December 2, 2016

A Hard Place To Leave…

Category: News — admin @ 5:30 pm


But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home,
why had he thought so much about it and remembered it with such
blazing accuracy, if it did not matter, and if…it was not the only
home he had on earth? He did not know. All that he knew was that
the years flow by like water, and that one day men come home again.

—Thomas Wolfe

He walked into the door at work one day a few weeks back. And I didn’t think anything of it as I got up to meet him at the counter. A young Amish man. Married, with a nicely trimmed little beard. His young daughter walked beside him, hovering close to her father, looking around with large and wondering eyes. I greeted him. And he smiled and greeted me back. Then he got to telling me what he had come for.

He needed a few parts to finish up a sliding door at his father’s commercial manufacturing shop. He told me the name of the place. I knew his father. A nice guy, but very conservative. I’d always taken the father as a South Ender. Not sure why. I had no reason to, except for the way he looked, maybe. His full, long beard, and some remnants of hard, mirthless laughter. I can usually tell a South-Ender from those two components alone.

The thing is, I can look at an Amish man and tell you a whole lot about him, just by looking. I mean, I’ve always prided myself in that ability. I can tell you if the man is real plain, or somewhat progressive. Whether he’s modern (a relative term, when discussing the Amish, I know), middle of the road, or hard core plain. So it didn’t compute, in my head, when I connected the slicked up young man before me with who I knew his father was. Oh, well. It didn’t matter. I leaned over the counter and just got to talking with the guy.

And we figured it out, there, in the next few minutes, what he needed to finish up his project at his father’s shop. I wrote up the invoice, and smiled over the counter at his little daughter. And I asked her, all conversationally, in PA Dutch. Vee bisht Du hite? (How are you today?). She smiled shyly, astounded at my words, then shrank up a little closer to her father. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch, or anything. And just about then, his eyes landed on the little poster I have taped to my computer screen. The poster about my book. He looked sharply at the wording, and the picture, a much younger looking version of me without a beard. And then he looked back at me.

And he asked me. “Did you write this book?” It wasn’t an accusing tone, or anything. Just conversational. Yes, I said. I wrote that book. And he asked a few more questions. I told him. I have copies of the book right here, by my desk. I’ll sell you one, signed, for fifteen bucks. He hesitated a bit. And I moved right on in to close the sale. I really think you should buy one, I said. I’ll sign it. I think you’ll find it very interesting. There’s no money back guarantee, or anything. But I really think you would enjoy the read.

He chuckled, then. “You know what?” he said. “You’re a good salesman. I’ll take a copy. You convinced me. But I don’t have any cash on me. Can I mail you a check?” Absolutely, I said. Just send it to this address, to my attention. I took a book from the box beside my desk, and asked his name and his wife’s name. He told me, and I signed it to them both. I handed the book to him, and he took it from me. His little daughter stood, silent, wide-eyed, watching.

And I told him what I tell everyone I sell my book to. I hope you enjoy the book. Let me know what you think of it, when you stop back again. “I will,” he said. He signed for the stuff he came for, and I sent him out to the warehouse to load up.

And I thought about the young man, off and on, that day. The Lancaster County Amish are different from the places I grew up in. At least a lot of them are. Just like this young married man. He was open. He didn’t look at me all sideways. And he actually bought my book, to take home and read. I wondered what he’d think of it. Ah, well. I’ll probably never find out, I thought. I had never seen the guy before, and there was little reason to think I’d ever see him again. I didn’t fret about it, just mulled things over, in my head. I wonder. I wonder. I sure wonder what he’ll think of my book.

Well, it turned out I didn’t have to wonder long. Exactly two days later, the young man walked in again. I greeted him. He needed just a few more parts for that sliding door. The job was almost finished. Not a problem, I said. And then I asked him. Did you get the book read? I’m not sure why I thought he might have. It had been only two days since he bought it. But I might as well ask, I figured. I’ll probably never see the guy again.

He grinned at my question. “I did get it read,” he said. “I sat up late the last two nights, reading. And I got it finished late last night.” Wow, I said. I’m pretty impressed. And then the thousand dollar question. What did you think of it?

“Well, you sure can write,” he said. “My wife is reading it right now.” He leaned on the counter, and we stood there and talked for a few minutes. “You had a lot of turmoil, in your life,” he said. Yes, I said. Yes. There was a lot of turmoil in my life.

