Posted in A loud howl
But Sen. Edward Kennedy beat him to it.
And thanks, RaceWire, for the link.
Posted in Guvmint
Posted in Balm in Gilead
Just in time for lunch, AlterNet’s list of Seven Most Heinous Concoctions, brought to you by your local fast food restaurant.
(But before you hit the link, see how many you can name without prompting. I got four. I spend far too much time in the drive-through lane.)
Posted in Modern life-as-we-know-it
Posted in Faith
Here. Now go out there and be a small-d democrat.
Posted in Modern life-as-we-know-it
I am old enough (and hillbilly enough) to remember a two-holer out back of Grandpa and Grandma Marrs’ house in Carterville, Mo. — which begs the question, of course: Why would any one want to share that intimate time with any one, no matter your relationship?
I was a small child when a flush toilet (and a telephone!) came to my grandparents’ house, and so I didn’t spend much time in the two-holer, but it was as natural to me as a television or a refrigerator. When they tore it down to use the wood on the garage, I was a little sad.
When we moved to our off-the-grid island on Saturday, the most engaging part – to me, anyway — was our compost toilet. I don’t know how tender you are, so I won’t show you the inside, but you go through the door, and walk up three flights steps to the toilet which is behind a wall. In other words, you can leave the door open and not be detected by passing muskrats. I, of course, always always always leave the door open.
Because I can.
That’s the sun shower bag hanging on the rafters. That’s my soap and scrubby-thing on the white chair off to the side. I fear I am no longer going to enjoy enclosing myself in plastic and taking showers back in civilization, but I shall manage. Having really hot water will make reentry that much more pleasant.
Because I am (I said this before) finishing up “The Alchemy of Air,” I am deeply interested in the idea of compost. I had a lovely compost pile at my old house (which I hope the new owners are enjoying) and it made all the difference with my gardens. You can throw just about anything in there — including human heads, if you have a spare one handy.
Which brings me to Last Night’s Incident: I have been asked by several friends if I am afraid out on the island, and I am not. I’ve spent some time out there by myself, and last night, my husband was in New York visiting our youngest, so it was me and the cat. I laid down to finish “That Old Cape Magic,” which ended up being just a tinge redemptive at the end — and fell asleep right after dark — which is kind of embarrassing, considering I don’t yet qualify for the early bird specials at restaurants and don’t need to be going to bed at dark just yet.
(Though it was good enough for the Grandparents Marrs.)
Along about midnight (I checked my phone), I was awakened by the voices of two men who were talking really loud about fish. They sounded like they were right outside the house, on the deck, maybe, so I threw off the covers to yell at them to get offa my land (well, not my land, but why argue ownership at midnight?).
As soon as I got to the door, I saw the guys were actually out on the lake, in a boat, and they were using inside voices that on the water became outside voices. I laid back down, laughing. I’d gotten my mean speech all ready for nothing. I’ll save it up. Surely there’ll be cause to use it soon.
Meanwhile, I’m off to my commute home — a short drive, then a shorter kayak paddle. Until tomorrow…
Posted in Balm in Gilead
From a 1983 speech at Liberty University (Jerry Falwell’s school):
“I hope for an America where no president, no public official, no individual will ever be deemed a greater or lesser American because of religious doubt — or religious belief.”
Posted in Balm in Gilead
