Maggie's Farm

"People sleep peaceably in their bed at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

- writer unknown, but often attributed to George Orwell

Our friends' son and his Navy Seal team have returned home after their second six-month posting in Wherrizitstan. Their well-being has been in our prayers every day.

My daily thoughts about these good, tough men is part of what finally motivated me to get my flag up.

Seeing it hanging or flapping there each morning when I step out (yes, it is illuminated at night) is a good reminder to me of many important things. I recommend doing it for that reason.

(Buddy comments that they returned minus one of their team. It's hard to know what to say.)

More equally silly photos at Doug Ross -

Related to the post below, the Obama administration's agenda, at Powerline.

I have never doubted that this was the essence of hopey-changey, which is why I did not vote for him. These people do not like their country. I do.

One snippet of Krauthammer's Oct 5 speech at the Manhattan Institude on foreign policy (h/t, Gateway):

The whole speech is here. Worth the time.

Every Grain of Sand (1981)

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There's a dying voice within me reaching out somewhere
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break
In the fury of the moment I can see the master's hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name
Then onward in my journey I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other time it's only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

Here's Emmylou Harris singing it:

Congrats to the BD pup, who found out that he passed the bar today and who is having some good fun writing some real new case law for the judge for whom he is clerking.

With your wedding to a true sweetie in August, a new place to live, and a cool job - you have been blessed this year.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young

An email:

Jimmy Carter.
Al Gore.
Barack Obama.

Some of the greatest leaders of our time, and all Nobel winners.  This can be no coincidence!

h/t Theo -

My sister sent me her snap of the peak of Mount Madison, NH, last weekend, with her hiking buddies (and hubbie) up ahead. They are in good shape. Snow and ice up there already -

The horny, raunchy but appreciative Going to Acapulco, from the 1967 practice Basement Tapes with The Band (which were never meant to be publicly heard). Lyrics here, but he doesn't always stick to the lyrics - Dylan often invents new ones as he sings.

Returning to the dock after an afternoon/evening shoot. A well-stocked bar awaits (always with the Spicey Clamato), with wild game hors d'oevres (like wild duck liver pate with cognac, stir-fried Coot breast with garlic, soy sauce and scallions, fried duck gizzards, or sweet and sour wild duck wings), then a great dinner. My favorite is the beer-batter fried Walleye, fresh from the lake. Afterwards, Port and Cuban cigars around the fire while telling lies and distinctly non-PC jokes. Not too bad.

Where is the electric from? Rented diesel generator on a trailer. Chugga chugga chugga.

I pledge allegiance to the debt

Here we go again. Dems plans for Urban Renewal. How did that work out last time?

How Hopey Changey is strangling our economy. Tiger. I hear the same things from businessmen. Including from Coyote.

Confessions of a Middlebrow Professor

Wilkinson: Cap and Trade is ritual self-flagellation

Even if you're not in the union, you have to pay the union to work on a Federal project.

ACORN threw out Repub registrations. Surely that is a Federal crime.

Is Washington studying the wrong war?

Free money in Detroit. Obama delivers! But wouldn't a bus ticket to Texas, where they have jobs, be more useful?

Isn't accusing Muslims of homophobia a bit Islamophobic?

Mark Steyn

Readers know that I like to hunt on the northern end of Lake Winnipegosis in the first week of October. Having just returned from a 2-week trip to Europe, I couldn't really do another week so soon. Thus Gwynnie and some other Maggie's Farm pals are up there without me.

Here's the old private duck hunting club where we stay. It's an old log structure with rough clapboard covering.  Open only 6 weeks per year. Females not allowed except for the cook and housekeeper. It's 13 miles from the nearest "town," which consists of a tiny old general store (duct tape, chewing gum, cigarettes, batteries, work gloves, wool hats, rope, Coco Puffs, milk), a liquor store, and a gas station, all on one dirt parking area. Mostly Indians up there, and some Ukrainian farmers.

One of the equipment shacks - a 100 year-old log cabin:

 More photos of the fine old club below:

From a NY Review of Books look at three new books on Warhol, one of my favorite art critics, Arthur Danto,

...called him "the nearest thing to a philosophical genius the history of art has produced."

Rembrandt had an art factory too. Interesting article.

For the past four days, we have been visited by the noisest Eastern Screech Owl I have ever heard. For an hour or three at dawn and dusk he doesn't shut up, and drives the pup nuts. Maybe it's the full moon that is doing it?

I have always been fond of these little owls, but they are rarely seen, just heard. I hope this guy sticks around.

Here's a sample of their calls, but their calls are more varied than that.

This old hillside pasture is worn-out, but it does produce a good crop of Goldenrod. Unfortunately, there is no market for it.

Via Mr. Free Market, we learn that the furthest point from a McDonalds in the USA is 145 miles by car.

Duane Allman (h/t Riehl)