Social media has two primary functions, the way I see it — to disseminate information and to host drama. The former runs the gamut from political to practical to personal, commerce to camaraderie. It’s where we’re tipped off to breaking news, learn from others, find out about births and deaths, and buy stuff we don’t need (or never knew we did).
The latter, drama, also goes by another name — life. For incurable exhibitionists, it’s a way to inflate both successes and failures, reporting every hangnail and hairball. Strangely, there’s also a faction that relies on the drama to feel better about themselves — for them, it’s an exercise in validation to criticize drama, to trivialize what’s important (justifiably or not) in the lives of others.
If you’re on social media, you’re in one of those groups. We all are. Based on years of chronicling what I do and where I’ve been, I suppose I fit in with the drama (life) crowd.
Something I rarely do, however, is share memes. When I do, usually I’ll create my own. I’m predisposed to originality. I prefer to be authentic. I resist the common, the unimaginative, the crass.
I also have a passion for accuracy. Every day I choose not to share stuff that’s incorrect, premature, ill-conceived or outright bullshit. And I won’t defend the indefensible.
But hey, that’s me. You do you.
“Whereas, confusion of practice has arisen in the pronunciation of the name of our state and it is deemed important that the true pronunciation should be determined for use in oral official proceedings.
“And, whereas, the matter has been thoroughly investigated by the Historical Society of the State of Arkansas and the Eclectic Society of Little Rock, which have agreed upon the correct pronunciation as derived from history and the early usage of the American immigrants.
“Be it therefore resolved by both houses of the General Assembly, that the only true pronunciation of the name of the state, in the opinion of this body, is that received by the French from the native Indians and committed to writing in the French word representing the sound. It should be pronounced in three (3) syllables, with the final ‘s’ silent, the ‘a’ in each syllable with the Italian sound, and the accent on the first and last syllables. The pronunciation with the accent on the second syllable with the sound of ‘a’ in ‘man’ and the sounding of the terminal ‘s’ is an innovation to be discouraged.”
Arkansas General Assembly Concurrent Resolution 1-4-105 (1881)
I came across something on Facebook the other day that stuck with me. I don’t remember if it was a meme or part of a post. I don’t even recall the exact words. The essence, though, was, “When you live on acreage, you learn things.”
Until Deb and I moved to The Mountain last summer, the largest plot of land I’d lived on was two acres. That experience, though it lasted only four years, came with its own lessons. But it’s nothing compared to living on 20.
Why is that?
My first thought is that it’s more than just the land. Of greater importance, I think, is the way of living — lifestyle vs. life, if you will. It’s the difference between rural, which is merely a place, and rustic, which is a whole collection of things that creates a particular kind of existence.
Still, land matters — but what constitutes “acreage”? Five? Ten? A hundred? I believe it has less to do with a specific number and more to do with the old Country adage,
“If you can’t piss off your front porch, your neighbors are too close.”
I’d define “acreage,” then, as enough land to spread out comfortably and live the life one imagines, to lend a hand but mind one’s own damned business, and be in the territorial company of people who want (and know how to do) the same. Acreage is freedom from interference.
There’s no such thing as too much land, but it’s tough to be completely free from interference. Karens and self-important critics are everywhere, even in the Country. Acreage, however, makes it that much easier to not give a shit.
But what about the learning? What does acreage teach?
If you know, you know. If you don’t, ask a farmer, a rancher or a homesteader.
Living on land, even on this relatively small scale, grants us stewardship over our own province. We have authority to care for a patch of this Earth, the rugged surface under our feet and everything that lives on it and in it.
These rocks are our rocks, the trees our trees. The heavens above, blue or gray or black and starry, are our province.
At the same time, we learn that we do nothing without the land’s consent. We found that out quickly when we began creating our homestead — The Mountain always has the last word.
Dig a post hole. Site a cabin. Fell a tree. Burn trash. Our many whims are subject to approval, and we never forget that we’re not in charge here.
Within the balance between caretaker and servant is where the lessons are taught and, provided we’re conscious, learned. It’s where rural becomes rustic and lifestyle is transformed into life.
The challenges are endless. The rewards are beyond imagination.
And it happens nowhere else.
I wrote all that before 11am today. Deb was at work, and I’d already checked off my chores. I had the time and space to think through what’s been on my mind for quite awhile. Satisfied with the draft, I shelved it and went for a walk — a long walk to a place I seldom visit, deep in the woods.
The air on The Mountain still benefits from the thorough scrubbing it got on Monday. It’s clean, clear and unseasonably crisp. Winds are calm. It made for a great day to wander aimlessly.
Dogwoods will be at their peak by the weekend, something that I’m sure my Christian friends will find significant. We have them here and there along our side of the road. Inside the woods, sprays of the white blossoms are visible.
I noticed that many of the trees, mature and otherwise, are putting out leaves.
The Mountain reportedly was grazed at one point. We’ve seen neatly sawn cedar stumps all over the property, the trees probably harvested for fenceposts. We’ve also found barbed wire, notably near the well and beside the trail to White Rock.
Today I came across more, this time on the eastern slope. I dropped Gaia GPS waypoints so I can return to the spot. We plan to remove all of the barbed wire that we find, for safety’s sake, and perhaps turn it into adornments of porch, cabin and shed.
This evidence of the land’s earlier chapter is a hundred years old, maybe older. Along with traces of prospecting close to the summit, it sheds fascinating light on what was here before we showed up.
The woodswalking left me refreshed and maybe a little more tired than I expected. I came back to the homestead to find a utility truck parked next to one of the power poles along the road. The same two-man crew had been here yesterday, contracted out of Louisiana to check poles for rot and termites below grade.
All of ours passed the exam.
I opened the camper’s windows to let fresh air in, propped my feet up and napped.
As soon as Deb leaves work, and after completing security protocols, she calls me and we talk while she drives Home. Today I sat in a folding chair in the driveway as we spoke, facing west, loving Life.
Our girl Scout joined me, though she didn’t know why — until, that is, her mom’s orange Jeep rolled up the driveway. Suddenly, this 13-year-old dog with only two good legs became a puppy again, wagging and hopping and bounding with joy. And when Deb opened the driver’s door to get out, Scout tried to climb in to go for a ride.
It was a pretty great moment for all of us. Best dog ever.
Looking back over this post now, it seems I had a lot to say today. Thanks for stickin’ with me.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB