Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Yavapai County, Arizona, is a lot of dirt, rocks, and heat. I spent a few weeks outside Prescott once. The heat index was 140. It was so hot the Prescott Daily Courier reported that local chickens were laying omelettes.
She never fired a shot at Camp Perry, but her fingerprints are on a thousand targets. She never wore a medal, but she helped hang hundreds around the necks of others. In every generation of American rifle shooting, there are traces of Mary Kay Wigger—the quiet force who kept the team on time, in line, and always believing they could win.
Most of us are aware of the kind of anti-Trump propaganda the legacy media loves to disgorge. It’s easy to spot and just as easy to refute. What’s not so easy is when the media ignore stories or events that may reflect positively on Donald Trump, Republicans, conservatives, or anybody else who refuses to buy into their leftist woke dogma.
The news reporter said the dog was from Rustburg, Virginia. The dog is named Sweet Sienna. She has become a celebrity in this state. It all happened a few days ago in Campbell County.
Seldovia, Alaska, sits somewhere near the top of the world. It’s a nanoscopic village on the North Pacific. Population 225. Tons of fishing boats. A lot of cold, icy, Kachemak Bay water. A few days ago, a local spotted something huge stranded on the beach. It was a minke whale. About the same length as a mid-size Toyota.
I want to tell you a story. In February of 1979, a 7-year-old named Chris Grecius, of Scottsdale, Arizona, found out he had leukemia. It was the end of the world. No, it was worse than that. It felt like the end of a family.
It was the third time my flight had been delayed on the same day. I was alone. I had been trapped inside the Fayetteville airport since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.
My plane hovered over Fayetteville, Arkansas, preparing for landing. The elderly lady in the seat next to me was gripping the armrest. She had been using aggressive armrest etiquette throughout our flight.
I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, I read every email, letter and message I receive. Many of these messages are questions. So I’ve compiled the most common questions in a letter
She was a youngish mother. Her son was maybe 10. They had the whole playground to themselves. She wheeled his chair along the rubbery mat, and they were playing make-believe.
They cut down the old oak tree today. It was an enormous tree. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen. I was on my walking route when I heard the chainsaws running. I stood by the curb and watched the young worker crawl up the trunk and take it down from top to bottom.
It was a big park. A big city. The man was sitting on the sidewalk. Directly on the ground. And he was barefoot.
The angels all got together. The chairman angel banged his gavel on the bench. The community center gymnasium was noisy with angel voices. There must have been billions of them.
There were two men who went fishing. The first man was old. He moved a little slower on account of his arthritis, his bad hip, and his recent hurt knee. The second man wasn’t even really a “man” at all, technically. He was a boy. The young man was brimming with energy, skipping ahead, swinging his tackle box.
I arrive at the Opry House a few minutes before rehearsal. My guitar and fiddle cases trip the metal detector, so the security guard makes me open them.
I don’t know if they have radios in heaven. But I hope they do. I hope the angels find one tomorrow night (Saturday). I hope they tune this radio to 650 AM WSM, Nashville. I hope you listen to the Grand Ole Opry. Start to finish.
Ring, ring.
I answered the phone. “Hello?” I said, disguising my voice.
“Is this Sean Dietrich?” said the little girl’s on the phone. So grown-up sounding. She gets a little bigger every day.
When Joe turned 18, he was going to join the military like his dad, the officer, wanted. But there is a well known saying in the military, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken excrement.” We are who we are.
Dear Sean, I’m useless. It seems like the world just doesn’t want me here anymore. What happens if I give up and send myself same-day shipping to God? Would it truly be a loss?
There’s no more fight in me.
When I was just a kid—maybe 10 or 12—I met a man who would leave a quiet but lasting impression on my life: Eugene Lofton. To me, at that young age, he wasn’t just another face on the firing line; he was something extraordinary