Retarded ISIS Truckers Deliver Peace to Your Door


Inbred2Fifty generations of divinely encouraged Muslim incest has created a raft of retarded Jihadi truck drivers, too dumb to use firearms, who favor Islamic Frogger over the traditional cargo of explosives.

The tried and true method of mayhem, where a young Muslim loser loads a vehicle full of explosives and detonates it in a crowd, seems to have fallen out of fashion in Europe. The current trend is much more personal in that it involves mowing victims down in the name of Allah instead of smiting them with concussive force and shrapnel.

Despite a few close calls, I’ve never run over someone with a vehicle of any sort. However, I suspect it takes a special kind of zealotry to bear down on another human being in a Kenworth.

Maybe it’s the continent’s strict gun control that pushes Muhammed toward a Mack truck instead of a Mac-10 to punish infidels. Despite an instance or two in the beginning of the decade, America’s Islamic terrorists still seem to prefer firearms and the occasional homemade explosive device.

American terrorists at least have the stones to risk a gunfight.

This past November, one of the many ISIS media publications Rumiyah, extolled would-be lone wolves to plow into crowds with large vehicles. The bigger the vehicle the better.

Rumiyah seems to be a mixture of People Magazine and Mother Earth News for Muslim terrorists. It features martyr profiles, how-to tips and tricks, and what can only be described as Jihad of Dummies articles.

ISIS is known for its media savvy and ability to disseminate its message. Starbucks and Nike are second to the Islamic State in this ability. Coca-Cola would sell John Pemberton’s remains for the ability to filch a Pepsi die-hard as easily as ISIS radicalizes middle-class Muslim kids.

Europe is lost to ISIS and should be abandoned, in the absence of a second Reconquista to push them back into the Mediterranean.

A huge part of the Islamic State message is to kill infidels, but where does a socially awkward, Muslim Millennial from the suburbs learn the trade-craft necessary to create orphans and earn his place in the Virgin Valhalla?

Before the internet, anyone interested in subversive mayhem creation had to skulk around gun shows, pay cash to a sketchy, one-armed Vietnam veteran wearing mirrored Aviator-style sunglasses for a tattered copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, and risk several fingers in experimentation, as about half the stuff in the book was complete bullshit.

…Or, so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know.

Much was made a few years ago that human intelligence across the board was in decline, losing just shy of two points each generation since the Victorian era. In true Leftist fashion, much of the decline was attributed to smarter women figuring out ways to have fewer children. Nobody came out and said it like that, but that was definitely the message between the lines.

So, in my left handed way of looking at the world, a whole bunch of studies in the last decade discovered three things:

  1. Intelligence is heritable.
  2. Patriarchy keeps society smart.
  3. Women voting, pursuing careers, having access to abortions, and generally demanding to be treated like men has made us all dumber.

Clearly, feminism brings the highly entertaining movie Idocracy into reality.

Every once in a while, one of my children will miss turning in a school assignment, usually through forgetting it at home or something equally absentminded. More often, the teacher flubs it and doesn’t enter the score in the school’s fancy, automated grade ciphering web portal, so I get an e-mail advising me of the fact.

I’m looking directly at you, Miss Sullivan. Maybe you should pay more attention to detail instead of regaling the class with photos of your trip to the Jack Daniels distillery, so I would not have to call you at home over the weekend for such silliness. Waste my off time because of your incompetence, and I’ll be sure to waste yours.

I’m not terribly bright. Why in the name of all that is holy am I the smartest person sitting around the table at a parent-teacher conference? Oh, yeah. That’s exactly why I’m not a public school teacher.

My disdain for public school teachers aside, the effect of “zero” on an average is catastrophic. Even a below-average score thrown in seems to have a larger negative effect than an above-average score has on improving the average. At least, it always seemed that way in school.

Edit: It seems facts don’t care about my feelings. I just spent twenty minutes proving to myself the above perception is completely divorced from the reality of mathematics. That’s what happens when you walk your daughter to school because you’re both in the same grade.

Since intelligence is heritable and smart people are having fewer children, it does stand to reason that the remaining children bring down the average. So, exactly what sane nation would import people who further tamp down their average?

On average, Muslim nations are dumb, but still smart enough not to exacerbate the situation with bad immigration policies.

