Essay | Jim Bussard gladly ‘neighbored’ with others
by John R. Erickson
Posted 6/02/18, 08:13 am
On the morning of June 6, 2009, the country between our ranch and the cemetery in Lipscomb, Texas, was green from recent rains, verdant pastures flecked with spectacular sprays of a wildflower we call “Indian blanket.”
If Jim had been around that morning, he would have been smiling that big, crooked-tooth smile, and enjoying the sight of good grass, beautiful flowers, and cattle that were fat, slick-haired, and content. The news of his death had spread fast over a four-county area of the northeastern Texas Panhandle, aided by cellular phones and emails that he never used.