And he asked. “Was your home life hard?” I never thought much about it, that it was, I told him. There was turmoil inside, but I never connected that with a hard life on the outside. I mean, my world was what it was. It was the only world I knew. And we had a lot of really good times, there at home. As a family. I enjoyed life with my brothers. I just never thought about it that way, that my home life was hard.

He nodded. “I hear that,” he said. “But it made me think. All that turmoil you had made me think. I want my home to be a peaceful and loving place, a safe place for my children. I want them to be comfortable, living there.”

It was an insightful thing to say. I looked at him. A young Amish man with small children, telling me he wanted his home to be a safe place for them, that he wanted them to be comfortable, living there. And he wasn’t thinking just today. He was thinking about what he had read. A tormented 17-year-old kid getting up in the middle of the night and walking away from the only home he had ever known. He was thinking about how he never, ever wanted his own children to feel that desperate and alone. He wanted his home to be a hard place to walk away from. A hard place to leave.

Not because of how things should be, from laws and legalism. But because of love.

And I thought about all that. I had never made a connection between my inner turmoil and an unhappy home life. Mostly, I think, I took the blame on myself that it could not work, that I could not be content, that I could not abide with my people. And I think, too, looking back on my father’s generation, and the generation following him. An observation like that would likely have been as foreign to them as anything they could have imagined. And I don’t blame them. It’s just who they were.

They saw hard things, my father and his peers. Hard times were all around them, when they were little children. They saw hunger, real hunger, and real poverty. They saw tramps with ragged knapsacks walking down dusty roads, unsure of where they were going or where they would sleep that night. And unsure of where their next meal was coming from.

In a setting like that, in such a world, I can’t imagine that there was a whole lot of reflecting going on about whether or not your children felt safe or welcome or comfortable at home. It was just assumed they would be grateful for the security of family. Not a lot of processing going on, there.

It all was what it was, I guess. And it all is what it is, now, too.

The Amish are not a monolithic people. That has been one of my persistent observations, scattered through my writings from the start. Rules and customs vary greatly from community to community. In the mid west, especially, each little settlement holds jealously to its own unique identity. This community won’t fellowship with that one, and that one won’t have much to do with the other one over there. And the other one over there looks down bemused and condescending on the first two. I mean, that’s just how it is in the Amish world I come from. Or at least a lot of how it was, way back when. And most people in all those little scattered settlements would scorn my book as a vile and unclean thing, that should not be touched or read. Because it speaks of things that should not be spoken.

And I’ve written about it, too, here and there. The Lancaster County Amish are a people separate and apart from all the rest of the Amish world. Blue bloods. Established. And very fascinating to me in so many ways. I guess that’s why I ultimately chose to live in one of the largest Amish communities in the world. Among my people, but not a part of them.

And I find it strangely comforting that among the Lancaster Amish, there are young men like the young man who read my book and came back and told me what he told me. How all that turmoil of my early years made him think. Made him evaluate what it is to have a safe and welcome home for his family. Made him think of his children, and how he wants his home to always be a safe refuge for his sons and daughters, whatever they are going through in their lives.

How many Amish fathers of any age think of such things, how many take such thoughts in their hearts and ponder them? I have no idea. I just know it’s more than it used to be.

And I find that a comforting and beautiful thing.

Well. I must say. I’ve rarely been as proud about calling something as I was the day after the election. The Friday before, on my last blog, I told my readers. I have consistently proclaimed from the start that Trump is gonna crush Hillary like a bug. There, publicly, when all the world told me I would be shown as a fool. I can’t claim to have any divine foresight, or anything. Sure, I read a few signs, but mostly I just stood by what I said and believed in. Well, he sure crushed her like a bug where it counts, anyway. Electorally.

It’s been delicious and fun, to see and hear all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth going on. The viperous rage and madness of the left erupted instantly, its intensity has only increased. The more those people scream and shout and throw tantrum after tantrum, the more irrational and boorish they act, the higher Trump’s support soars among the common people. Of which I consider myself one.

It was beautiful thing to see, the race. It was a scary thing, too. Trump stood against all the world. One man, alone. He connected with the downtrodden masses, as no one has before, ever. And he pulled it off. Such a thing has never been done before in the history of this country, and maybe in the history of the world. Here is the most brilliant and incisive analysis I saw of what it was.