All the research I can find shows the average intelligence (as measured by IQ tests) of Muslim-majority countries to hover right around eighty. When the Muslim immigrant populations in the West are separated out, the average IQ score isn’t much better, at about eighty-six.

At best, that’s a full standard deviation below the mean of 100. My friends who took statistics in college tell me that is significant. This isn’t quite Forrest Gump levels of “special” (he clocked in with an IQ of seventy-five; a shade above being technically retarded and what used to be designated a moron), but with the general two point per generation decline doubled by the tendency for close parental kinship, the average Muslim is no more than three generations from being officially retarded.

Judging by the trail of evidence left behind by these geniuses and the level of assistance they need from the likes of Rumiyah to pull off their attacks, the current crop of Jihadis are at the crest of the retardation wave.

As a Portagee who makes his home in the Tennessee Valley, I have two strikes against me when it comes to the cousin-marrying stereotype. However, the last time that occurred in my family was my parents’ generation, and even then, it was an uncommon enough occurrence to be thoroughly scandalous.

Think of it like speeding tickets. Once in a great while isn’t too big of a problem for your insurance rates, but do it consistently, and trouble comes your way pretty fast.

Believe it or not, there is actually a formula for writing a joke. It consists of starting with a realistic premise, known as “the set up,” and progressing to the absurd, the “punchline.”

For example:

Q: What’s the most common thing said during sex in Tennessee?

A: “Get off me, Dad. You’re crushing my cigarettes.”

That fits the definition of a joke, and is generally considered humorous, because the punchline is so wildly unreasonable to the average listener as to be inconceivable. It may also be in bad taste, offensive, or shocking to the conscious, which elevates it to the level of hilarious. Protests to the contrary are both irrelevant and proof of concept.

The Aristocrats is the funniest joke ever told, but requires a degree of abstract thought less common further down the IQ scale.

Despite the self-deprecating nature of Southern humor, the scenario implied by the answer is universally frowned upon and generally considered justification for a beating, as long as it does not result in death.

Muhammed, the prophet, pedophile, and perfect man according to Islam, most likely would not see the humor, since the answer does not reach his threshold for unrealistic, a tenet of absurdity.

The hypothetical of whether Muhammed would have sex with his daughter, and would therefore be acceptable behavior for a Muslim based on the “Muhammed as paragon of male behavior” theory, is not supported by the Koran. However, the revelation that Allah said it was okay-fine for Muhammed to marry his daughter-in-law, along with a whole bunch of other oddly convenient revelations in Muhammed’s favor, make Muslim mores seem quite malleable.

Allah either loved him some Muhammed, or this guy was a sex fiend masquerading as a religious prophet.

Inbred4What is most definitely condoned by the Koran, in addition to child marriage, genocide, rape, slave taking/owning/trading, and wife beating, is inbreeding.

I will be the first to admit that the Old Testament has its share of practices found abhorrent in modern culture. The difference between Islam and the rest of the civilized world is Christianity went through a reformation where the most unsavory aspects of the religion were purged. Mainstream Islam behaves as if we are still wandering the desert and talking to burning bushes.

Much like the Pharos, who incidentally were Greek (Black Lives Matter hates when I point that out), and European royalty until fairly recently, there is a price to pay when the family tree does not branch.

Despite fondly recalling the eighth grade as “my senior year,” I have continued to learn. As a farmer, I have a practical understanding of how genetics work, both good and bad.

Believe it or not, intentionally breeding related animals is a technique of selective breeding to accentuate and solidify desired traits in an animal. The downside is that it also accentuates and brings out undesirable recessive traits. The running joke among animal breeders is bringing forward the desired trait is called the respectable sounding “line-breeding,” but a screw-up that creates an undesirable trait is the dreaded “inbreeding.”

This is why different breeds of animals have specific looks, exhibit specific behavior, and display specific temperaments. This is also why the ailments of many purebred dogs are predictable; the undesirable recessive gene has been cemented in the breed’s DNA.

Of course, the answer to these genetic goofs is to cull ruthlessly. The dirty secret of animal breeders of all stripes is that we kill a lot of baby animals for no better reason than they do not look or behave the way we expected. “Keep the best and eat the rest” is my mantra…Then again, I don’t breed dogs, so this might not exactly apply to other people.

Puppies wag their tails because we kill the ones that don’t.

