I don’t know where I came across the article originally, but I bookmarked it to return to and read through at my leisure, because the title and bit I skimmed were so intriguing. I’m so glad I did.
The local food movement has been big out here long before it really became a thing—which shouldn’t be surprising, since this region has a lot of agriculture and a fairly long growing season (and a lot of hippie types of all ages). Newly ensconced in one of the oldest sections of town one year ago this month, we were very happy to see that several homeowners nearby had converted their boring lawns into prime gardening spaces. A few have really invested in their urban gardening, constructing attractive raised beds and filling the area around them with warmth-hoarding rock.
In the course of conversations about many of the high profile incidents being used to further the efforts of politicians and socialists of all stripes, especially the gun grabbers, the thing that came to my mind over and over was the question: by what authority? Why do so many people assume, or even enthusiastically agree with the idea that politicians, bureaucrats and "law enforcement" entities and personalities have some absolute and undeniable authority to do whatever it is they do, and to force that on all the rest of us who do not agree with their plans?
And I have a mission for 2013.
I'm not done reading this yet, but it is powerful stuff and well worth a look. Download free or read on line.
Rats! Your guide to protecting yourself against snitches, informers, informants, agents provocateurs, narcs, finks, and similar vermin
By Claire Wolfe
with the Commentariat of the Living Freedom blog
If one has paid any attention recently to the cost of real money in US FRNs, one knows it’s been vacillating a lot after a fairly substantial drop. I think we’re close to a bottom now and would like to highlight a good way to start accumulating it—or even better, adding to one’s position.
I carry a gun - Get over it
By Susan Callaway, Editor
July 30, 2012
I carry a gun. All the time, just about everywhere I go except to bed and the shower. Even then, a gun is within a foot or so of my hand all the time. An occasional trip into the disarmed victim zone of the post office, and my last (and I do mean last) trip to California to visit family are the extreme and very temporary exceptions.
And I am long overdue in acknowledging three stalwart gentlemen whose shoulders have helped carry me further than my grownup self sometimes thought I could go.
This article is from the current issue of The Price of Liberty. I like to think it is one of my better efforts, and have been surprised at how little feedback I've gotten after posting it on a number of freedom and gun rights message boards. A little discouraging.... but I guess that's just life these days. Anyway, thought I'd share it with you here as well. Comments are, of course, most welcome.
I Love My Guns
By Susan Callaway, Editor
April 02, 2012
Some recent comments on various message boards frequented by shooters indicate that a few people are either changing their minds or are bowing to the politically correct pressure of the day. They have begun to assert that they do NOT "love their guns" and only view them as necessary tools.
While I couldn't agree more that guns are simply tools, pretty much like any others, I don't know why that would make them unlovable. Most men love their tools, all different kinds, and men have always loved their guns. I'm certainly not ashamed to join those men.
But, you might ask, just what is it that we (who still profess it anyway) actually love about guns? Aren't they killing machines, good only for harming others? We hear that a lot.
So, why do I love my guns? Let me count the ways.
I find it extremely interesting that two of my dearest friends—neither of whom are going through an upheaval similar to mine—recently wrote me, musing about the intricacies of the different types of freedom. In reading their words, I realized that a choice I made a few years ago has created challenges for me today.
Meteorological spring also brought another spring to my life this year ... one that was very slow in arriving but has already proved well worth creating.
[Originally published April 2005]
I have never been concerned with my age, or aging in particular. Like my approach to race and sex, my approach to a person’s age—including my own—has always been: “You are what you are and you can’t (easily) change that”. Even so, as the silvery strands populate my crown more thickly, I can’t deny that I have been thinking more about the effects of the years—and miles—upon myself.
