Out canvassing yesterday, Adrienne & I hit the foothills where road frontage gives few clues to the great tracts of land behind its ramshackle houses.

We only talked to three people, but we talked to them at length.

First up was a vigorous man who looked to be in his 70s. His accent placed him as an Eastern European transplant. He lives in the Peaceable Kingdom! Cats, goats, sheep, hens, and peacocks wandered the property; no dogs or horses, though, which I thought was an interesting choice.





He lives in the Decker House, which was built in 1730—very old for the New World!—and has its own New York State Historical marker:



He had a grievance: Over a year ago, the golf cart he uses to haul feed to the sheep who live on the back acres of his property was taken for a joy ride by some miscreant teenagers & ditched about a mile from his property. A neighbor discovered it, and not recognizing its provenance, alerted the police—who in this part of the boondocks, are actually state troopers. The state troopers hauled the golf cart 40 miles to Kerhonksen and are now demanding $400 for its release—which does strike me as horribly unfair! I mean, why should the victim of a crime be financially penalized as a result of that crime?

"They hear my accent, so they think I'm not real American," he said. "They say, 'Drop charges and we will give you back.' But I will not drop charges. I was psychologist, you know. I come over here, and they say, 'You cannot be psychologist, you must wash dishes.' So, I wash dishes." He shrugged. "I am not afraid of work. Work is good. I work hard. I am a happy man."

I doubt very much that Adrienne can do a thing for him, but, of course, we didn't tell him that.

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The second person we talked to was a pleasant man with an eye-catching mustache that he actually waxes, who told us—a bit challengingly—that he worked as a guard at the maximum security prison up in Ellenville. "I'm 44 years old," he said. "I can't change careers. If I did, we wouldn't have this—" His sweeping gesture took in a paddock where horses stood flicking their tails and a small pond on which ducks & geese were getting into each other's faces. "We'd be crammed into a one-bedroom apartment in Middletown. I work 16-hour shifts. You're lucky you found me home today."

This guy almost certainly voted for Trump (I didn't ask), but he heard us out with good grace, remarking, "I think both parties suck frankly. I vote for individuals."

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Our third conversation was with a man whose face was utterly unreadable. He had long grey hair but that is no longer a clue to anything.

About 10 minutes into the conversation, we were joined by his wife—who evidently had been waiting on the sidelines to make sure we weren't Jehovah's Witnesses. She was a lot more forthcoming and gave out old hippie vibes.

We talked for half an hour. About environmental matters, about the municipal water supply in the hamlet of Wallkill, currently under a boil advisory due to bacterial contamination, an issue that has gotten exactly zilch publicity. (It doesn't affect me; Icky has his own well.)

As we were leaving, the old hippie lady, Margaret, said, "I'd avoid going to the house next door if I were you. Our son lives there. He'll wave a shotgun at you. He's big on Charlie Kirk. In fact, he's blocked me on social media and cut off all communication because I think Charlie Kirk was an asshole." She laughed merrily.

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The political situation in the U.S. is ominous. The Pentagon is mulling over making Turning Point chapters into military recruitment centers. That's all the U.S. really needs, right? An army of Christian, right-wing, white supremacists.

The FBI is apparently preparing to designate transgender people as “violent extremists.”

There's so little I can do about any of this.

I guess we will have to start doing what Black people in this country have been doing for the past 160 years: code-switching and being very, very careful not to make waves unless you 100% know that making waves is gonna lead to a productive end. The era of virtue signaling is over.