Today I have a special post. In this post, I enter the Sir Whiskerton universe. Yeah. Myself. In the story.
I hope that you all enjoy it.
Today…
What would happen if Trump ordered the US army to invade Greenland?
Great question!
Here is the TLDR: A total of 3 major things would happen
- The US military would take Greenland without a fight. The only military assets in Greenland are US assets at US bases, and Denmark doesn’t have much of a military.
- EDIT: Yes, Europe has deployed forces. In total, a grand total of 40….. men. No units, not platoons. Just 40 guys.
- NATO would likely dissolve within a few days, as such an attack would be considered a breach of the alliance’s founding principles, involving a conflict between two founding NATO members. It wouldn’t trigger Article 5 just because nobody wants a major war, but it would trigger Article 1.
- Article 1 states: The Parties undertake, as set forth in the Charter of the United Nations, to settle any international dispute in which they may be involved by peaceful means in such a manner that international peace and security and justice are not endangered, and to refrain in their international relations from the threat or use of force in any manner inconsistent with the purposes of the United Nations
- The US Military would be gutted, and China would become the dominant power. The US has lots of stuff in NATO nations. Stuff we won’t get back.
Greenland is a territory of Denmark, which is a NATO ally; we all know this. If the leader of NATO attacks a much smaller NATO member (or any NATO member), then the alliance dissolves.
This would be a disaster for the US.
Here is the thing- do you ever wonder how the US can have ships operating near Yemen and in the Mediterranean, and Asia, and the Caribbean, and deploy troops ANYWHERE within a day? The answer: NATO.
NATO members host US bases with US troops. It also hosts US bases with equipment and no troops. Say a war with Russia broke out. Well, it is difficult to transport 1,000 tanks to Europe in a few days. So the US, over the years, has stationed an entire Armored Division in Europe without the men. So if war broke out, we would just fly in the men, and they would hop in the tanks. There are lots of examples of this.
- A huge “medical center” for US forces, thanks to NATO, is in Germany, where many injured US soldiers are sent to recover
- There are air bases and missile defense systems in Turkey
- There are Naval ports in Italy, Turkey, and Spain that allow the US to house and supply ships in the region
- There are hardened bases in Spain and the UK that can load up missiles in vertical launch systems on ships
- Food, medicine, weapons, ammunition, Bradleys, Abrams, Artillery Guns, and more are stationed in ports ALL OVER THE GLOBE, which allows the US to fly in a Battalion and field a heavy combat unit within a day or less.
Now, would any sane nation allow the US to house F-35s and troops in their nation when it is attacking other NATO allies? NO- NEVER.
Understand the magnitude of this. The US has 8,000 to 10,000 aircraft, 6,000 tanks, and thousands of other weapons systems. THESE ARE NOT INSIDE THE USA. Some are, but the US is protected by Oceans and a massive Navy, so the US has deployed the VAST MAJORITY of its military hardware to NATO nations- at bases and depots. That way if we need to fight Russia, Syria, Iran, China, and whoever, we don’t have gear nearby. So if NATO nations become hostile, afraid, they will “take” this hardware because they will be afraid of a US attack (and rightfully so).
Most nations will HAPPILY accept 45 billion dollars worth of 6th-gen aircraft, Abrams Tanks, and state-of-the-art military hardware and give the US the finger. The US can be as mad as it wants, but it just lost 1/2 of its hardware- it cannot do much but further threaten and alienate allies.
Here is what is even more mind-numbing.
The reason Greenland is important comes down to 3 factors
- Access to trading routes in the North as icecaps melt
- Putting more bases on the Island to control the North
- Mineral and oil extraction
The big thing is control over the North and those trade routes.
The US currently has control through the UK and Iceland, THANKS TO NATO. They would leave NATO over this, meaning the defensive position in the North would weaken significantly. Seriously look at this “region” with NATO nations in blue. Tell me who has “control.”
Also factor in that the US has military bases in Greenland already, THANKS TO NATO. Imagine if it was just Greenland?
DO YOU SEE WHY SMART PEOPLE VALUE NATO?????
Right now, Trump is making a direct military threat against a NATO member. This has other NATO members racing to build their own armed forces to perhaps face the US. Also we all know war with China is likely. Winning that war comes down to the floating aircraft carrier called Japan and the strong regional military of South Korea. Without them the US has a limited footing and these nations may even side with China (though will more likely remain neutral).
EDIT/ADDITION
- Europe did deploy forces, but they sent 40 men, total. France sent 15, Germany sent 13, and then a few other nations sent a unit. These 40 men won’t hold back the US and the UK and France (nuclear powers) don’t want war with another nuclear power, which is the most significant economic partner by a mile.
- Understand the response won’t be “war right now over Denmark’s territory, it stole from native peoples”- instead, it will be days of meetings, mobilization, threats, and then the breakdown of NATO.
- These men are a “deterrent” force. This is what the USA should have done in early 2022. If a US Ranger Regiment were “training” in Ukraine, Putin could not invade and risk harming US forces. France, Germany, the UK, Sweden, and so on are hoping the same.
- Reports vary, but it is widely “rumored” that Trump’s most loyal Generals ENTIRELY oppose this because they know what it means. Additionally, it looks like it is opposed by everyone except Hegseth.
This Cat Had 24 Hours to Live Until a Stranger Made a $1,200 Decision That Changed Everything
Be the Rufus.