A civilized people does not cull defective human beings, whether still in the womb or not. There are notable exceptions, but the reason we remember them is because of their barbarity. With enough barbeque sauce and a lack of cellphone cameras, you could probably convince me and most of my buddies to try eating puppy-kabob, but none of us would snuff an Autistic because he’s a pain in the ass to take care of.

Likely as not, he’d probably wind up the designated driver. Those young men with Downs Syndrome always strike me as the responsible sort to ride herd over a gaggle of drunks. It must have something to do with the neutral expression and stern, even delivery of a rebuke.

I was only kidding. The degenerates I associate with would insist cell phones were recording while chowing down on a bowl of Sum Young Dog.

Fourteen hundred years of Mohammed-sanctioned and Allah-approved consanguineous marriage, and downright incestuous extramarital sex with virtually whomever or whatever the man desires (because the Koran says he can), has created an entire religion whose average adherent is violent, prone to mental disorders, and borderline retarded.

Is it any wonder why the United States and rest of the civilized world doesn’t want them to have access to nuclear weapons?

Inbred1And the fun doesn’t end when they escape the septic tanks from which they spawned. Every European nation desiring large amounts of unskilled labor, needing a wide tax base to support their social welfare programs, or gripped by a guilt complex over endorsing Hitler has imported these half-wits on the hope that, as a group, they possess the mental wherewithal to join the modern world.

Large numbers of them clearly don’t.

And if Muslim behavior, as seen in footage of street harassment of non-Muslims in no-go zones, riots in refugee camps over lack of cash payments for pocket money, and the oh, so cerebral, enlightened pastime of a rape game called “taharrush gamea,” is any indication of what they tolerate, the only conclusion is these countries have a collective cultural death wish.

At least, Rome put up a fight to keep the invading hordes out.

After literally creating modern civilization, if not the very concept itself, Europe has allowed the utter destruction of civilization to begin by inviting the barbarians behind the city walls.

Inbred3Well over half of Pakastani immigrants in England are married to their first cousins. Over forty percent of the patients in Denmark‘s biggest ward for clinically insane criminals are Muslim. Back home in the United States, the Somali population in Minnesota, which to no one’s surprise is exclusively Muslim, suffers from significantly higher rates of Autism, physical consanguinity-caused birth defects, and IQs below seventy.

Literal morons, by the eschewed medical terminology.

Europe is the harbinger of America. It’s only a matter of time before our Muslim terrorists find firearms too complex to operate and cars become the go-to weapon for striking down us infidels. Maybe it has something to do with the prevalence of Muslims in the transportation industries?

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Carpenter Bee Catcher Review


20170416_160512Carpenter bees are thumb-sized termites bent on destroying barns. My plan was simple. The best ones usually are, but God and bees laugh at the best laid plans of mice and men.

Impulse buys are interesting things. They are products you didn’t know life was possible without prior to walking past them. They are like pretty girls you catch a glimpse of in traffic. They grab the eye, cause the heart to flutter, and often result in a traffic accident.

Knowing my barn is being slowly shot thru by Carpenter bee tunnels, I’ve been on the search for a way to control the little beasties that won’t poison any of the other critters roaming the farm. The bees are smart enough not to get near the chickens, and offering the kids a dollar per bee carcass was a bust.

The current generation completely lacks entrepreneurial drive.

Investigating the price of hog chow at one of my local feed stores, I came across the insect trap pictured above. The girl at the counter assured me the device was designed specifically for Carpenter bees. The idea being the little hardwood chewers make their way through one of the holes and then can’t find their way out. I assumed the plastic jar was for easy bee body removal.

Exactly how and why the bees would wind up in the jar of death was a mystery, but I’m a trusting sort, who assumes everyone knows more about farming than I do. That’s generally a safe assumption.

Verdict: Don’t waste your money for this design.

That stupid little bee trapping box has been hanging in the feed closet of my barn for a month, and hasn’t trapped a single Carpenter bee. I’ve killed more of the boring little buggers with a feed scoop than that contraption has captured.

Since Carpenter bees like making their homes in hardwoods, I’m wondering if the pine the box is constructed out of just isn’t attractive to them. Or, maybe, the bees aren’t interested in going to the trouble to leave their current abodes.

