Pull My Frank

Francis Arthur Norton IV

"A lifetime of global observation grounded locally in the colloquialisms of central North Carolina"

Vol. XLVII • No. 2,847 • Siler City, North Carolina • • Price: Free (as in speech)
DISPATCHES
The ribbon goes to the pig. The report goes in a drawer. Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

The Quarterly Report and the County Fair

By Francis Arthur Norton IV April 7, 2026

Every corporation I ever wrote for had a quarterly report, a ritual of numbers dressed as narrative. Every county I ever lived in had a fair, a ritual of narratives disguised as numbers on ribboned pies. Both claimed to measure performance. Only one had a livestock competition.

The report told you the margin. The fair told you who could raise a hog that looked like it was aware of its destiny. I have watched executives praise "market resilience" in a conference room and watched Miss Delores praise a pumpkin at the fair with the same tone. The difference was the pumpkin had earned it.

The ribbon goes to the pig. The report goes in a drawer.
The ribbon goes to the pig. The report goes in a drawer.

When you have spent decades in financial services and corporate communications, you learn to respect the difference between a story that looks good and a story that is true. The fair doesn't bother with the first kind. The quarterly report cannot survive the second.

Continue reading →

SNAPSHOTS
Main Street, 6am. Nobody here but me and the truth.
Main Street, 6am. Nobody here but me and the truth.
St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Prairieville, Alabama. They say a picture's worth a thousand words. This one's worth about three.
St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Prairieville, Alabama. They say a picture's worth a thousand words. This one's worth about three.
Buenos Aires, 1987. Looking for Borges's ghost. Found a good empanada instead.
Buenos Aires, 1987. Looking for Borges's ghost. Found a good empanada instead.
The 1897 Ellis County Courthouse, Waxahachie, Texas. Still standing. Still judging.
The 1897 Ellis County Courthouse, Waxahachie, Texas. Still standing. Still judging.
HOME DIRT
MORE DISPATCHES
FRANK TALK

My frank is out! As of yesterday!

A Linotype machine. The newsroom: where confidence is manufactured daily.

If the Wall Street Journal were a person, it'd be that cousin who got rich and forgot where he came from. I used to admire the prose. Now I just admire the audacity.

The press rolls. The record bends.

The New York Times thinks it understands the South. Bless their hearts.

Clara Bow, c.1925. Society dressed up for posterity. Posterity dressed down.

Vanity Fair is the only magazine that makes you feel underdressed while reading it on the toilet.

Main Street, Fowler, Colorado. Saturday afternoon on the square. Most things worth knowing were settled here.

Every small town in North Carolina has a man who knows everything. He's usually wrong, but he's never boring. I should know. I am that man in at least three towns.

Wisdom has a particular way of sitting still.

The difference between wisdom and a bumper sticker is about twenty years and a bad marriage.