, and his recipe was part of our loss. This recipe, pulled from my memory, is my take on his recipe.

Photos by John Helms

copyright © 2025 John Helms

Late Summer on the Farm

By John Helms | A Country Journal

A local fishing hole--Simpson Lake
...a great place to sit in the shade and fish.

It’s August in Mississippi, and as a foreign visitor once told me when I introduced her and her husband to a warm summer breeze one evening on the beach on the Mississippi coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the breeze that blows in from the Gulf “feels like warm velvet on your skin.” Those of us who live here are not as polite as she was that evening. The heat and humidity envelop you like a damp woolen blanket this time of year.  The mornings start slow, with dew on the grass and a chorus of crickets still lingering from the night. They are followed by the cheerful whistles of the Robin and later joined by Mockingbirds, Mourning Doves and Sparrows. By midday, the sun presses down hard, and everything—plants, animals, people—moves a little slower. Down here, we all look forward to those few days William Faulkner wrote about in his novel “Light in August” that foretell the changing weather. He famously commented on the specific feel of August in Mississippi when he told of a unique quality of light rather than explicitly cooler days. He noted that in the middle of August in Mississippi, there are a few days with a "foretaste of fall" where the air becomes "cool," and the light takes on a "lambence, a soft, a luminous quality" as if it were from "the old classic times.” 

The hens are holding steady. We’re down to ten now, thanks to a few raccoons who outsmarted my early coop design. I’ve reinforced the latches and added motion lights, but I still check the pen every evening like clockwork. They’re good birds—resilient, vocal, and still laying enough eggs to keep us in breakfast.

The garden’s pushing through the heat. Okra’s thriving, tomatoes are hanging on, and the peppers seem to enjoy the challenge. I’ve been working on a small greenhouse, piece by piece, hoping to extend the growing season once the cooler air arrives, but the heat is slowing progress on that project.

This time of year always feels like a turning point. The heat is still here, but the light is changing. The days are just a little shorter. The cicadas are louder. And the land seems to be whispering that fall isn’t far off, though we know it is at least six weeks away. There is no groundhog to predict the arrival of fall in the south; we just have to anxiously wait for the first day when the weather is right for us to shake the dust off our flannel shirts and slip them on for the cool days ahead. 

Thanks for stopping by, friend. I’ll be back soon with more from the coop, the garden, and the porch swing.

copyright © 2025 John Helms

Welcome Back to A Country Journal with John Helms

By John Helms | Florence, Mississippi

Morning sun breaking through the darkness
with her early brilliance

Well, friend, it’s been a while, and it is a new day.

If you’ve wandered back to this little corner of the internet, I’m mighty glad you did. And if you’re new here—pull up a chair, pour yourself something warm, and let me tell you what this place is all about.

This is A Country Journal with John Helms, a space where I share stories from the land, reflections from the porch, and the kind of practical wisdom that only comes from chasing chickens in your retirement years.

After a long career in marketing and business research, I traded boardrooms for barn doors. My wife and I have lived on this patch of Mississippi soil for over twenty years, but it’s only in the last three that we’ve truly leaned into the rhythm of a retirement farm. The kind where the tomatoes are stubborn, the hens are opinionated, and the weather has more personality than half the folks I used to work with.

We started with twenty-four hens. Thanks to a few clever raccoons, we’re down to ten. The survivors are tough, vocal, and still generous with their eggs—when they feel like it. The vegetable garden is growing, slowly but surely, and I’m building a small greenhouse to stretch the seasons a bit. We recently invested in a bigger tractor and the kind of equipment that turns good intentions into real progress.

This blog will be a Periodic dispatch from the farm—part journal, part photo album, part philosophical ramble. You’ll find:

• 🐓 Henhouse Happenings – Tales from the coop, predator patrols, and chicken drama

• 🌱 Garden Notes – Seasonal tips and soil reflections from a veteran grower

• 📸 Behind the Lens – Stories behind the photos I take, and the ones I miss

• 🪑 Porch Swing Philosophy – Musings on life, weather, and the quiet beauty of country living

• 🌍 World Meets Farm – How national and global events ripple through our little corner of Mississippi
  

I am also planning to launch a podcast under the same name—A Country Journal with John Helms—where I’ll share these stories in my own voice, southern U.S. accent and all. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to live by the rhythm of the land while still holding on to many of the luxuries of modern life, or just want to hear a good story with a little dust on it, I hope you’ll tune in.