I’m not sure what the problem or the solution is, but I know this Carpenter bee trap isn’t the way to go. It’s just another fifteen dollars wasted.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works and consider becoming a supporter. Patronage will get you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapter.

I Know You’re Mad at United but… (Thoughts from a Pilot Wife About Flight 3411)


If you want reliable transportation, don’t fly. It’s the nature of aviation. Getting bumped sucks, but throwing a tantrum and screwing over a few hundred other passengers isn’t the way to deal with it.

The Pilot Wife Life

If there’s one thing I have learned over the years, it’s that there arealways two sides to every story.

On April 9th, a very unfortunate incident played out on United Flight 3411, the video of which has since gone viral causing a mass social media uprising with an ‘off-with-their-heads’ mentality. I mean, across the board. Fire ’em all and let the gods sort it out later.

Look, I get it. When I first saw the video I was appalled too. To say that it was inflammatory would be putting it mildly. But it was also a situation that was escalated far beyond the boundaries of necessity.

If a federal law enforcement officer asks me to exit a plane, no matter how royally pissed off I am, I’m going to do it and then seek other means of legal reimbursement. True story.

Knowing what I know about airport security, I’m

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A Face Made for Radio


img_20161221_092635780_burst001-1In a first for me, I’ll be live on the Rocky and The Gonz Podcast this Friday, March 17 from 9:30 to 10:00 pm Eastern Standard Time. Listen the buttery smooth voice associated with all the rantings you’ve grown to love.

Listen to the podcast on demand, if you can’t make the time. Or listen to it again, if I made a good point and you were just too drunk from St. Patrick’s Day to remember.

Trump Deports Margaret Cho


panda1American born, LGBT activist and rumored comedienne Margaret Cho has been deported to China in what Cho’s representative calls a misguided and racist miscarriage of human rights by the Trump administration.

Wait a minute. Pandas aren’t Korean. And Margaret Cho isn’t terribly funny, either. So, let me double-check my facts.

The difference between a panda and Margaret Cho is that I would cuddle with a panda after sex…and pandas are funny.

Donald Trump isn’t the first president to fight the treachery of China. You have to go all the way back to Richard Nixon’s visit to China and their white elephant gift of “loaning” the United States two pandas.

The National Zoo in Washington, DC has shipped a three-year-old panda, named Bao Bao, to China. In one of life’s magnificent ironies, Bao Bao the panda is the only instance of the United States exporting something to the Celestial Kindgom.

Expect this panda’s anchor baby to sponsor his family for US citizenship in the next few years.

Bao Bao the pampered panda is traveling by air in a crate the size of a double bed, so he can stretch out and relax, while his personal keeper and veterinarian keep up a constant stream of bamboo over the sixteen-hour, non-stop flight. The last thing you want is an animal that eats thirteen to sixteen hours a day to get cranky from hunger pangs.

I hope I’m reincarnated as a panda. I can’t get my company to pay for business class.

The Chinese are a clever people. They invented gunpowder and silk and noodles and border walls. They invented trickery, too. Their slanty eyes and bucked teeth are a government sponsored cosmetics surgery program specifically designed to get the round-eyes of the world to drop their guard.

panda2What other explanation is there? The damn Chinese tricked the country into establishing a breeding program for their pandas.

Pandas are the vegans of the animal world. These picky sons-of-bitches not only refuse to eat anything besides bamboo, but they’ll only chow down on two of the eighty-six varieties.

If my kids were as picky eaters as pandas, they’d starve.

Pandas are one animal that should have gone extinct years ago. They deserve to die out. Not only because pandas are more difficult to feed than a lactose intolerant, gluten sensitive, vegan albino with irritable bowel syndrome, the furry beasts won’t breed to save their species.

Search the internet all you like. There are only a handful of photos depicting real, live pandas mating, and I suspect they are different angles of the same pair. They’re terrible at it. I found more photos of people dressed as pandas having sex, which was disturbing in itself and something I discourage everyone from seeking out.

It’s easier to get white millennials to reproduce with each other than convincing pandas to get it on.

The San Diego Zoo has three of the remaining dozen pandas in the United States. I assume they are the same trio I never managed to see in the decade I lived in the area. It wasn’t for lack of trying. My family had annual combo-passes to the zoo and Wild Animal Park for at least half that time, so we went frequently to get my money’s worth. Each visit to the zoo included a trip to the panda enclosure, but luck was never with us. Our timing was always bad. The pandas were always at a vet appointment or a field trip or in time-out for biting a zookeeper on the ass.