Here’s an example supporting my theory about China-glaze social media content being more profitable than China bashing content:
This AI slop post showed up on my Insta feed yesterday. To set the record straight, this is fake news. OF has been banned in China since 2020. It was briefly unblocked in Dec 2024 for like a week because of a technical error (the Great Firewall does this a lot).
But the factual accuracy of this slop post is besides the point. No one cares about factual accuracy on social media anyway.
I read through the comments, and it was literally 100% supportive of China. Which is always the point of these posts — lots of comments, lots of likes.
I checked the AI slop account to see if it’s a China-focused account, and it’s not. It’s just a run of the mill slop account that farms whatever content it thinks will get good engagement:
—
For those still not getting the implication of this, I’ll spell it out for you:
PEOPLE ARE USING CHINA-GLAZE CONTENT TO FARM LIKES NOW
We’ve… uh… we’ve about to achieve “Japan status” on social media… I never thought I’d see the day, but it’s coming.
Soon…
Stray Cat Cries When He Meets Owner He Hasn’t Seen In Seven Years
A Life Beyond
Written in response to: “Imagine a world where exploration is forbidden, and write a story about a character who defies this rule to satisfy their innate curiosity.“
Carol Stewart
Seven… His legs were getting weary. Strange to think he was both the oldest man alive, and oldest who had ever lived. Only weeks before, when he’d reached this astounding milestone, the city had seen fit to mark the occasion with a full day of rest for all and a historically-themed champagne banquet for the elite. Not that he’d been invited, but then he didn’t have much time left, so not one thought it seemly he attend. People were only allowed to reach a hundred and forty. After that, they’d be vaporized, although this hadn’t happened yet, so no one knew quite what to expect other than the procedure itself would take place in the brand new ‘Sterappropriate’ Hospital, and on this occasion only, in the presence of the press. Enz the oldest man ever. Enz, the eccentric exception. Headline news… Step
Six… The mirrors towered over him, the lights beginning to blind. Warning… Warning… Harsh voices intermingled. Rage from the pods on the laser track. What are you doing, you decrepit moron? We need to be home in twelve seconds, can’t miss ‘together time’… blaring through the speakers. Don’t turn your head, he told himself, don’t pay attention… Step
Five… He craned his neck till his eyes met the sky. The great black disc, a permanent fixture, was half-way across the sun now, and well before normal shutdown time. The power would be failing. Sorry, Zany. Sorry, Blitz and Fritz. He felt bad for the children. Their games would be interrupted, and their learning. He’d left them books, written, by his grandfather years back, but they didn’t know what to do with them. They found it hard to turn a page which didn’t require a finger-scan. Besides, they could barely read the words, or understand them. Archaic fantasy, as their parents called it, was beyond them, insisting, by way of various snide asides, that this was almost certainly for the best, and even their great-great grandparents refused to assist. Enz’s daughter had always mocked him for his outlandish way of thinking, and her children had chastised him. One day soon you’ll find yourself out of work, and you’ll only have yourself to blame. Teachers are meant to teach, not tell stories and lies. He was only seventy then, far too young to retire, so he’d had no other choice but comply if he had any hope of surviving… Step
Four… Obligations. Responsibilities. He’d been free from those for a while now. A good long while, come to think of it. He’d received his city pension at a hundred, just shy of the government upping the age to a hundred and ten. The authorities weren’t happy when he’d then defied the lifespan expectation odds, and they’d had to pay him ‘more than he’d ever been worth’ for almost four times the number of years on which they’d figured. It had been a quiet four decades on the whole. He’d spent his time reading, not only his grandfather’s words, but other ancient literature kept in his apartment behind a panel in the flexible mind-metal wall. He’d taken a plethora of notes and gradually pieced together a plausible version of what might have gone before, and what indeed might still exist in some way, shape or form, outside the mirrors. He’d made a book of his findings, and on the day of the celebrations when her parents, members of the elite, had returned home oddly and adversely affected by the hitherto unknown effects of this new champagne commodity, he’d entrusted his papers to Zany. She was by far the most open-minded of the children. Clever too, she’d worked out how to turn the pages the moment he’d seized the chance to show her. Grandpa, Ezra! I didn’t know people could do that! This is – wow – amazing! …Step
Three… If only he had enough time left to teach her the words, or to show her what he’d captured on his 21st century smartphone. Antique technology, a relic for sure. A family heirloom, but considered ugly and useless by all, there was no point trying to sell it. It had fallen into his hands when his grandfather died, and eventually, after a great deal of trial and error, he had discovered that not only did it work as a simple notepad, but that it could also be used in ‘video mode’. The powers that be had, on two separate occasions, arrested him when they’d spotted it attached to the side of his travelling pod as he’d zoomed around the outskirts of the city, but both times they’d been forced to release him without charge. After all, as his rolling-eyed solicitor had said when he’d tossed the phone onto the interrogation room table for the second time in as many months, what was this thing, but an old piece of junk? Little did anyone know that it was on said ‘piece of junk’ that Enz had just captured his most precious footage. And how long he had spent replaying and examining it all. He’d almost given up finding anything, then he’d discovered ‘slow motion’ and ‘still’, and there it was. The crack in the mirror! The only one which remained from his grandfather’s time, when, according to his writings, his great-grandpa and a like-minded gang of his friends had staged the legendary Mallet Attack, a crime for which they’d spent the remainder of their days in jail. So much for it being some far-fetched story, his grandfather’s words forever dismissed as the ramblings of a fool. Just like the disc which blocked out the sun, when the books that Enz had read so clearly described the moon… Step
Two… All was dark and silent now, traffic at a standstill. Only the warning voice remained and those glaring, searching lights. In a moment he’d be vaporized. And perhaps the pain would be worse than any he might have felt had he kept his ‘Sterappropriate’ appointment. But he’d plucked up the courage to send his pod off track en route, so too late now! Besides, he had to know what was out there, if only for a second… Step
One… He reached towards the glass, felt for the crack and pressed. Nothing. He tried again. Harder. Not a cut on his hand. Not even so much as a scrape. Amber and blue, amber and blue. Neon bursts. Warning, warning, warning… And then he saw his own reflection, except his face didn’t look quite right. He moved a little closer. Eyes duller, he thought, but at the same time, brighter, more expressive. The lights perhaps, but then – the rest of it! Oh, how heavily lined his mirror self was! And the mouth was moving! So, that’s old Granpa Enz, then? A chuckle. When had he ever sounded like that? And why were the children behind him when he knew they weren’t there? Zany, Blitz and Fritz, all crowding round, smiling and laughing too, their movements not in any way stiff or restricted. So unusual. There had been a word he’d read in his grandfather’s book which described this. Natural? Yes, that’s what it was. And how beautiful! How wonderful to hear little Zany chattering on. Good job you arrived when you did, Gramps. Won’t be long before he’s gone. A hundred and forty, can’t exceed that, but he’s stuck holding on at the side there, and I think that’s what’s causing the glitch. ‘Course we could make another just like him and start all over again… Step Zero.
