Back Home Again

When I asked about the racial history of my hometown, I was told we had nothing to hide. But the truth is much uglier.

I enjoy my annual review so much, I’m thinking of giving one to everyone in my family.

An ancient Native American ax sharpens one man’s thinking.

As a man without a TV, I’m disappointed in those who have one—and I’m always visiting to watch and tell them so.

Headaches are wonderful.

Slashing taxes sounds like a great idea. Until it isn’t.

The thrill of motorcycling is the point, the counter-narrative to the bubble-wrapped life of modern America.

“If a man or woman, at the end of their long and difficult day, wants to smoke a joint and relax, that does not impinge upon my happiness in the least.”

The immigrant I knew best went to church, volunteered as a Boy Scout leader, and helped his sick neighbors.

In my dream, I pass the day writing and reading, then enjoy the dinner my wife has thoughtfully prepared and carried up the hill to me. (It is a dream, after all.)

“I suppose even the exhilaration of preaching in a cowboy hat would wear thin after a while. I could try it and see, but even Quakers have their limits.”

“Charley has only one set of Case kitchen knives, so I might have to buy them before the 23rd to make sure no one else snatches them up. Otherwise, my wife will be getting a garden hose.”

“In my early years, my father cooked the Thanksgiving turkey on a Weber grill in our barn, a deeply spiritual experience for him.”

“The pendulum will swing to the center, the rumors of democracy’s death will have been exaggerated, and we can return to obsessing about the Kardashians. This is my dream.”

“This was back in the days when nuns wore habits, before they got sneaky and went undercover, dressing like the rest of us to blend in and catch us sinning.”