A Hurricane in Georgia
Helene Made Some Memories Here, Too
Rip-Roarin’ Gal Leaves Path of evastation Through Georgia Before ipping North
Buy batteries, ice, propane camp-stove canisters, charcoal, and lighter fluid
I can sleep through anything, so the first I knew of the storm was my wife waking me up around 3 or 4 AM on Friday morning, the 27th of September. Our old feist dog was whining and panting hard, in panic mode under the bed. The wind was howling and it was pouring sheets of rain. The power was off, so I retrieved my flashlight to comfort the dog. We had no idea what was really happening outside. No one was worried. No one was prepared. My preparation consisted of dropping the umbrella on the patio table, to account for wind. The only significant damage I could remember from a hurricane, outside of isolated tornadoes, was when Hugo came through in 1989 and caused significant treefall in some areas.
I live in the first planned suburban neighborhood in Aiken, South Carolina, and it is a large development. It is the kind of neighborhood where investors and hedge funds love to buy up homes to create …
Can animals tell time?
Sure — just not the way that we do
A day is a real thing
The morning sun comes in low this time of year. Across the field, the tall grass, yellowing as winter approaches, is limp with moisture. When wet, the leaves of madrones and hemlocks and firs appear to be a slightly deeper green. Drops of water are suspended just so, in architectural arrays, jewels which capture the sun and scatter it.
It’s spider season in the Pacific Northwest. And of all the myriad species here, it is the orb-weavers which enchant, building their perfect webs out in the open. Their webs are subtle when dry, subtle enough to catch insects large and small, nearly invisible. But now, when wet? They are art. Kaleidoscopes and mandelbrots, geometry made of silk and water and light. And then, they are gone.
The days become shorter. As they do, they become cooler as well. In this part of the world, the rains will soon begin in earnest, a segue from the perfect blue skies of …
Welcome to Bizarro Texas!
Deep in the jungles of the southern hemisphere lies an eerie version of my homeland; the natives call it 'Brazil'
Cattle auctions are regular TV fodder; their favorite drink is ‘the little redneck’
As rural culture is throttled and the countryside is depopulated, we await a future of economic bifurcation beneath the cruel lash of our overclass masters
It is a place from the nightmares of America’s elite metropolitan progressives. A place where there is a steakhouse in every neighborhood. Where the favorite drink is called “the little redneck.” Where new Ford F-150s sell out as soon as they are offered by dealers. Where crowds gather to watch football on TV, with their cheers echoing blocks away when their team scores. Where Pentecostal street preachers and televangelists are gaining ever-more converts and political influence. A place whose history is defined by both cattle ranches and slave plantations. A place where courtesy and violence are two sides of the same coin. The perfect target for a boycott.
Texas? No, Brazil.
Brazil is like a southern-hemisphere Bizarro World version of the United States. As a sixth-generation Texan, when visiting Brazil I confess that I feel more at home than I do in the American Northeast or West Coast. …
