Washington s sober advice to the nation was that the liberties guaranteed by our new government were ours to lose, and that we would lose them if we didn t actively appreciate the essential revolutionary paradox.
By Brent Harold
In the Deming, New Mexico, La Quinta motel on Interstate 10 the friendly young woman behind the main desk was named Paris. When my wife asked her whether she had ever been to Paris, she replied that actually, she had. “And it smelled like pee.”
Try to figure out the politics of that.
In early December my wife and I drove almost across the country, to Tucson, Arizona. We were curious to see how Tucson manages Christmas without the miserable weather we New Englanders see as an essential element in the logic of the holiday.
It was a tough trip for two ancients (well, one ancient and one of a certain age), running the gauntlet of the virus, 2900 miles by the route we chose, five days, eight hours a day, most of it at 80 mph, in the terrain of the monster tractor-trailers, the dominant life form out there. It didn t take us long to start thinking of ourselves as road warriors.