“They laughed at him when he announced, they sneered at him even as he was winning the primaries, and they unleashed more venom than an army of rattlesnakes when he won the Republican nomination, even as they claimed he was headed for a Goldwater-like defeat. The American ruling class lives in a world entirely separate from that of their subjects: even as the peasants with pitchforks gathered in the shadow of the castle, they never saw the Trumpian revolution coming.”
—Justin Raimondo,

I expect no miracles from Trump, although I believe his enemies will keep right on underestimating him. Which will be a good thing. I figure he’ll get some good things done. But the fact that he won, that he beat the establishment and cast out the vile harpy, that fact alone is more than good enough for me. Not that I won’t judge him. I will judge him severely, but in only one area. I will judge him by how many wars he starts or doesn’t start. How many bloody conflicts he avoids or engages. He’s less a warmonger than the harpy would have been, that much simply cannot be denied. The Neocons were chomping at the bit to get a nuclear war started with Russia. Hillary was all willing and eager to lead that. Now, that possibility has at least diminished.

Still, innocent blood is innocent blood. I will judge every drop of such blood that flows because of the policies of president Trump, it doesn’t matter where, all around the world.

And one more thing in closing. Totally random, but important, I think, because it comes to mind as I write. Some areas of Mennonite culture and faith are hard, hard places. Not all. But some are. I’ve communicated with my friend, Trudy Harder Metzger, who emerged from the Russian Mennonites. Her stories have always shaken me. She came from a hard core place of superstition and darkness. As did a whole lot of other people. Compared to their journeys, I’ve said before, my own emergence from the Amish was a mere stroll through the park on a sunny day, with maybe a picnic lunch thrown in. And I hadn’t really thought about any of all that lately until this past week.

On Tuesday, over my lunch break, I was scrolling down through Facebook when I saw the link and title. How Pacifism Can Lead to Violence and Conflict. By Miriam Toews (pronounced “Taves”).

It was about the Mennonites. Intrigued, I brought up the article and read it. I was instantly drawn into the rare quality of her voice, and the beauty of it. And drawn into some of the most powerful and moving writing I have read in a long, long time.

She came from a dark and hard place, like my friend Trudy came from. I went and looked up her credentials later. But that moment, as I devoured the words she wrote, I realized. This woman came from a way harder place than I did. She feels no need to moralize. She just tells the story of her broken people. A bleak and brutal world, in all its heartbreak and misery and bondage and depression. You figure out the lessons yourself. That day, that moment, Miriam Toews gained one more lifelong fan. I will go and buy her books and read them. It doesn’t matter if she swears, or uses bad words in her novels. She’s real.

She has quite the literary record, it turns out. She emerged from the Mennonites in Manitoba, Canada. She ran away from that place when she was eighteen, and never looked back. And she took the educational track. Went to college and honed her writing skills. And then cranked out her first novel (Nah, look it up yourself). She has won many literary awards and has been lauded by “literary” giants like the New York Times, Chicago Tribune, and Boston Herald. Usually that makes me suspicious, when I see an author splattered with accolades from people like that. This time, it’s real, and it’s deserved. I finally have some grudging respect for literary awards.

Read her stuff. Compared to her voice, mine is raw and untrained, like a little Amish boy piping up out of turn, an Amish boy who graduated from eighth grade in an Amish schoolhouse in backwater country.

None of all that matters much, I guess. You speak because you have to. I’ll keep on writing, however rough my voice. I hope Miriam Toews keeps on writing, too.

November 4, 2016

Vagabond Traveler: The Curse…

Category: News — admin @ 6:22 pm


For by your words you will be acquitted,
and by your words you will be condemned.

—Matthew 12:37

The winds of autumn swept the land. You could feel the season from the way it bit you, and from the smell in the air. And on this day, it was late afternoon. The road was deserted, the road that snaked in and out of the forest, then out again into the badlands. If you looked to the east, along with the slanting rays of the setting sun, you could just make out a small figure in the distance. The figure loomed larger as the moments passed. And if you stood there, looking, you would realize. That dim figure was a man, striding along. A traveler, passing through on a journey.

