Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
When America moved to the city, the hunter stayed behind. Today, roughly 80 percent of Americans live in urban areas.
That migration broke the generational hand-off—the unspoken chain of grandfather to father to child.
Today is Veterans Day. Given that only 6 percent of the people of this nation have ever put on a uniform–including those currently serving–I am not sure many Americans have any idea why Veterans Day is a holiday.
I got to thinking about the ever-growing list of things you can’t do anymore. And I’m not talking about the big things, such as smoking unfiltered Camels in the maternity-ward waiting room. Actually, it’s not a “maternity ward” anymore. It’s the “labor and delivery unit.” “Maternity ward” is a sexist term implying that only women have babies.
When Congress passed the Pittman–Robertson Act of 1947, it did something rare: it trusted ordinary citizens more than bureaucrats. Hunters agreed to tax themselves—an excise on firearms, ammunition, and archery gear—to restore the nation’s wildlife. Every box of shells, every rifle sale, sent dollars straight to state conservation agencies. No congressional earmarks, no political games.
The Baptist church in Brewton was decked for a funeral. Men wore ties. Women wore dresses. The occasional elderly woman in a floral hat was seen wandering the premises. You don’t see many floral hats anymore.
We were burying the preacher today.
Each Veterans Day weekend, a gathering of Army friends–bound by service, stories, laughter, and tradition–reminds us that shared rituals and gratitude knit together the history and heart of every community.
When my grandfather was born, they still used horses and buggies. One third of Americans were farmers. Irving Berlin was a household name. Newspapers were the only form of mass communication available except for maybe shouting. Entertainment was different, too. People entertained each other. Books were luxury items.
Taylor Swift’s new single “Wood” is what happens when superstition, sexuality, and self-help memes all get tossed into a blender, set to a drum machine, and poured over a pile of sparkles. It’s catchy, sure. But somewhere between the “knock on wood” line and the anatomical metaphors, it’s clear she’s playing with ideas she doesn’t fully grasp—like a toddler with a theology textbook.
The following is a true story. The little girl was walking with her mother. They were taking a stroll through the hospital garden, bathed in the dappled sunlight of early afternoon, looking at all the flowers in bloom.
Dear Kid,
Don’t grow up. Don’t turn into an adult. That’s my advice. Resist adulthood. Be a kid forever.
Right now, a lot of adults are angry in America. To be fair, we have a lot to be angry about. But adults can behave badly when they are angry. So please forgive us.
The airport was slammed. We checked in at the kiosk. Checked our luggage. Then stood in a four-mile line so that TSA agents could fondle us. Then we rushed to our terminal, hauling our baggage, just in time for…Our flight to be delayed.
It was a rural area. Hundreds of acres of almond trees. The scent of organic fertilizer filling the air. Two farmworkers were repairing a broken tractor near Avenue 8 and Road 23 ½ in Madera County. That’s when they noticed something. The men saw a school bus on fire.
So, while this isn’t the biggest immediate issue to resolve, it is indeed the biggest longterm issue: what can be done to reduce the harm of future shutdowns?
The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.
Yesterday was All Saints Day. A holiday that was started during ancient Rome, when Christians were killed for sport. “Hallows Eve,” was simply a prayer vigil traditionally held on the night before this holiday. A holiday intended for remembering martyrs.
We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment. Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee.
Remember the Yugo? That tiny, boxy, bargain-bin miracle that proudly declared, “Yes, I’m new, but no, I won’t last the winter”? For a brief, shining, oil-leaking moment in the mid-1980s, America fell in love with the world’s cheapest new car.
I sort of raised myself. My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.
Natalie Grabow, of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, has just become the oldest woman to finish the Ironman World Championship Triathlon. Amazingly, Natalie only learned how to swim around age 60. Today, Natalie is 80 years old.
It was late. I pulled into the campus after seven o’clock to attend my last class of the semester. My last college class. Ever. It was a night class. In America, most self-respecting people my age were finishing supper, settling down to watch “Wheel of Fortune.” But I was in school. I had been attending …