So here we go. A fresh start, a new season, and plenty of stories to tell.

Thanks for stopping by, friend. Let’s see what the land has been telling me recently. 

Let's look into the future by seeing what our local weatherman is saying

Central Mississippi Weather Forecast: August 15–21, 2025

This delicate Ceastrina Neglecta
(or at least that is what Google says she is)
decided to visit me in the shade as I
spent a little time outdoors reading.

Expect a classic late-summer stretch: hot, humid, and peppered with passing showers. For those of us who live here in the heat of summer, you don't really need a weatherman for daily weather because almost every day this time of year is hot, humid, with a chance of afternoon showers or thunderstorms. It is when the weather decides to bring us extraordinary or severe weather, such as the threat of an approaching hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, a band of tornadic weather heads our way out of the western skies, that we truly need their assistance. As I write this, the sun has just risen, and the temperature is 71 degrees, and rising with the sun.

After that little statement about our weather dependability, here is the forecast for the week ahead:

• Friday (Aug 15): High of 92°F with light rain showers likely in the afternoon. Humidity near 96%.
  

• Saturday (Aug 16): Mostly sunny and steamy—high of 96°F. Slight chance of evening rain.

• Sunday (Aug 17): A brief shower is possible, with highs near 98°F.

• Monday–Wednesday (Aug 18–20): Continued heat with highs in the mid-90s. Scattered light rain showers each day.

• Thursday (Aug 21): Slight cooldown to 91°F, but rain chances increase to 52% by evening.

Evenings will stay warm, with lows hovering around 73–75°F. The air will be thick, so keep an eye on your garden’s water needs and make sure the hens have shade and fresh water. And with tropical moisture stirring in the Gulf, it’s a good week to double-check storm prep.

That is about it for today. Next time, I will tell you about the raccoons that have been wreaking havoc on our flock of hens.  

Watch for upcoming editions of A Country Journal with John Helms

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No Monopoly On This Concept

With all the strife and discord we are seeing worldwide and with much of it now being focused on the United States, I thought it would be a good time to do a little study on the concept of “love your neighbor.” 

One doesn’t have to look far to find Judeo-Christian beliefs on this front. In the Old Testament and the Torah (Leviticus 19:18) says one should “Love your neighbor as yourself.” This teaching is central to Jewish ethics and calls for treating others with respect, kindness, and fairness. The New Testament says, “love thy neighbor as thyself.” This can be found in Matthew (22;39), Mark (12:31) and Luke (10:27). These teachings emphasize the importance of loving others with the same care and consideration that we have for ourselves. 

No one holds a monopoly on this concept.

In the New Testament Jesus’ teachings about the term “neighbor” go beyond the literal meaning of someone living next door, or nearby. Jesus used the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37) to exemplify that your neighbor includes anyone in need of help regardless of their nationality, race or social status.

This concept goes far beyond 2.9 billion Christians and 15 Million Jews throughout the world. In fact, the major religions in the world all have similar concepts in their beliefs. 

In Islam, its 2.8 billion devotees embrace the concept that loving and helping others is highly emphasized. Muhammad said, “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself,” encouraging Muslims to treat others with generosity, kindness, and compassion. 

In Hinduism, the principle of ahimsa (non-violence) includes refraining from causing harm but also promoting love and compassion towards all living beings. The Bhagavad Gita emphasizes the importance of selflessness and caring for all others. This is reflected in the following examples of some of the many choices the religion supports: 

• Many Hindus adopt vegetarianism, avoiding harm to animals.

• Emphasizing dialogue and non-violent solutions in personal and social conflicts.

• Respecting nature and living sustainably, recognizing the interconnectedness of all life.

• Practicing kindness, patience, and understanding in daily interactions.

Other religions have similar beliefs in their base beliefs:

• Confucianism emphasizes the importance of ren (benevolence or humaneness) which involves showing kindness, respect, and empathy towards others which leads to harmonious and just societies.

• Sikhism teaches seva (selfless service) and sarbat da bhala encourages its followers to help and support others, regardless of their background, and to always work for the common good. 

• Buddhism embraces and teaches the concept of metta (loving-kindness) by encompassing unconditional love and compassion for all. They try to develop feelings of goodwill and kindness toward others through meditation. The Dalai Lama said "Our world and our lives have become increasingly interdependent, so when our neighbor is harmed, it affects us too. Therefore we have to abandon outdated notions of 'them' and 'us' and think of our world much more in terms of a great 'US', a greater human family."