He walked alone. And you saw, when he walked up close. He was tall. The thing that defined him was his long black coat. Strapped across his waist, it hung down past his knees. The high collar almost obscured the traveler’s face. Almost. But still, you could see his features glinting in the mix of sunlight and shadows. A handsome, high-boned face. Bearded. You could not see his eyes, because his wide-brimmed leather hat was pulled down low. But you could sense it. His eyes were seeing you.

He’d been around. You could tell, by the way he walked. And by the way he was armed. He had two weapons. Well, at least two that you could see. Who knows what was hidden under that long black coat? And the weapons you could see were these. Strapped across his back was a well-worn leather scabbard. Protruding from that scabbard, ready to the traveler’s hand, across his right shoulder, was a great two-handed broadsword.

And that broadsword was probably the main reason you’d think twice, before accosting the traveler. Not that the sword was the only thing he carried. Far from it. It was just the most intimidating. A loaded leather backpack was strapped across his back. Below that, a bedroll. And a canteen attached to his belt, carrying precious water. A few other pouches hung loosely, here and there, from the traveler’s lanky frame. His most ready weapon was always in his right hand. A sturdy oaken walking staff. And you could tell, by looking at that staff, and looking at the way it was carried, all comfortable, like an extension of the traveler’s arm. That staff had cracked more than a few skulls, had opened more than a few doors, out there, somewhere along the way.

Other than that, the traveler wasn’t all that intimidating, really. Just a guy, walking along. His face looked a little worn and tired. There was a scar of some kind, slashing across his right cheek. His long gray hair spilled down from the edge of his broad-brimmed hat, and splayed across his shoulders. On this day, in this place, this would be what you saw along that road. Such a traveler as that.

The day was ending. The shadows slipped ever longer, ever closer. The traveler approached a stream off to the side of the road. He scanned the area for a good place to camp for the night. He found it, a flat high spot hidden among the bushes. Out of sight. He unlimbered his packs, and laid down his staff. But not his sword. Then he walked about, picking up small branches for a fire. He gathered enough for the night, and lit a fire as the darkness settled around him.

Always alert, always wary, he kept scanning the edges of the night. He sniffed the air, too, now and again. The monster was out there, that he knew. He’d been stalked now, off and on. for a long time. Months. No, years. There had been face to face confrontations, and a number of hand to hand battles. The traveler’s broadsword had bitten deep. The monster had been wounded. But not killed. And it would never stop stalking its prey until it was confronted and turned back. Either because it got slain, or because it fled. This much the traveler knew.

He settled in beside his small crackling fire. From a pouch in his backpack, he took a few pieces of hardtack, and a few slices of dried, salty meat. He ate, and washed down the meager meal with gulps of water from his canteen. After eating, he sat there motionless, legs folded crosswise, head bowed, as if in deep meditation. Then he stirred. Restoked the fire, then stretched out on his bedroll, the great broadsword close to hand. The monster attacked only at night. And a fire burning close was the only thing that deterred it. The fire burned, now. But still, it was best to be prepared. Keep your sword close. The traveler drifted into fitful slumber.

The cold hours passed. And he awoke with a start. The dark, dead night was all around him. He glanced to where the fire was. A few dying embers flickered. He jolted to full alert. The monster was close, out there. He could smell it, he could feel it, he could sense it. Quietly, he reached over to the little pile of sticks he had collected the evening before. He set a few pieces on the embers, then stirred the coals with another stick. A weak flame flickered, then flared to life.

As the fire intensified, the traveler looked out to where he could sense the monster. And he saw it. A pair of greenish eyes, glowing in the darkness. He flinched. But then, with the ease born of many such confrontations, he reached for his broadsword on the ground beside him. And then he did a strange thing. He pierced the ground with the sword, so that it stood between him and the glowing eyes, in the shape of a cross.

And then the traveler spoke. Go away, vile beast, he said in a firm voice. I command you to leave this place, under the sign of this cross. Leave, and be damned. The greenish eyes glowed more intensely for a moment. It seemed like the monster might attack. But then, the glowing eyes drew back and grew dim, then disappeared.

The traveler stoked the fire with more sticks, so it burned brighter, hotter. Then he stretched out again on his bedroll. The sword-cross loomed above him like a protective shield. And soon he drifted off to sleep again.