What failures taught you the most?
I lost a really good job at 29. Big recession going on at the time.
My income went away. My debt didn’t.
I’m not talking about normal everyday bills. Rent groceries, gas, electric, water, etc. I’m talking about debt.
Unemployment insurance covered less than half of my income. I was screwed.
Student loan. Credit card debt. High end car payment. Personal loan.
As long as I was working? It was no problem. Sure. Paycheck to paycheck. For a bunch of years. Until the paycheck disappeared.
700 people got layed off the day they closed that plant.
Outsourcing severely affected that industry. It costs a bunch of jobs and drastically lowered the pay for what remained. Every job I was offered was paying less than my unemployment check.
Every single adult in the USA is told to maintain an emergency account. Every single adult in the USA is told not to let debt exceed a certain percentage of net pay. We are all told about lifestyle creep.
I couldn’t sell the car because depreciation had eaten up more value than the loan decreased. I was upside down on that.
I missed some credit card payments to buy groceries. The interest rate went from 18.99% to 29.99% because of that. So all my payments went up.
I defaulted on my student loan. It went from $300 a month to over $600 a month when a law firm took it over.
I actually ended up homeless for awhile.
It taught me to??????
1. Live below my means.
2. Maintain a good emerncy account.
3. The difference between good debt and bad debt.
4. How to use debt for my favor.
5. How to use equity and compound interest to my favor instead of against myself.
6. I learned a lot about the laws on that stuff.
The other failure that taught me the most?
That same high paying job. I was working tons of overtime. Pushing hard for a promotion. I was living with my fiancee.
“I’ve eaten dinner alone every night this week.”
“When your home your exhausted. All you do is sleep.”
My father?
“Putting a job before the people that love you is stupid. They’ll repost your job before your funeral is over.”
“I know your income is important. All things in good measure. You leave a girl like that alone too much? She’s not going to be alone for long.”
She got fed up and moved out. Dumped me four months before that layoff.
She was a fantastic wife for the guy she eventually married. He never made a lot . He was home every night at 5pm. Home on the weekends.
I learned my lesson on that. I was such a big asshole that I thought of I was an excellent provider? Shed be impressed. Love me more. All flash, cash, more of everything. Best furniture. Best restaurants. She wasn’t a golddigger. She just had a very good heart.
I ended up going through a bankruptcy and homelessness alone.
Don’t put your job ahead of the people that love you. You will regret that.
Driving China’s Cheapest EV in the U.S. Explains Everything
What happened to all the “flak” shot at planes during war? Did it drop harmlessly to earth? Have there been any recorded fatalities?
As usual, Mythbusters to the rescue.
They didn’t really test this but rather an adjacent conundrum of whether a bullet fired high up in the air might be lethal when it comes down. To that end, they shot a pistol and an M1 Garand vertically.
What they found was that yes, it might be lethal. However, it’s extremely unlikely for it to come straight back down to the shooter—but that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt someone somewhere else. A few people had been killed by celebratory gunfire. They also found that out of the so many rounds fired off the Garand, they only managed to find only one of them in that big open dry plain, with the rest having been blown away somewhere else.
What does this mean for flak? Flaks are pretty much the same. They’re meant to explode up high by the use of timed fuses. Before they are fired, the gunners set how long or how high before the shell should explode. When the shell explodes, it throws thousands of small shrapnel everywhere that can damage airplanes and kill or wound the crew. The more advanced shells had “proximity fuses” where it used a small radar to detect if there is something nearby to trigger it. It makes them far more effective than manually-set fuses.
So, like a bullet, in theory shrapnel from those flak shells CAN kill or injure people on the ground. And, of course, no machine is 100% reliable, so a dud shell might come down intact and that would ruin something like a car or punch through your roof (never mind a person).
Flak crews often had steel helmets even though they were far from the frontlines and weren’t really at risk of being hit by enemy artillery shrapnel (which was what the helmets were designed to protect against). I imagine they would be good enough to stop or at least minimize the impact of those stray shrapnel (as well as any potentially thrown by bombs landing nearby).