The impetus for this introspection has been the recurring topic of growing older in an email conversation with a very good friend. Being of like minds, it’s been mostly a positive exchange. I think we’ve helped each other with what might otherwise have been some rough spots, since it’s hard to completely ignore a culture that seems perpetually enamored with youth and firm, lithe bodies. When she mentioned that an acquaintance of hers recently celebrated her 50th birthday by throwing a “crone party”, the idea resonated with me very strongly. Why not celebrate an important, and potentially rich time of life—and the achievement of getting there?
I remember my grandmother calling the lines at the corners of her eyes “crow’s feet” when I was a youngster. The term horrified me, then and now. To me, the lines weren’t ugly; they were the sign of a face that had smiled and laughed much, enjoying the sun and wind and weather. I see the beginnings of them at the corners of my eyes, and instead of feeling a sinking dread, I welcome them. They’re reminders that I, too, have enjoyed much in my life thus far.
Similarly, my once-flat lower abdomen now curves a bit, a testament to my body's production of two children. As I enjoyed being pregnant very much, and enjoy my children, that new curve is a mostly pleasant reminder of two very special times in my life. To use a Heinleinian phrase, my baby-chewed breasts are softer now, but I wouldn’t trade their previous firmness for the many hours with a baby in my arms, gazing into his or her eyes as my body nourished theirs.
These days I’m moderately fit, instead of the very fit person I used to be—also something I refuse to feel guilty about (most of the time—again, those messages are hard to totally ignore). My life is so full that devoting the time it would take to maintain the body I once had is not a choice I want to make. I want to play with my children, who can’t hike, rock climb, or ski (yet); I want to savor the time spent reading a good book; I want to exercise because it feels good to feel my body stretching and moving, not because I have to maintain buns of steel.
I also refuse to count calories, or fat grams, or any such silliness, even though my body seems more likely to want to store excess than it has before. I’d much rather enjoy a decadent chocolate cake, a glass of red wine, and good conversation with beloved friends, and be a little wider in the behind for it, than be obsessed about thunder thighs and the Atkins diet, and be skinny and alone night after night.
I hope that I’ll be around to savor the intense spark of life in a grandchild. My mother railed against this sign of aging more than any other, and I’ve never understood that. What could be a more precious affirmation of life than creating new life—passing a bit of your spark into the future?
When I see a woman with stunning silver hair, I find myself hoping that when I’m completely grey, my hair is as gorgeous as hers. If not, I may just color it—something I’ve never even contemplated before—as a celebration of cronedom and the unique beauties it offers. I certainly will not cut it almost completely off, then curl, comb, tease, puff, or permanent the remnants, until I startle at my own appearance in the mirror every morning. My mane will remain long and flowing for as long as I’m able to care for it, or have someone willing to do so—and when someone isn’t, then it’s time for me to go.
My underwear—and nightwear, when I choose to wear it—will continue to come from Victoria’s Secret or similar place, even though I never have and never will look like their models. Must one be under 35 to appreciate the glissando of silk on one’s skin? Or even better, the caress of satin under an appreciative lover’s hand? Both feel better now for having slept in some of the interesting situations I’ve found myself in over the years.
In short, as I progress into another phase of life, I fully intend to drink fully of its offerings, learn as much as I can from both its pleasures and its pains, and do things the way I want, rather than the way “little old ladies” are expected to. That’s the way I have always been. Why should I stop when I become a crone?
It’s been said before that I’m a mutant. Maybe I am. But I see no value in denying what one is—who one is—for the sake of fitting in with a culture that is in many ways profoundly unhealthy. To me, becoming a crone is an important milestone, one well worth celebrating.
I think I’ll begin planning my crone party.
Never really intended to have one, much less create it myself. But after a conversation with Lobo this morning, one fell in to my mind—and it seems practically perfect in every way.
I’ve been keeping an eye out for news from Belarus in the wake of the bombing. As is typical of our media, now that the bleeding is over, their eyes have mostly turned elsewhere. Having Belarusian friends provides more of an insider’s view—as does the experience of Lobo and the snolfs, freshly returned from a visit to that part of the world. The contrasts between the situations—and people—of that country and this are rich in irony.