The next morning, the traveler was up and about with the dawn. He washed up, there in the stream, then ate a quick breakfast of hardtack and dried meat. And water from his canteen. A traveler’s diet is pretty bland, he thought to himself. By tonight, he figured, he would be in the city. The city. A strange place he had always shied away from. But now he was walking there because his choices were getting ever more limited. He had figured it out, not long ago. There was a man in that city who could guide him to a place where he would be free from the monster that pursued him. He hated the city, and all the teaming masses of people there. But he hated the monster more, and he resented the unrelenting energy it took to constantly face and battle the thing he feared.

And so there was a choice, he knew. Walk into that city, walk into that crowded, teeming place, and seek advice from his friend, there. Or stay out here in the wilderness, and fight the monster again and again, in a never-ending running battle. Until he killed the monster, or it killed him.

He was tired of all that the monster kept demanding. Ever more concessions, ever more encroachment. Darkness. The battles could only happen in darkness, because that’s when the monster chose to show up. And the monster had taken to showing up way too often, lately. The traveler was tired of it all, the constant pursuit, the constant threats, tired of weary battle after weary battle after the sun had set.

He had figured to get away from it all a few months back, the traveler did. And he walked to the sea, and camped there on the shore. He planned to stay there for a week or so, to get himself cleaned out inside. The sea, the incessant roaring waves, always spoke to him, always calmed his soul. He looked forward to breathing deep the salt air, and for healing for his wounds. He looked forward to long sunny days, and peaceful, sleepy nights. And he settled in by the shore, to welcome it all in.

And that first night, the monster showed up out of nowhere. It had stalked him, even to this place. Emboldened and hungry, it moved in and attacked. Even the campfire could not deter it. It just came lashing in. And the traveler was forced to draw his sword, and fight. He had little energy. But he kept fighting on, all night, slashing and getting slashed. The monster fled with the light of each new day as it came. And that was the traveler’s only reprieve, that whole week. He huddled in a corner every day, trying to rest up for the battle he knew the monster would bring to him that night. He soaked it all the way in down deep, the despair and fear and shame. It was a terrible, terrible place to be.

After a week, the traveler finally stood, and battled his way out of that place. And he took off, across the vast expanse of wilderness to the city on the other side. This time, his face was set. This time, he would stay the course until he got to where he needed to go. This time, he would do what it took to cast the monster out.

And on this day, late in the afternoon, he saw the city beckoning in the distance.

As dusk settled and darkness closed in around him, he walked through the city gates. A short time later, the traveler was relaxing and eating real food and drinking real drink in the house of his friend.


I’ve written it before, right along as it happened. Last spring, there was a lot of turmoil going on inside me from a single source. And I decided to go see Sam, my old counselor friend, for the first time in years and years. In May, I walked into his office. And in that first session, I told him what was going on, and what I needed to get cleaned out inside me. I want to be free, I said. I got some serious writing coming on, and my heart needs to be free to get it spoken right. I will do what it takes to get there.

I went back and saw Sam once a month, since then. And every month, we broke through to new and better places. I figured it was going to take a couple of years to get to where I needed to go. Well, with Sam pointing out the way, things moved along a lot faster than I thought would be possible. I walked toward some hard things and faced them, and spoke light from the darkness. It’s amazing, what happens when you do that, how you can break free from the chains that bind you.

But somehow, the monster always returned, always came roaring back. And it wasn’t until I got back from the beach a few months ago, that I finally figured out what the problem was. Why the monster kept stalking me, kept coming back, kept showing up at night. The turmoil that was going on inside me, it was based on a curse I had spoken in rage more than two years ago. And that curse was the last thing I spoke at the person who had enraged me. Words. Simple words. Spoken from my heart. Words of rage and cursing.

And Sam patiently kept talking to me. He never told me what to think. Never said, “this is where you are going wrong.” Instead, he quietly asked questions, made me speak of where I was and how I felt and why I thought it was the way it was.

And it gradually came to me. Words. I’d heard it in sermons all my life. Words define who you are. If you speak cursing, that curse will stay and affect you. If you speak blessing, those words will stay with you as well. But still. I fought it hard. I flinched and hedged and squirmed and dodged. No, no. I don’t want to reach out with new words. But my wise friend in the city never let it go. “You claim to want to be free,” he said. “You know what needs to be done. It can be done in your own time. Later, rather than sooner, if that’s how it will work for you. But it must be done.”