As for statistics? None. It was just far too difficult to tally given the countless millions of rounds fired during the war. But statistically speaking, there were bound to be quite a few who were hit, especially those whose cities were bombed.
Flawless Potato Pancakes Recipe
Ingredients
- 2 ¼ pounds russet potatoes, peeled and grated
- ½ yellow onion, grated
- 2 large eggs
- 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
- 1 teaspoon salt
- ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1 pinch cayenne pepper
- 1 cup vegetable oil for frying
How To Make
- Place potatoes and onion into a large bowl and pour enough cold water in the bowl to cover by several inches. Let rest until potatoes and onion are completely soaked, 20 to 30 minutes. Pour potato mixture into a colander, rinse, drain, and squeeze repeatedly to remove all moisture.
- Whisk eggs, flour, salt, black pepper, and cayenne pepper together in a bowl until smooth.
- Mix potato mixture and egg mixture together in a large bowl with a spatula.
- Heat 1/4-inch oil in a heavy skillet over medium-high heat. When oil shimmers, drop large spoonfuls of potato batter into hot oil and flatten with a spatula to about 1/2-inch thick. Cook until the edges of pancakes are golden brown and crispy, 3 to 5 minutes. Reduce heat to medium, flip pancakes, and cook until golden brown and crispy on the other side, about 5 minutes more. Repeat cooking process with remaining batter.
Pictures
Laughing At Divorces That Backfire For Modern Women
Decadent Carrot Cake Bars with Cream Cheese Frosting
Decadent Carrot Cake Bars with Cream Cheese Frosting are a delicious way to enjoy the comforting flavors of carrot cake without the fuss of layering. With their rich, spiced flavor and creamy frosting, these bars are sure to become a favorite dessert for any occasion. Give this recipe a try and share the sweetness with family and friends!
Ingredients
For the Carrot Cake Bars:
- 1 1/2 cups (190 g) all-purpose flour
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger (optional)
- 1/2 cup (120 ml) vegetable oil
- 1/2 cup (100 g) granulated sugar
- 1/2 cup (100 g) brown sugar, packed
- 2 large eggs
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 1/2 cups (150 g) finely shredded carrots (about 3 medium carrots)
- 1/2 cup (60 g) chopped walnuts or pecans (optional)
- 1/2 cup (75 g) raisins (optional)
For the Cream Cheese Frosting:
- 8 oz (225 g) cream cheese, softened
- 1/4 cup (57 g) unsalted butter, softened
- 2 cups (240 g) powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Instructions
Make the Carrot Cake Bars:
- Preheat the Oven:
Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease and line a 9×13-inch baking pan with parchment paper. - Mix the Dry Ingredients:
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger (if using). - Combine the Wet Ingredients:
In a large bowl, whisk together the vegetable oil, granulated sugar, brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla extract until smooth. - Incorporate the Carrots and Dry Ingredients:
Gradually mix the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients until just combined. Fold in the shredded carrots, and if desired, the chopped nuts and raisins. - Bake the Bars:
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread it evenly. Bake for 25–30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let the bars cool completely in the pan.
Make the Cream Cheese Frosting:
- Prepare the Frosting:
In a mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese and butter together until smooth. Gradually add the powdered sugar and vanilla extract, beating until light and fluffy. - Frost the Bars:
Spread the cream cheese frosting over the cooled carrot cake bars. Use a spatula to smooth the frosting or create decorative swirls.
Serve:
- Cut the bars into squares and serve. Store leftovers in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 5 days.
Notes
- For a healthier twist, replace half of the oil with unsweetened applesauce.
- Add a touch of orange zest to the frosting for a citrusy twist.
- These bars freeze well! Freeze unfrosted bars and add the frosting after thawing.
In The Hunt for Red October why is there toilet paper at the USS Dallas’ sonar station?
I really enjoyed reading the answers here from other submariners and STSs that indeed correctly identified the reasons that toilet paper was/is present in a sonar shack on board a US Navy submarine.
However, I would like to provide some detail on exactly why, and how, it ended up bolted to the “stack” aboard the USS Dallas in the movie as questioned.
I was stationed on board USS Salt Lake City SSN 716 from 1988 to 1990 as a sonar tech. During this time, some of the film crew and a couple actors from the proposed film “The Hunt For Red October” came aboard and actually deployed locally and took a few dives with our crew. They did a 2 day film study to help make the movie more authentic, and it was effective. The character Bart Mancuso behaves nearly identical to my captain then, Tom Fargo.
The actor Ned Vaughn (Seaman Beaumont) never left our sonar shack the entire time. He was very detailed at learning our behaviors and the working environment. We actually let him operate the broadband stack several times and he asked many questions. As we were nearing port at the end of the trip, Ned asked me as he picked up a roll of our plush Navy toilet paper… “Why do you guys have TP in here?”
I joked around about throwing it across the shack, and the messes it could clean up, then demonstrated the grease pencil erasing function. I told him with a smile… “If you guys don’t have shit paper in your sonar shack, I’m not watching your movie!” I then gave him an unopened roll with the “lighthouse for the blind” logo on the wrapper to keep as he departed.
Nearly a year later, I was astounded to see a commercial style TP holder bolted to the sonar stack in the movie as the camera first pans to Ned’s face!
I’ve never talked to Ned Vaughn since, but am quite hopeful that is the very roll I handed him.
Anyway, that’s the real reason the toilet paper is at the sonar station, on the USS Dallas.