Until one day, when we caught a break.

Past the signs admonishing visitors not to speak above a whisper on pain of being tasered by zookeepers, Mrs. Cunha and I passed out animal crackers (oh, the irony) and jugs of Bug Juice to the kids to keep them muzzled. In harsh tones and stern looks from video monitors, generic Asians in Mao jackets explained that pandas are sensitive, artistic animals, easily triggered into fits of PTSD by sudden movements, loud farts, and presentation of conflicting opinions.

These snowflake pandas are as bad as Antifa feminists at a Milo Yiannopoulos university speech.

Approaching the rail that overlooked the panda enclosure, our hearts buoyed at the prospect of finally seeing a God-damn panda. What we found was a plywood cutout of a panda holding a sign that read, “Sorry, folks. We’re feeling under the weather.” Clearly, this was a common enough occurrence the zoo people went to the trouble of making a reusable, long lived sign.

I ran down the nearest khaki safari outfit to express my dismay and displeasure at the dearth of pandas in the panda display.

If I had my way, we’d turn every one of those pandas into bathrobes and invite the nearest Chinese embassy to the Panda-B-Q that Sunday.

The perky young, blonde information kiosk confided the pandas weren’t really ill. Ping Pong was heat, so they penned her up with Ding Dong in the hopes a romantic afternoon together would encourage them to start pumping out little pandas. However, I was in luck, because a Panda Cam had just been installed in their little love nest.

panda3After schlepping the kids from the other end of the county to trod an asphalt midway in the summer son, the thought of voyeuring queer pandas in night-vision over the internet in the hopes they do some panda stuff was not high on my bucket list.

Even if I want my kids exposed to panda porn, I’m sure there are more efficient ways.

That’s why the Chinese kick our ass in trade. They take poorly camouflaged cousins to raccoons with the dietary requirements of a kosher anorexic and convince America to create a breeding program for animals so blasé about the survival of their kind they can hardly be bothered to screw.

If Donald Trump wants to make America great again as much as he claims, he will deport the rest of those alien pandas and their anchor baby cubs. That will teach China. Let them breed their own pandas.

And send Margaret Cho with them, for good measure.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works and consider becoming a supporter. Patronage will get you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire


img_20161102_144452712Fires on farms are catastrophic events. When the farm in question is your homestead, it has the potential to be catastrophic, since both work and home are in danger of being reduced to ash and charred bits of metal.

“Yah bahn’s on fiyha,” my neighbor’s New England accent emanated from the cell phone, muffled by wind and road noise on both ends of the call. I needed him to repeat what he said, while the meaning sank in.

There are some pieces of news that catch you flat-footed; a parent’s death, being laid off from a job, a positive pregnancy test, a Cunha graduating high school. The possibility was always understood, but never really expected.

Grandma fondly recalled the eighth grade as, “My senior year.”

Having grown up in California, I’m well acquainted with wildfires. However, contrary to the widespread rumor, none of them had anything to do with turkey frying mishaps.

img_20161102_144138867_hdrThe upshot of having a significant portion of your farm burnt is you get to meet all your neighbors. People I’ve only seen in passing, and several I didn’t know existed, came from all points of the compass to gawk and shake their heads. I briefly considered charging admission.

The embers smoldered for several days, giving off an ethereal show at night that is likely the closest I will ever get to seeing the Northern Lights in person.

Tallying up the damage was sobering. Half of the hay field was burned, along with burning the undergrowth and saplings in virtually all of the white oak stand at the back of the property. A bunch of fence was destroyed, both by the fire and the firefighting efforts. What really hurt was the loss of my hay barn packed with most of this year’s hay crop.

As it turns out, “flammable” and “inflammable” mean the same thing. Hay is both.

img_20161102_143910623_hdrI pride myself on being a gallows humorist, but make no mistake, there is little to find funny in the ashes. The insurance adjuster must have an appreciation for dark humor, as well, since he didn’t make any notes when I mentioned the barn also contained an original copy of the Declaration of Independence, the Ark of the Covenant, and several lost Picasso paintings.