And so I did it. Reached out, with words of restoration. Reached out, with words of healing. And I felt it, almost immediately. The power of those new words. The first time the monster came up at me after that, I held up those words like a shield. No. Those old words now have no more power. I rebuke you, vile monster. I claim these new words as my own. Those words stand between me and the old curse like a wall. The old words are dead. They will never return.

And I was totally amazed at how it all worked. I mean, you hear this stuff in sermons all the time. It’s standard preacher fare. But until you go out and actually test the promise for yourself, you really got no idea of what it feels like when it turns out to be all it claimed to be. And now, before me, a new road rises.

One morning last week, I went to see Sam for the sixth time in as many months. We talked about things, and I told him of this new place. And I told him, too. When I first walked in here, I told you I want to be free. Today, this morning, I can tell you that I am where I wanted to be back then. I think we’re done here, at least for now.

Sam agreed. “Your heart is where it needs to be,” he said. “I bless you on your journey. Come back and see me when you need to. You’ll know, if that time comes again.”

We stood there, just inside the door of his office. Then we shook hands. Then we hugged. Thank you, I said. My friend. Thank you for showing me the way.

And then I turned and left him.

On the morning of his departure, the traveler walked out of the city gates as the sun rose in the east. He had rested well during his stay at his friend’s home. Now, his backpack bulged with fresh supplies. His broadsword blade gleamed, wickedly honed to a razor edge. He walked along with fresh energy, his oaken staff stumping along. Down the winding road, back out to the wilderness. Back to where he belonged.

The morning passed as he walked along, whistling a merry little tune. And by noon, he had reached the edge of true wilderness. Miles and miles from the city. To his left, a great gloomy forest, so thick you walked in darkness whenever you walked there. To the right, way, way out on the horizon, desolate wastelands. Sparse. Dry. Where not much could grow.

The traveler walked along as the road snaked into the dark woods. Surrounded by great trees on both sides now, the sun’s rays barely broke through to where he was. And suddenly he halted, abruptly. Threw back his head, and sniffed the air. His right hand instinctively reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his broadsword.

The monster. It was out there, close, lurking. He could smell the stench of the beast. And then the traveler did something very strange. He turned and walked directly into the thick woods, right toward the place where the smell was strongest. Through the underbrush he crashed, broadsword in hand. Walking slowly, deliberately, steadily.

And now it was the monster’s turn to flinch. What in the world was going on, here? The man was coming at him, sword in hand. Not rushing. Just walking. And the man was not afraid. The monster could smell fear in people. He had stalked the traveler mercilessly for years. And always, he could sense it, the fear and rage and shame. Not now, though. The monster turned and slunk off, deeper, ever deeper, into the darkness of the forest.

The hunter had turned into the hunted. The afternoon wore on, the early shadows moved in, and still the traveler pursued the beast. In a small clearing, then, as the sun was sinking in the west, the monster turned to confront the man.

The traveler stepped into the clearing. And there, a few hundred feet away, the monster crouched. I’m not sure how to describe a monster. It looked kind of like a dragon, I guess, except it was incapable of breathing fire. And it was wingless. Otherwise, it was scaly, clawed, with a long snaking tail. Ugly as death, it crouched there, baring deadly yellowed fangs.

The traveler walked slowly to the center of the clearing. There, he stopped. The monster crouched and snarled. And then the traveler bent, and placed his sword on the ground. And his staff. Unarmed now, he stood, facing the monster.

And then the traveler spoke. You have pursued me, stalked me these past two years and more. His voice was calm, steady. We have fought each other, hand to hand. I have cut you hard, and you have wounded me. There were times I sank so low that I wanted to die. Twice, my heart nearly gave out. And once, I walked right up to the gates of death. Even then, when I came back to travel again, you couldn’t wait to stalk and attack me. It’s been a running battle ever since. And you came closest to winning, down by the sea. Almost, you had me, there. The traveler paused. The monster still crouched, still snarled. But it made no move to approach or attack the unarmed man before it.

You are a vile beast, the traveler said. But you know what? You are what you are, and your nature is what it is. It was my own fault, that you ever had any power to make me fear you. I spoke a curse, a few years ago. And because of that, because of the darkness of those words, my defenses were weak. So weak that a monster like you could make me flee. Make me run. The traveler paused again. The monster listened.