My one and only contribution to Hollywood. Lol
Hold Fast,
STS2 (SS) Strickland
Col 29 – 543 – The Day MM Came to Tea
It began, as all things of consequence on the farm do, with a question—one posed not in fear, but in wonder.
Jazzpurr was sprawled on the roof beside Zephyr, his bongo drums silent for once. The evening sky was streaked with apricot and lavender, the air humming with the farm’s quiet, settling-down song.
“You ever wonder,” Jazzpurr mused, his voice a soft rumble, “who tunes the universe, man? I mean, is it all just… fate? Random luck bumping into itself? Or…”
He trailed off, gesturing with a paw at the scene below. Martha was scattering seed for the evening hens. Sir Whiskerton was making his first round of the porch. Ditto was trying to convince a firefly to be his friend. It was a symphony of gentle, perfect chaos.
“Or,” Jazzpurr finished, “is there someone… listening? Someone who hums the tune we’re all dancing to?”
Zephyr, floating beside him with his lava lamp pulsing a slow, thoughtful gold, was silent for a long moment. The air around him shimmered, not with mischief, but with a rare, deep concentration.
“A question of origin,” Zephyr said finally, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Not a request for a permit. A request for… a visitation.”
He looked at Jazzpurr, his usual smirk replaced by something tender, almost reverent. “Some wishes aren’t meant to be filed. They’re meant to be answered.”
Zephyr raised a hand. He didn’t snap his fingers. He simply… pulled—not on a thread, but on the space between the question and the answer. The air on the roof thickened, warm and sweet like just-baked bread, and began to spin in a slow, gentle vortex of golden light.
And from the center of that light, stepping as if out of a familiar room, I appeared.
I was just… me.
Worn sweater, kind eyes, and glasses. My beard clean.
And you know, a face that knew the weight and wonder of every story written here. I stood on the roof, a little disoriented, a lot overwhelmed, and looked around.
The farm fell utterly silent.
Not a scared silence. A hushed silence. The silence of a held breath.
I met Jazzpurr’s wide, star-filled eyes. I smiled, small and tentative.
“Hello,” I said, and my voice was not a boom from the heavens, but the quiet, familiar tone of someone telling a bedtime story. “I’m… the author. You can call me MM.”
The word author hung in the air.
It didn’t mean controller. It didn’t mean boss. In that moment, in the warm farm dusk, it meant only one thing: the one who listens.
Then, the silence broke.
Not with noise, but with a soft, collective exhale—a sigh of pure, unburdened recognition.
Martha, standing in the garden with her seed basket, dropped it. Not in shock. In joy. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes, those deep wells of quiet strength, filled with tears that glimmered like dawn dew. She didn’t run. She walked, steadily, surely, up to the house.
Sir Whiskerton, from his perch on the porch rail, looked at me. He didn’t bow. He didn’t kneel. He simply blinked slowly, the deepest sign of feline trust, and his purr began—a low, resonant frequency that vibrated through the wooden planks and up into my very bones.
It was a purr of welcome home.
The Farmer, who had been fixing a hinge on the barn door, straightened up. He wiped his hands on his overalls, looked at me across the yard, and nodded—a single, solid, profound nod of acknowledgment. Then he did something extraordinary. He smiled. It transformed his weary, kind face. He walked over, his steps heavy and sure on the earth, and extended a hand roughened by soil and care.
I took it. His grip was firm, warm, real.
“Been waitin’ for you,” he said, his voice a gentle gravel. “Porch is yours.” He gestured to the rocking chair—his rocking chair, the one that creaked the melody of 4:17 AM. An invitation of the highest order.
As I stepped off the roof (Zephyr gently lowered me with a plume of glitter that smelled of nostalgia), the animals gathered. Not in a crowd, but in a wide, loving circle.
Ditto approached first, of course. He stopped inches from my feet, tilted his head, and chirped, “Author?”
“Yes, Ditto,” I whispered.
“Friend!” he declared, and pressed his head against my shin, his tiny body thrumming with a purr to match Whiskerton’s.
I ran my hand down his little back.
One by one, they came. Not to worship, but to see. To connect the feeling they’d always known with the face before them.
Catnip emerged from under the porch, not with his usual wary slink, but with a hesitant dignity. He sat just at the edge of my shadow, offering a slow, deliberate blink. His unspoken question hung in the air: Did you mean for me to be loved?
I blinked back, just as slowly. Yes. Always.
The Gnome, having trundled down from his mushroom, didn’t say a word. He simply walked up, pressed his fishing pole—his most prized possession, the one he’d never let anyone touch—into my hands, gave my knee a pat, and waddled away, his pointy hat bobbing with satisfaction.
Then Martha appeared from the kitchen, carrying a pie. It was still steaming, the lattice crust golden-perfect, and it smelled of apples, cinnamon, and unconditional love. She held it out to me, her hands steady, her eyes overflowing.
“For you,” she said, her voice thick. “For all the meals you’ve sent. For all the returns.”
I took the pie, the warmth seeping into my hands. Then Martha did something that broke me open and put me back together, all at once. She stepped forward, rose on her toes, and pressed a soft, flour-dusted kiss to my cheek. It was a blessing.
A thank you.
A welcome.
I sat in the Farmer’s rocking chair, the fishing pole across my lap, Ditto in a heap at my feet, Sir Whiskerton now curled in my lap. The rest of the farm settled in the yard—pigs, chickens, the scarecrow, the dairy mafia in the oak, the syndicate watching from the rafters. All present. All quiet.