• Native Americans often emphasize the interconnectedness of all life and the importance of living in harmony with others in a natural world. This concept is expressed differently by many of the nations, tribes and cultures but the key points are the same. These beliefs go the extra mile and can be summarized in the phrase “all things are relative” encouraging respect, compassion, and care for all people, animals, plants, and the earth itself. In many ways, the beliefs of Native Americans encompass the beliefs of many religions. 

We all base our beliefs on similar concepts but in a time when the world needs understanding, compassion, love, and tolerance, we are woefully short of those commodities. We are watching as nations pull farther and farther apart in strong nationalistic drives worldwide. We have forgotten who our neighbor is. Our neighbor is everyone. “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me” is a quote from the Bible, Matthew 25:40. All of these beliefs share common ideals and could act as a catalyst for a better understanding of those who are different in so many ways but alike in many more. We need to stop using religion as a divider of people and embrace our common beliefs. Shouldn’t governments strive for the same ideals? Of course, our own countries should be our major concern but is it right to think that because people are different, or that they have different customs and cultural mores, those could and should be encompassed in the melting pot that once the United States but now because of the availability of global travel is not global itself. Love your neighbor does not tell us to love your neighbor when they are like you. No, it stops there. Love your neighbor.

Absolutely. "Love your neighbor" is such a powerful and universal message. It reminds us to act with kindness, empathy, and compassion towards those around us, regardless of their background or beliefs. It’s a principle that can truly make the world a better place, one small act of love at a time. Look for the similarities between you and others and you will find, on that common ground, the impetus for what is being written here.

We could adopt a global culture; one that is not exclusive, one that is inclusive. This would be a culture that recognizes the differences as assets as they have been for hundreds of years. This new global culture would not push others’ beliefs on anyone. It would however expose others to the very reason so many people love to and long to travel. We travel to expose ourselves to the differences far away places hold for us. You know, a country doesn’t have to change or adopt these cultures, but it should enjoy the heterogeneity this exposure brings with it. 

While this post is not about immigration, it seems to me that the anti-immigration mindset embraced by many in our country at this time is a reflection of how we as a country have lost the ideal outlined in so many religions and beliefs to love our neighbor. This spills over to our everyday lives. We are less compassionate for some than others. We turn our head at wrong when we know right, looking the other way when we should be reaching out a hand to those in need or even to those who desire to better their own lives and the lives of their children. They hold in their hearts a burning desire to make themselves and their families a better home in a more stable place. 

Even though this is not the theme of this post, I thought it might be good to provide a little background on its history in the United States. Immigration to the United States has evolved significantly since the 18th century. Initially, the country welcomed immigrants with an open-border policy, attracting settlers from Europe seeking economic opportunities and religious freedom. The 19th century saw waves of immigrants from Ireland, Germany, and other parts of Europe, driven by factors like famine and political unrest. The late 19th and early 20th centuries introduced more restrictive immigration policies, including the Chinese Exclusion Act and quotas limiting immigrants from certain regions.

Working toward compromise is a dying art.

In the mid-20th century, the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 abolished quotas based on nationality, leading to increased immigration from Asia and Latin America. Recent decades have seen debates over immigration policy, focusing on issues like illegal immigration, border security, and the status of undocumented immigrants. Today, the U.S. remains a heterogeneous nation, often referred to as a "melting pot," as it uniquely blends cultures, traditions, and languages from around the world. This rich tapestry of influences has shaped a culture unlike any other, making the United States a microcosm of global distinctiveness.

Often, it took time, but every major nationality or group that came to our shores has been folded into this amalgamation we call the United States. Those making our laws in Washington, DC are proof of that fact. With this in mind, what has happened to the time when those men and women in D.C. could stand strongly for what they believe, and remain open and amenable to compromise? Now there is no room for compromise or a penchant for negotiation on which to meet on common ground. It reminds me of children arguing over the rules of a long-standing game. They are trying to change the rules as they play even though they and those who served before them have played by those rules for almost 250 years. 

...finding common ground.

I know I have gone down a rabbit hole and it looks like I have strayed from my original topic,  but I have not. It all comes back to no one holds a monopoly on this concept of love your neighbor. No, you should respect everyone for they are your neighbor. When man searches for common ground, he can find it and, when there is respect for others, that common ground can be the basis for the understanding we all need to build a community and enjoy more harmony and accord with one another.

…until next time.