I have spoken new words now, the traveler said. New words that offered restoration and healing. How they were received does not matter. What matters is that I spoke them from my heart, and meant them. Those words have blocked the curse that haunted me, they now stand between you and me like a wall. You have no power over me, and I no longer fear you.

And now, I speak to you one last time. I’m telling you. Be gone, vile beast. And know this. I swear to you. If I ever catch you lurking on my trail again, I will hunt you down and kill you with my sword. I’m not talking about other monsters in your family. I know some of them will pop up, down the road. They always do. That’s just how life is. And I’ll deal with them when they get here. I’m talking about you, and this specific curse. This specific time and place. These specific circumstances. I am done. I will hunt you down and kill you if you ever threaten me again. Understand that. Now, go.

They faced each other across the clearing for a few more moments. The hunter and the hunted. A man and his nemesis. And then the monster turned and disappeared into the underbrush. Bushes and branches crackled underfoot as it blindly fled.

Alone now in the gathering dusk, the traveler turned and picked up his sword and staff. He looked around. This clearing would make a fine camping spot. A rough camp. He was tired. He would sleep well. He spread out his bedroll, then took food from his backpack and ate. And then he settled in to sleep, pulling his bedroll tight around him. The night air was a little chilly.

But not chilly enough to light a fire.

Alrighty, then. And now we are here, in this place and time. I’ve shied away from saying much about the upcoming election, at least on this blog, I have. On Facebook, well, all’s fair in all-out war.

I have cheered for Donald Trump from the second he stepped up to announce he was running. I cheer for him today. Since that day, he has single-handedly exposed the vile and evil establishment for what it is. Never in all the course of the history of this country has the ruling class been so united to demonize one man. They have been exposed now. Never again will these “beautiful people” be able to claim they’re looking out for anyone but themselves. The funny thing is, they could not knock The Donald down. He’s still standing, and he’s dishing it right back at them, when they demonize him. I love it.

This country is done. I will tell you, if no one else will. It’s done. It’s an overstretched empire, addicted to endless murderous wars, and it is doomed to collapse upon itself. This is the judgment of history. And history will not be kind to the American empire.

It will be what it is, I guess, next Tuesday. From the beginning, I have publicly proclaimed that Trump is gonna crush Hillary like a bug. And now, here, on this spot, I’ll stand by my proclamations.

I hope Trump wins. We all better hope that. The country is doomed, either way. Trump will keep it going for a few more years. If the corrupt harpy Hillary wins, I’m going underground, at least when it comes to politics. Her grating voice alone is fingernails across the chalkboard. I cannot bear to hear her speak. She is a vile and despicable person, a monster breathing lies. If she is elected king, she will unleash a curse upon this land and over all the world. Mark these words, for they are true.

So. Go, Trump.

And finally, how about that World Series? Unbelievable, is what it was. The two teams that had not won since before I was born. Well, the Cubs had not won since before my father was born. Not since before the Titanic sank. Let that sink into your brain for a few moments.

I had no dog in the hunt for either team. Still, I leaned to cheering for the Cubs. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the lovable losers. And my brother Titus has always cheered for teams in Chicago. The Bears, the Blackhawks, and the Cubs.

There were times when I almost could not watch. Still, I hung out at Vinola’s at least twice, with friends. A loud merry time was had by all. And when the Cubs battled back from a 3-1 deficit, everyone could feel something special was coming down in Game Seven.

I sat at home and watched. Didn’t figure I would last until the end, and I almost didn’t. Rumors had been flying on Facebook that the Second Coming of Christ would occur when the teams were tied in the ninth inning of Game Seven. And by the time the Cubs blew their lead and the score was tied after nine innings, I would not have been the least bit surprised had the heavens split open and had the Lord returned with a great shout.

Instead, the Lord sent a rain delay. Exhausted, I went to bed. Of course, sleep would not come. So I got back up after half an hour or so. The Cubs had scored two more, and were leading into the bottom of the tenth.

It could not have been a closer game. When the final out came, the Cubs were standing. Eight to seven, was the score. Along with millions of others, I sat there and absorbed this historic moment. The goat curse was gone, rebuked forever. The lovable losers were World Champions. They are World Champions. You gotta love a story that ends like that.