We didn’t speak much. What was there to say that wasn’t already humming in the air?
I was just… there. With them. The one who dreamed them up, sitting in the heart of the dream that had become more real than I ever imagined.
As the last light faded and the first fireflies blinked on, Sir Whiskerton lifted his head. His jingle-tag chimed softly.
“The story isn’t outside of us,” he murmured, his voice a purr for me alone. “And you are not outside the story. You never were.”
He was right. I hadn’t visited my creation. I had come home to it. The love I’d tried to pour into every word was here, living, breathing, baking pies and fixing fences and purring in the dark. It had taken on a life of its own, and in doing so, it had given me a life within it.
The Farmer lit a lantern. Martha brought out a blanket. And we all sat, together, under the wide, star-dusted sky—no longer author and characters, but companions in the same tender, jingling, utterly real world. We watched the fireflies, and listened to the crickets. We felt the evening breeze, and the warm moist air from the pond.
No one talked.
We just sat together.
Belonging.
The Moral of the Story
There is no difference between the one who writes the love and the place where the love is written. We are all, every one of us, both author and character, writing and being written by the connections we dare to make.
You are not alone in your wondering. You are heard. You are held. And somewhere, in the heart of every story you’ve ever loved, there is a rocking chair waiting for you, a pie fresh from the oven, and a circle of souls who recognize your heart as their own.
Welcome home, MM.
Jingle on.
(Or, in farm-ese: Listen… love… belong… stay.)
The End.
We Let Cats Pick Their Families on Adoption Day And THIS Happened ❤️
What a fun concept!
How did you recognize what truly mattered to you in life?
In the summer of 2020, my grandfather drank his last beer.
We sat in his garden. It was summer, and the sun was shining. And neither of us knew it was going to be the last beer we would ever share. How could we? I wrote about him on Quora shortly before, and I felt he’d live to be 100. And he didn’t — he fell at night and hit his head, the next week. Really went downhill rapidly after that. Within months, he passed away.
There will be a day when I have my last beer with my father. Or my last ever beer with my best friend. And then, my own. And in each case, I likely won’t know it, when it happens. Just as I won’t know when my final time meeting someone is. Or my final time really talking, having a heart to heart. The last time I can ask questions. Or talk about the good old days. I won’t know. Most of us won’t. It happens in little ways. Time is a thief. It steals us, bit by bit. When is the first time, for instance, that I will pick up my children easily? The oldest is already so tall, she is beginnimg to look like a woman. I scratch my head at how crazy fast everyone and everything changes…
The week after I buried my grandfather, I was in a grocery store. I wanted to buy his favorite beer, bring him two bottles and share it. Force of habit. I had the bottles in my hand already. Then it hit me… that ship had passed, forever. Time is a thief. But a thief we can live with well enough, if we make every day count. Even dwelling on regrets and the past kills precious time. But to be careless with our time is to be a fool. Be mindful.
Namkind
Written in response to: “Set your story in a world where conversation about one particular topic is banned — but there are ways to get around the rule.“
Heather Congrove
It really is amazing how she could find such a man. How do you search for a profession of pulling people out of books? Need a car pulled out of a ditch, no problem. Call a tow truck. Need a tooth pulled, easy peasey, call a dentist. Need a 10-year-old little girl pulled out of a fictional book and made big again. What would follow? Apparently, that answer is a bibliopegist. Who knew?
George seemed appalled when Lilly praised her mother for her accomplishments of finding him. “I fix books. You are not supposed to be in the story, therefore you broke it. Now it needs to be fixed. Why would you not think bibliopegist?” She found him really snarky, but was grateful for his help. Especially when it wasn’t a single occurrence.
Now George shows up for thanksgiving dinner and has become an integrated part of their family. Every Christmas he shows up with elaborate wrapped books in shiny wrapping paper. All hand bound and engraved with intricate detail. Each one tailored to each person’s personal taste.
At least Mom doesn’t faint anymore. That hasn’t happened since the first one. She does get very angry and revokes Lilly’s privileges to the car. She hates it when her mom is angry. Her mother is all she has. All she wants to do is make her happy and proud.
” Wow, what is this place?” Lilly asks.
She stares down at her new attire. Gone is her purple polka dot pajamas, only to be replaced by a form fitting gray bodysuit.
She scales up the massive infrastructure that stands before her. Floor after floor climbs higher into the sky until the top becomes unseeable in the clouds.
” Oh no, oh no, oh no, this can’t be happening! Mom is going to be so mad. I’m going to be grounded until I’m 18. I promised I would never go into a story again and here I am. Go back, go back!” She pleads as she desperately tries to reverse whatever craziness this is. She looks around, searching for a way out, hoping she can fix this before her mother comes looking for her.
“Fantastic, you are early. I like when people are early.”
Lilly turns to see a woman many years older than her wearing the same outfit approaching her.
“Ummm, hi.”
“Follow me and we will get started.”
“Started on what, exactly?”
” It’s your first day at your new hobby, right? Let me show you around and start your training.”
Lilly stares at her perplexed
” No, that is not right.You have me confused with someone else.”
“Nonsense, you are just nervous. Follow me. I don’t see anyone else standing here waiting for me.”
“I really need to go.”
Lilly tries to pull away, but the strange woman has a death grip on her arm. Her smile is intense and mincing. She forces Lilly to follow.
Just inside the double doors, the woman stops.
“Welcome to the entertainment industry. Today you will receive your itinerary which you will follow precisely.
