Plate 1. Reeds Spring Tomato Cannery. Tomato Hills by Joshua Heston Solanum lycopersicum. It’s quite a name for the ever’day tomato. A member of the Nightshade family (along with sweet potatoes, peppers and, of course, the deadly nightshade), the tomato is native to the Americas. Some believed for along time that the plants and fruits…
Missouri Mules by Joshua Heston A long, hot dusty furrow. Summer sun beating down. Heat rippling the blue hills beyond. A bony old mule labors for a Missouri farmer, weathered lines of his face matching the ribs showing on the animal. Creak of leather, soft pad of foot and hoof. It is an image of…
PLATE 1. Confederate Church (Methodist Episcopal Church South) was a safe haven for Confederates during and after the war. A Confederate Church & Jesse James by Clint E. Lacy You might never guess the treasures hidden in your own background. That’s what I learned after buying our house at the corner of Englehart Lane and…
Winter Memories by Dale Grubaugh This winter? It has been cold! January? The temperatures were below zero at night and barely out of the single digits in the day. Five inches of powdery snow on the ground, more in the forecast. The wind howling. It was a good time to stay indoors watch winter from…
Writers & Artists Frequently Asked Questions How do I participate? Email Josh@StateoftheOzarks.net to place your name on the list either as an artist or as a writer. How does this thing work? During the month of August, State of the Ozarks Online Magazine collects written essays. As the essays come in, editor Joshua Heston will…
Writers & Artists Night by Tiffany Lyle Hollister, MO — One of the best moments for a writer, a poet, a singer, or an artist is when they get to share their own work with others. To see an audience strain for a better look, to try and hear the next word, for an audience to…
Been Thinkin’ About… Nine summers ago. Change. Love. Heartbreak. The passage of time. The pain of self-doubt. Life. Nine summers ago, the tomatoes were ripening. Strawberry season had passed. Cottonwood leaves rippled in the dry August air. And I was on a mission. One I absolutely believed in for no apparent reason. I had known…