With a nod to the sense of humor and understanding of my insurance adjuster, here are my best attempts.

  • Wasn’t there a scene in Bambi like this?
  • We won’t have to worry about deer freeloading from the field for a while.
  • I bet this is what Hell will look like.
  • Mrs. Cunha was disappointed the firefighters bore no resemblance to her calendar.
  • My daughter wanted to know why they didn’t bring a Dalmatian with them.
  • It was a barn-burner of an afternoon.
  • Feel the Bern!

If you ever find yourself on the wrong end of a fire (and I’m pretty sure there is not really a “right” end of a fire to be on), here are five things to keep in mind as you sift through the ashes.

Fire is hot

“No kidding, Fire Marshall Carlos,” you might be telling yourself. What I mean is things that get caught in a fire stay hot for a surprisingly long time. The heat was still noticeable through the soles of my boots when I walked around surveying the damage the next day, and there were still pockets of what I suspect were large roots that were still smoldering just below the surface.

Check buildings and equipment because the heat from a fire radiates a surprising distance. Turn on faucets to ensure the water flows and test underground power lines with a voltmeter. Plastic pipes, wire insulation, and even panes of glass will begin to melt and deform well before combustible items around them show evidence of heat and flame.

Gear up

The natural reaction to this type of catastrophe is to assess the damage. Mrs. Cunha and I were inspecting the losses while trees were still on fire and fence posts were still smoldering. It’s a natural reaction, and for most of us who are not part of the volunteer fire department, gives the property owner something to do besides standing around worrying. I won’t begrudge anyone taking what action they are able, just don’t get yourself in trouble. Take a battle-buddy, take some communication, and leave the damn dog at the house.

Wear your heavy boots, long pants, and gloves. If you’re a Safety Sally, I won’t fault you for taking a hardhat, eye protection, and long sleeves. Wear what you think is appropriate. Taking along a tool like a hoe or a metal rake is a good idea, since you will likely want to pick up or dig out something that I guarantee will be too hot to touch.

Inspect often

You’re first tour through the debris will be overwhelming. Not in the sense that it gives you PTSD (or it might, depending on what you’ve done in life), but fire changes the look of the landscape in such a significant way that the woods I was hunting a few days prior were near unrecognizable. The sights and smells and feel of everything will be alien. It takes a second to process what was a fourteen-foot tall barn when I walked by yesterday is now eight inches high.

The first month, I averaged walking the woods or the field every other day. After that, I poked around the trees a couple times a week for the next month. Each time, I found something new that made my heart sink; another break in the fence, another bulldozer gouge in the hillside, a marketable-size tree charred past use as lumber and now firewood, if I’m lucky. You’ll find something new each sortie for quite a while, so take all the pain now.

No touchy, touchy

Whatever you do while poking around the ruins, keep in mind that you are traipsing around in a crime scene. Well, not really, but kind of. It’s better to err on the side of caution than to do something that jams you up later. Let me explain.

Several different people were inspecting the damage in the course of this whole thing. There was a report from the fire department that included input from the forestry service, three visits by insurance adjusters, contractors for building estimates, and a survey by a certified forester. Starting the clean-up process too soon might very well have affected an accurate calculation of the loss sustained. Do yourself and your pocketbook a favor by suppressing the urge get everything back to normal until everyone who needs to take a look has done so.

Not all is lost

At some point in this process, you will have a solid grasp of the losses. We were lucky. There was no loss of life, people or animals. We lost a structure, some agricultural products, and a bit of future profit. Losing livestock would have been terrible, but losing humans would have been devastating. I have nothing to offer that will help fill the void left by loss of a loved one, but short of that, everything is replaceable. We will amend the field and crops will grow again. Burning out the undergrowth will likely help the trees in the long run.

img_20161225_170713399Heck, seven weeks after the fire, the grass had begun to poke through the charred earth enough to lure a couple of does into the open. I filled my freezer with one of them Christmas afternoon, so maybe there is something good to pluck from this entire mess.

In a spurt of optimism in my prowess as an apex predator and putting aside her pique at me for delaying Christmas dinner for butchering a deer, Mrs. Cunha purchase a stand-up freezer for all the wild game she expected to be dragged back to the house. We didn’t see another deer the rest of the season.

That’s about how life goes.

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.