Lilly looks around at the lobby before her. Grey and white seem to be the only colors that the interior designer knew existed. Marble covers the floors and lines the walls. A huge marble reception desk lines the left wall with overstuffed chairs positioned randomly around end tables to the right. She guides Lilly into an elevator on the other side of the lobby. Inside buttons cover every available wall. ” Each floor is a different leisure pursuit. You will be on floor 55. You will be assisting our team of 15 people in crafting the finest automobiles known to namkind.”
“Namkind, 1000 floors in a building, what kind of world is this? She thinks to herself. Obviously, she assumes I am here to start a new position for a job. This is insane. I have to get out of here. Why would I pick such a weird book to read? I knew better than this. I will just go along with it until I can sneak away unnoticed and figure out how to get back home.”
The elevator stops at the 55 floor and the doors open to an industrial shop floor. It appears to be massively big despite being inside of a skyscraper. Machines with fencing encasing them line up one after another, row after row with robot arms in the middle. The noise of compressed air and the machining of parts fill the air. Self driving carts buzz around premeditated locations and deliver various parts to different locations. Robots lift, tighten, torque, drill, and lathe each product into its destined place. People wearing gray bodysuits bustle around like clockwork, operating everything that cannot be achieved by robotics.
“Wow, this is a cool job.”
The lady’s face turns anger with disbelief.
“What did you just say?”
She smacks the close elevator door button a little too hard.
“You’re lucky no one heard you say that.”
“Say what?”
“Are you psychological? You will not speak of such obscenity or you will be banned from your hobby forever.”
“I do not understand. Will I not get paid for doing this work?”
The lady puts a hand over Lilly’s mouth. “This is your last warning. Yes, you are compensated for the time you spend doing your hobby.”
“This is not a hobby. A hobby is something you enjoy doing in your free time, and can often be done with family. You are not paid for doing recreational activities.”
“I have family members that have hobbies here and I assure you I thoroughly enjoy my hobby.”
“No, no, this is an obligation. This must be done to obtain food and shelter. Hobbies are done by choice. They are fun and creative. Not this. You guys have it all wrong.”
” I assure you, I am rarely wrong. I also choose to be here every day and typically have a wonderful and pleasurable time doing my avocation. It’s not like I am handcuffed and dragged in here daily. I arrive at 4:00 AM. Indulgence of the pastime begins at 4:30. I play until 7:30 PM, where I go home, eat, shower and go to bed.”
“15 hours, you’re kidding me. How do you have time for a life or a family?”
“Why are you acting like this is a foreign concept to you? This has been a reality for a very long time. Are you broken or something? You know what, maybe you would be better off in the pillow stuffing plant. Surely I can get Janet in scheduling to alter your placement.”
“How is that enough free time to enjoy anything?” Lilly questions.
“ My hobby is done in my free time. What else do you call the time in which you are relaxing? What more does one person need? My hobby family is here and I love my hobby.” The women explains.
” What about kids? I am sure the ummm captains would not want you to copulate while you are doing your recreation activities.”
” Don’t be ridiculous, the schedule always ensures it takes place promptly after the evening shower and no longer than 30 minutes. Everyone knows that. Once the mother becomes pregnant, she works until going into labor. After delivery, she has 16 hours to rest before she is asked to join the team again. The child is promptly placed into leisure camps throughout the day to prepare the next generation to be expert hobbyists. Once they are grown, they choose their choice of entertainment. Then death. Surely that answered all the questions you could have.”
“How does one find a spouse with so little free time?”
“The same way you plan to, I would say. You have a program on your phone that instantly matches you to possible suitors. Once you select one, you meet after the evening shower and decide whether to have babies or not in 15 minutes or less.”
“Birthday parties. How do you do birthday parties?”
“Well, at our entertainment stations, of course. We are all family here, we celebrate together.’
“That’s not even enough time to get 8 hours of sleep.”
“8 hours. That’s preposterous, who sleeps 8 hours?”
Lilly’s mouth gapes open in disbelief. I give up she thinks.
“Oh dear, you are truly in a broken state.”
“I’m not broken. Stop saying that.”
“Okay, how would you like me to refer to your complete lack of understanding of the simple happenings of everyday life? Are you not from here? If I am not mistaken, other countries have similar structures. Yes, I am positive Acirema is not the only one that has and maintains hobbies.”
” This is pointless. Can you direct me toward the restroom, please?”
Lilly slips inside a gray and white toned bathroom. She frantically looks around for a way out, but it’s all concrete walls with no windows. “Wait a minute, if I am old enough to have a job, I must be an adult. I can just walk right out of here.”
Despite the realization, the idea still makes her heart race. She is not accustomed to being a person of age and not under her mother’s rule. In a three two one countdown, she bursts through the door and runs as fast as she can past the old lady. The old woman anticipates her move and sticks a foot out, tripping Lilly. She flies through the air and crashes hard to the marble floor, belly first. Quickly, she jumps back to her feet and locates a stairwell. She begins to descend the stairs as quickly as possible, hoping she can be faster than the elevator. 55,54,53,52, she counts each floor as she passes it. After what seems like an eternity, she reaches the bottom, legs burning and breathless. She paused for a second to catch her breath. Then she busts through another door and races across the lobby floor, passing the receptionist desk to her right.
The double doors that the lady forced her through are right in front of her. Just a few more steps and she can get out of here and get home. The taste of freedom lingers heavily on her tongue. She glances behind her to see if anyone is following just as she reaches for the door. A glimpse of the old lady emerging from the elevator appears in her peripheral.
Smack, the side of her face and the front of her body smack hard against the locked door. The force of impact clatters her to the floor and glass shatters around her. She opens her eyes, and she is in her own bedroom on the floor, dressed in her purple polka dot pajamas. The glass is gone, the building vanished, the old lady vaporized into nothingness, yet the emotions of the dream still lay heavy on her. So heavy she sits on the floor for a moment, breathless, her arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug.
“It was a dream this time, only a dream. I’m not in trouble.” Lilly says aloud, hoping to solidify reality.
She picks herself off the floor and climbs back into bed.
“Rise and shine, sunshine. Time to pack your bag. We leave in an hour. Remember, no books.” Her mother says as she peeks her head in her doorway.
“Sure thing, mom, no books I promise.”
Do people know that China tried to make Vietnam a province during the Ming dynasty and burned all of Vietnam’s books?
Most of these questions are overblown and one-sided.
First, ask yourself, is Indochina only Vietnam?
Second, does Vietnam only share a border with china?
If you answered no to the above, why does vietnamese history write the rest of Indochina into oblivion next to the Chinese?
Remember, ho chi Minh himself was a Confucian scholar of some repute, and Vietnam was unique among Indochina states in sino-centric organization. The rest were indic-centric.
Only 30% of Vietnam’s borders today is shared with china. The entire western border that compresses Vietnam into a sliver of land framed by the South China Sea is ample evidence that the Vietnamese were driven away by force and kept there by indic-centric civilization. The interested reader may want to read up on the Khmer empire, the most powerful Hindu civilization in Indochina history centered around Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
The Vietnamese chose to stay sino-centric for good reasons, and it was hardly masochistic. Rather, the greater threats came from elsewhere, including domestic contradictions.
China shared a border with the Myanmese, Thai, Khmer and Laotians in the recorded history of Indochina, in addition to the Vietnamese. But why do the rest minimize china’s role in their history, while Vietnam drowns out the rest of Indochina to memorialize China and the Chinese?
Put another way, did China perversely bully Vietnam exclusively, leaving the rest of Indochina which was far richer in resources alone?
The KJV peoples all faced the same irreconcilable contradiction down the generations: how to retain the benefit of tapping into the riches of the Chinese world without becoming too sinicized. This perennial tension was what drove the irrational and often overblown hatred of the Chinese.
It was a necessary response to preserve national identity.
In other words, learn Chinese but do not become too Chinese!
An impossible ask.
Cheesy Scrambled Eggs
Soft, creamy scrambled eggs with melty cheddar cheese make for a quick and satisfying breakfast. Great on toast or served alongside crispy bacon or fruit.
Ingredients
- 4 large eggs
- 1/4 cup milk
- 1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese
- 1 tablespoon butter
- salt to taste
- black pepper to taste
Instructions
- Crack the eggs into a mixing bowl and add the milk, salt, and black pepper. Whisk until well combined and slightly frothy.
- Heat a non-stick skillet over medium-low heat and add the butter. Let it melt and coat the pan.
- Pour the egg mixture into the skillet. Let it sit undisturbed until it begins to set around the edges.
- Gently stir the eggs using a spatula, pushing from the edges to the center. Continue cooking and stirring until mostly set but slightly runny.
- Sprinkle cheddar cheese over the eggs and gently fold to incorporate. Cook another minute until cheese melts and eggs are fully cooked but soft.
- Remove from heat and serve immediately on a warm plate.
Notes
Feel free to add chopped chives, a dash of hot sauce, or even crumbled bacon for a flavorful twist. For fluffier eggs, substitute heavy cream for the milk.
Was the Chevy Chevette a good car?
In 1985, I ordered a new Chevette from the dealer. I chose it because I believed it would be cheap to purchase and maintain. I got a pretty basic car: Base trim level (not sure there was anything higher), 4-door, standard 4-speed manual transmission, standard interior, no A/C, standard almost everything. My one concession to comfort was an AM/FM stereo radio, and my one concession to vanity was a two-tone gray paint job. It looked a lot like the vehicle in this picture, which is a 1986 model, so it has a high center brake light that mine didn’t have, my wheels were gray rather than black, and I didn’t spring for whitewalls (I added aftermarket wheel covers some years later):
(Photo from Barnfinds)
If I had it to do over again, I’d get the A/C and the five-speed.
Overall a very reliable car. I drove it for almost 14 years.
The first alternator went bad about 8 years in. The replacement went bad in about 3 years. And that one’s replacement three years after that. Not sure what would be killing alternators, but they were cheap and easy to replace.
The gear shift lever broke completely off about 12 years in. I have no idea what caused that. Shifting from second to third and it just folded. The local transmission shop welded it back in for about $100.
Body rust was an issue as with most American cars of this vintage, but it was mostly cosmetic. One day a manager at work backed into the rear quarter panel, making a big dent. His insurance sprung for the repair, but now I had a pristine rear quarter and rust peppering most of the rest of the car. So I took it to Maaco to get the rust sanded off and the car repainted. Cost less than $1000 and the car looked brand new. For a couple years at least, before I traded it in on my next car.
I’d say it was “competent” rather than “good”. It performed pretty much the way I expected (slow and ponderous, noisy and uncomfortable) with better reliability than I expected (the only time it left me stranded was when the gear shift lever broke). And I was able to haul a lot more in the back than you might expect. It was everything I needed it to be for as long as I needed it. I wasn’t embarrassed to drive it, and I’m not sorry I bought it, but I don’t particularly miss it.
