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By the Checkered Demon

Land is a dream to most. Folks imagine vistas, long views down canyons into the plain, distant blue mountains the limit. You sip your coffee, watching the shy Doe and her fawn easing down by the creek. The soul quakes a bit. Or you sip lousy coffee staring at a moldy wall in what was once known as a bed sitter, or a studio. Crack the window and hear the city mutter below. The soul quakes just the same. Soul-quakes are not created equal.

We read of our country in its youth, and it seems another planet: a virgin shore, with some pesky natives to be sure, but they neither had the steel nor the numbers to resist. Soon the land was speckled with homes, small farms with the cow, the hog and the egg. Children in schools and Sons sent away to fight the Moors, Mexicans, Rebels, Spanish, Cubans, Filipinos, Germans, Germans again, Japanese, Koreans, Vietnamese, Russians (sort of), Islamics, drug armies, enemies within. All of this has put land further and further out of reach for my group, the non-inheritors—the just born, with no connections. Real stuff is dear.

So you walk down your drive, sinking your heels deep and striding, not mindful of noise and just goofing along looking at your dirt and rock, seeing the season's plants emerge. Knowing your spread will never feed you, but the elbow room is so fine. It doesn't matter what it cost. Not yet. A day will come when it will change, but not yet. Everything you worked for and dreamed of is right here beneath your feet, and fragile.

I await on tenterhooks for the shady broad from my past to pop up, claiming I stroked her button back when the Beatles were tripping. Held her down and made her renounce Jesus. Offered her cheap Rose' wine. I look forward to it all since life is so easy and dull these days, there being no standards any more.

A three ton tree snapped off in the high wind yesterday, a tree I often sat beneath, overlooking a Spring where the local gang sips. It is only a 30 yard debris field now. A big fire came through four years ago, and the burned trees will fall for the next decade. The land lives on, and I'm seeing Turkeys all up in the fallen timbers. Turkeys used to be rare, but I've seen flocks of 20 or more on several occasions. Two pairs of Bobcats have emerged as well.


As I do this, an Argentine submarine lies in deep waters, in trouble. My concerns are nothing. God's blessing on my brothers.

-C Demon

Books by James LaFond

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