Saturday, August 24th
I’m beginning this post knowing that I won’t finish or publish it today, Saturday. That breaks with pattern. Ordinarily, I’d skip the process entirely and pick up the next day, or the next.
I don’t know why today should be any different. It just is.
My shift away from habit began late yesterday, and strangely enough. That was when Deb told me over the phone, as she rounded the last bend in our road before reaching the driveway, that wild turkeys blocked her path — as in 20 of them. At least.
We’d never seen more than one at a time up here, and even then only rarely. Different.
This morning, we were surprised to find two whitetail does browsing the young trees in front of my parked truck. Wildlife of all kinds are re-establishing, coming closer to us every day, and staying. Different.
We boarded Mercy and set off on a circuit of errands, beginning with the post office. Our packages collected, I suggested that we take a quick detour to Allen’s Grocery in Summit. There we shopped impulsively — frozen jalapeño pierogi, Squirt, RC Cola, Moon Pies, Cherry Mash.
We took the back way to Flippin — Arkansas Route 202, dipping and diving down to Murphy USA, where we topped off the Jeep’s tank at $3.059.
Back on The Mountain, temperatures were climbing past the mid-90s. We traded Wrangler for Ranger and went out to visit neighbors. The ol’ Cajun fella who lives down on the subdivision road wasn’t home — “Gone fishin’,” according to his wife. We spent a couple of hours in relaxed conversation with the guys at the bottom of our road, and another hour with Deb’s cousin in his garage.
He has a new project truck. First I’d seen it.
And then we came Home and waited for it to rain. It didn’t.
It stormed, though.
Thinking back later on our running around this morning, I got to wondering about the ups and downs of our route. I plotted it on Google Maps, then selected “bicycle” as our mode of travel.
That displayed the elevation profile. I’ve included it here.
The graph shows that the town of Summit (863 feet AMSL) is aptly named. Just as noteworthy are our crossings of Crooked Creek — the two lowest points on the plot. Our Home on The Mountain, at 940 feet AMSL, is the highest.
I think about these things.
Sunday, August 25th
Gawd, it’s early — 4am, way too soon to be awake on a Sunday morning. Scout and Smudge both asked to go out, however, so here I am.
I made coffee, now waiting for it to brew. That’s been taking longer lately, a sign that it’s time to clean the coffeemaker — a one-to-one solution of water and white vinegar, run through twice and then flushed with plain water, should break loose the mineral deposits.
I’ll do that sometime this week.
Right now I’m thinking about something that RFK Jr. said the other day, when he announced that he was suspending his campaign:
“Instead of showing us her substance and character, the DNC and its media organs engineered a surge of popularity for Vice President Harris based upon, well, nothing.
“No policies, no interviews, no debates, only smoke and mirrors and balloons in a highly produced Chicago circus.”
He’s right — first the coup, then the manufactured appeal for a woman who’s demonstrably unappealing. We’re witnessing another coronation, not unlike the ascendancy and installation of the current occupant of the Oval Office, who proved repeatedly, over decades, that no one wanted him in that position.
It’s also clear evidence of who’s running The American Show. And no, it’s not POTUS FO-FO — he’s only a tool of the Permanent State, the Ruling Elite whose faces we’ll never see.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
And so the vapid Chuckles is instantly, miraculously “popular.” Despite her obvious unfitness for anything more consequential than the role of hostess at a seedy restaurant, polls show her well ahead in all historically blue states. She’s even favored to take at least three so-called “battleground” states.
Many of the smartest people I know say that Chuckles, the undesirable, unelected, engineered nominee of her anti-American party, has the inside track to be installed as POTUS 47.
I can’t tell you with any degree of confidence that voting for Trump will make a damned bit of difference. This election, like the last one, will be rigged, so I can’t even assure you that your vote will be counted.
But we have to vote. As citizens, it’s our sacred duty.
Let me be crystal-clear here — I don’t give a flying fuck about your cynicism. I don’t want to hear your lame-ass excuses. Act like an American, you lazy, self-righteous bastard, and vote.
First of all, I can promise you that your vote does count in local elections. That’s where your voice can be heard. That’s where the restoration of America begins. Vote.
But suppose, by accident or oversight, your vote in a federal election could make a difference. No, voting for Trump, by itself, won’t save America — but voting for Chuckles (or choosing not to vote at all) most certainly will, as Reagan famously said in 1964, “sentence [our children] to take the last step into a thousand years of darkness.”
Put another way, and to quote POTUS 43, “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.”
Vote.
Don’t vote alone — gather like-minded friends and neighbors and go to the polls together. Vote early if you can. And if you and your friends choose to vote by mail, you be the one to collect the ballots and drop them at the post office or county board of elections.
We’re at war with the enemies of Liberty. This election won’t end that conflict, because Democrats, progressives and the Ruling Elite never will surrender their control to our sovereignty. The pitched battle for our country — and our very lives — has no end.
Take a side. Choose your weapons. Stand and fight. Vote.
“Thirty years from now, when you’re sitting by your fireside with your grandson on your knee, and he asks, ‘What did you do in the great World War Two?’ you won’t have to cough and say, ‘Well, your granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana.'”
General George S. Patton. US Army (1944)
We got lucky this morning — the laundromat was wide-open when we got there. We unloaded our baskets into the warsh and returned to the truck to wait.
I settled in with what I picked up at Allen’s yesterday — an RC Cola and a Moon Pie (aka “The Working Man’s Lunch”). For dessert, I unwrapped a Chase’s Cherry Mash, another Southern delicacy.
And laundry got done.
Neighbors are becoming friends. This afternoon we were paid a call by the couple we visited after the tornadoes, down on the county road. Their homestead is less than half a mile from ours, but today they rode their quads a mile-and-a-half over the road to come to us.
He’s been a plumber for 50 years. They volunteered his experience and expertise to help us sort things out in the cabin — a very kind and absolutely invaluable gesture as we move forward.
We’re grateful.
The plumbing consult was followed by warm and candid conversation, as neighbors and friends will do. And though we sat in the shade of the awning, with a fan blowing on us, eventually the oppressive heat (a “feels like” of 103°F) got to us all, and after goodbyes they rolled back down The Mountain.
Now I have some work to do. More to the point, I have a better idea of the work I need to do next — framing.
This has been a satisfying weekend. I’m not sure I can tell you exactly why.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB