I recently moved to Idaho from Oregon and was shocked to learn when I got a local job that it is not required to give breaks here. Oregon legally requires employers to give us set breaks and half hour lunches which I was used to. So to my surprise when I started my new job and asked about breaks everyone was surprised. I was told “you take them when you can, but when you’re on break you should keep busy like sweep or pick up.” Which made me laugh because that’s not a break that’s continued working. For “lunch” we go and stand in the back by cleaning supplies and eat for 3-5 minutes before being called back up front. The entire work building doesn’t have anyplace to sit down at all. Next week I’m supposed to work four eight hour shifts working outside in 80-90 degree weather with absolutely no breaks and I will 100% not be doing that. So at the start of the week I will be quitting. I was grateful to find a job and get paid but there was no way I was going to put myself in those conditions. I got covid 3 times while vaccinated due to a prior workplaces lack of precautions and it left me weaker than I’ve ever been in my life. Since then I’ve had to take better care of my body. I worked a shift yesterday for 9 hours and did not get to sit down once or break from work for more than 5 minutes and almost passed out. I am genuinely shocked how no one else there was mad about this or said anything.

Planning a road trip from Bay Area to Grand Teton and Yellowstone, first week of July.
Love to hear any suggestions and tips from experienced road travellers.
Planning to break at Elko NV both ways.
https://preview.redd.it/eajfbknz5q3b1.png?width=2924&format=png&auto=webp&s=5609d5e7eebac1b9aa45a7a2cfc6f6f5d2fc0be0

Short Synopsis
A young boy with an interest in local history and cemeteries learns about life and the value of friendship when he meets a child named Peter in the local cemetery that may not be all that he seems.
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When I was a kid I had a fascination with graveyards, burial grounds and old churches. I wouldn’t call this a morbid fascination but more of a learning place for a kid of the age of 5 or 6 to explore death and what it means to be remembered by loved ones and friends. As this fascination grew it lead me to the study of local history which would become a keen interest for the rest of life.
My great uncle Tom, who was a mountain of a man as he had worked all of his life as a miner in the local pits, encouraged this interest I had shown in history and at my behest, after Uncle Tom picked me up from school, we would often take long walks with his mongrel dog Tina around the local cemetery. The cemetery was scattered around the large hillside of the local church on the hill. The church cut quite an imposing presence in the small village I grew up in, as it seemed to loom over the whole place sitting high above the rows of houses, local pub and farms. Everyone in the village attended the church at least a few times a week, but at night it was considered a spooky place to the children in the village and my friends considered me very odd and often ridiculed me for my interest in the place and I gained the affectionate nickname Spooky Steven. This wasn’t a bad thing, it was just kids playing around and now we are all grown, we often all sit together having a pint in the local pub and laugh about it. I had my fair share of pokes of fun at them too when we were kids, there was no Internet or game consoles back in those days, so entertainment was what we would make it.
The church was ancient and had gravestones and markers now crumbling with the decay of age that dated as far back as the Anglo Saxon period of Great Britain. This history always fascinated me and it became a common practice for me to head to the graveyard, most often alone in my youth, and make grave rubbings to find names from the past and look them up in the local archives at the town library. This small library was full of old documents such as land registry papers and birth or death records which dated back for hundreds of years, it was like google before computers. I would spend hours in there till closing time at 6pm, looking through all these ancient records and when names came up again and again in certain papers, you could slowly build up a picture of someone’s life. You could see when they were born, who they worked for, who they married and how their lives progressed, most of the older papers ended up with people inheriting land or buying farms and making their way as countryside workers, it was enthralling to me. I think it made me realise early in my life, that if you say someone’s name aloud or read it, that person’s memory is still alive. Even at a young age I found that rather comforting.
Listening to this I’m sure you can imagine I was a bit of a loner, you don’t get the nickname Spooky Steven for being the captain of the football team. No-one was ever cruel to me or anything, I was bullied a little for being different and that was upsetting at times but I wasn’t bothered and I always just kind of did my own thing, so you can imagine I was happy when at about 12 years of age I found a friend who was interested in the same things as I was.
One beautiful summer afternoon while in the graveyard among some shady ancient oaks swaying in the breeze, I was taking some graphite rubbings in a particularly old part of the cemetery and I meet a boy named Peter. Looking back it’s strange that I didn’t know Peter from school, but you don’t think about these things at a young age. When ever I was in that part of the cemetery Peter would often turn up unexpectedly and talk to me about what I was doing and why I was interested in these old names from the past. He was full of information and seemed old for his 13 years, he talked about a lot of the old names on the gravestones as if they were still living. He would tell me about Mr Jones the welsh baker, who spoke with such a strong accent that he was hard to understand and how John Blakley the blacksmith would often let the local children into his shop and teach them how to use the kilns and pay them a small wage for helping him keep the fires burning good and hot. I checked out all of these people that Peter talked about in the library and they were all legitimate people who had lived in the town often hundreds of years in the past. I didn’t question this as Peter would have access to the same documents from history that I did, but I had never seen Peter in the library and I was there most afternoons.
On another occasion Peter told me that he was made to leave school and work from a young age because his father had died in a farming accident, so he had been put to work to help support his family. These times I met Peter we’re all in the late 1980’s and early 90’s and it was only when I began to get a little older that I started to think Peter was not from around here. There was no way a boy of 13 years old would be allowed to work at the hard labour Jobs that Peter talked about doing. Drystone walling or working in the fields are highly dangerous jobs that deal with heavy equipment and chemicals that a child of that age would never be allowed to use in this day and age. But, still I thought nothing of it at first, my young ego thought that maybe he was trying to impress me so I would be his friend. I started to ask about him at school amongst my friends and then the teachers and no-one knew who this boy was. I was again ridiculed for having an imaginary friend so I took a bunch of school friends to the church yard to meet him, but he would never show when I was there with other people. This became very frustrating, so I stopped talking about him.
After about a year or two of meeting with Peter on a few different occasions in the cemetery, I began to notice things that were odd or different about him. The clothes he wore seemed old fashioned and unlike me he didn’t seem to be getting any older, at that age kids grow at an accelerated rate and I was already almost a whole foot taller, but Peter had remained the same. On the last day I saw Peter in those years I questioned him about his clothes and the way he looked and he took great offence to this, his eyes welled up and tears began to roll down his cheeks. I told him I was sorry and that I wouldn’t mention this again, he then said to me some words that I will never forget “Its ok” he said through his tears “It’s been my absolute pleasure to spend this time with you. Just do me a small solid and say my name every once in a while when you are here, I’d appreciate that” he then smiled at me in a way that breaks my heart when I remember it and walked away into a shady part of the cemetery and that was the last time I would see him as a child.
By the time I was around 16 years of age the local historian knew me by name and we had developed a friendship and she began to tell me stories from the past which were not written in any of the history books. Some of the stories she told me were spooky ones about hauntings and other strange paranormal stories of local legends. Because of this interest she had and the passion with which she told me these tales of local occurrences, I felt comfortable enough with her to mention Peter. Her eyes lit up and she asked me to please tell her more. I told her everything and we stayed together well passed closing time looking up names and histories of local residents but we couldn’t find anything about about a young local worker named Peter, however we did find information in a record about the death of a local farmer in his 40s who was crushed in an accident with his wheat plough in the summer of 1889. The strangest part of the story is still to come.
Later in life when I turned 18 I was a regular in the village pub and became very friendly with the landlord and often did shifts in the bar serving in the evening to help pay my way through college where I took a bachelor’s degree in history. In the summer for extra pay the landlord asked me if I were interested in clearing out some of the old attic spaces to get the place ready for an extension that they were going to build. The extra money was welcome so I agreed and that is where the most amazing thing happened. Amongst all the cobweb ridden stacks of books, papers and a wealth of old furniture I found a framed portrait from a very old 1890’s camera. The picture was of a boy laying dead on a bed of flowers on one of the big old wooden tables in the pub, it was Peter. I rummaged around and to my amazement I found hidden in the back of the frame an old newspaper clipping about the death of a 13 year old chimney sweep named Peter Robinson. I was not afraid, but the revelation came as more a relief to know that perhaps I wasn’t crazy and that Peter had reached out to me from somewhere beyond our own understanding of this world. I chose not to mention this to anyone as Peter had never shown himself to anyone else and it felt it would have betrayed our friendship that had occurred in those early years of my youth.
A few weeks later I found myself drawn back to that shady part of the church on the hill amongst those ancient oaks and mossy gravestones with bottle of beer in my hand. It was a beautiful day, there was a gentle breeze and the crickets, birds and insects chatted in the gentle afternoon, just like those summer days I had spend in this place as child with my Uncle Tom and Tina who were now themselves long since departed. I rose the bottle of beer in the air and said Peter’s name out loud and for a brief moment, from the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flicker of a boy standing in the distance in the summer shade and a smile spread across my face. That day I learned a lesson for good, that if we think of those who are dead and gone and remember them out loud they will live on and never be forgotten.
The End
Written By John Renney

Am I the only one that has worried about when my loved ones and I might be in a serious situation and might have to take action to save ourselves?
I have told them that there's a certain "action" word in a situation like that that when they hear it said that they should take cover and prepare for something to happen.
Watching "Fear The Walking Dead"(S8E4) tonite and I saw a similar code phrase used as "chimney sweep".
Something to think about...

Another u/cream trees rant
Anyway I feel like the main reason why suburbs are shifting so quickly to the left is simply because a lot of them are upper middle class socially liberal white people .
And the Republicans extreme social conservatism is slowly but surely turning them off to the Republican party.
And since the Democrats and Republicans have very similar fiscal stances both of them being fairly fiscally conservative they seem to be pretty okay starting to vote Democrat.
Which is why I feel if Republicans were to just moderate themselves on their social stances, things like abortion gay marriage trans issues ETC, they could very easily sweep the country.
Like the suburbs would probably most likely Fall back to the Republicans.
And they would probably also keep their gains in the rural areas.
And that would probably cause States like Ohio and Iowa to become deep Republican strongholds think Tennessee or Alabama type situation.
It would probably push Georgia and North Carolina back to the Republicans by like at least r + 10 or so.
Arizona and Nevada would also probably become pretty Republican as well.
They would definitely be able to gain ground in Oregon Washington and Illinois although I highly doubt they would ever win those States bar from extreme Republican wave years.
Michigan would probably become one of the more penultimate swing States while Pennsylvania and Wisconsin become red leaning.
Maine and New Hampshire would also probably slot themselves in the competitive category.
They would also probably be able to make some inroads in New Jersey and New York but again never win them again barring exceptional circumstances.
Maybe even some inroads in Connecticut Rhode Island and Delaware.
I think Colorado could also be slotted back into the competitive scene same thing with Virginia especially Virginia actually.
Texas would probably go back to its Republican stronghold. and New Mexico would probably slot itself in a more leaning Democratic position as opposed to its likely Democratic position currently.
I think the main reason for this would be because if Republicans took a relatively similar stance to more moderate Democrats on social issues apart from say immigration and guns it would be pretty hard to tell the difference between Democrats and Republicans as they have very similar fiscal beliefs and the only thing that would differentiate them from that point would be immigration and guns and the United States public has shown itself to be fairly conservative on both of those issues.

We are in Part 3 of the Oregon Trail saga. (Here are links for Parts 1 and 2.) To know what to do, read the entire section below.
Having left Devil's Gate, you and your family are headed to South Pass, where you'll enter Oregon Territory. At "nooning" (your midday rest), Caleb, the captain sends you and his children, Joseph and Eliza, to find a resting spot. As you rest by the Pacific Springs, Caleb announces that you'll be reaching the Parting of the Ways. He explains that your options will be to continue your trail to Fort Bridger or take the Greenwood Cutoff. You should continue your trail to Fort Bridger.
While your family sets up camp, you and Joseph go to collect sagebrush. In this area, known as Little Sandy Crossing, grass and fuel are scarce. As you return to the train, you notice a Native American settlement, where the Shoshone live. You eat baked beans (seasoned with bacon) and pan bread. You fall asleep reading a (worn) copy of Gulliver's Travels, but in the early morning, you awake to the sound of a guard's alarm, yelling that you have been robbed of a cow and two horses! Joseph tells you that one of the groups you saw last night must be responsible and he's going to spy on them. He tells you to cover for him if anyone asks. You get the choice of telling Pa where Joseph is going or going after Joseph. Pick the former.
Upon hearing of Joseph's plan to spy on the other camp, Pa tells Caleb. They go with two other men to track Joseph down. Joseph doesn't even look at you when you return, but Pa says that the other wagon train was in really bad shape itself and didn't take your animals. Ma asks about the missing animals, but Pa says to just forget about them. For the next couple of days, Joseph refuses to even look at you, but after a while, he admits that going off like that was a bad idea and that you were only looking out for him. You become friends again. The next day, you arrive at the infamous Green River Crossing, which, especially in the spring (when the snow melts and raises the water level), is known to be difficult to cross. The water is a little lower in July, but you still have to walk across the river on narrow gravel bars. Some mountain men have created a ferry, but they charge a fee. The area around the crossing is now a camping site. Caleb goes to ask how much the ferry will cost, but learns that it's being repaired, which will take at least four days. You're asked if you want to wait for the ferry or cross the river. The option to pick is to wait for the ferry.
Having heard many stories of pioneers falling into the Green River, almost everyone agrees with your suggestion to wait for the ferry. The banks make for a nice camping place, and Pa and Caleb help repair the ferry, helping it get finished a day sooner. When it's time to ride across, you sit in the wagon, holding the hands of your little brother and sister, Samuel and Hannah. While waiting for the train to get across, you, Joseph, and Eliza play a game of hide-and-seek. Samuel declares you to be it and runs. After counting to fifty, you see your dog, Archie, bark and run to a bunch of bushes. You follow him and see a baby antelope. Guessing it's been orphaned or abandoned, you ask Ma for milk to give it. Upon seeing the animal, Ma softens and gives you milk. The antelope becomes your new pet. You name her Gertrude and tie a ribbon around her neck. She travels with you when the wagon train moves. One afternoon, however, tragedy strikes: during your midday break, some dogs appear out of nowhere and chase after Gertrude. Two Lakota men on horses race after them. You run after them, yelling that she's yours, but they do not hear you. The dogs kill Gertrude and the men bring her back on a horse. After a talk with Pa, the men apologize for what happened and offer you deerskins in return. Do not accept them.
You tell Pa that you don't want the deerskins. Because the dogs didn't know that Gertrude was your antelope, you would feel bad taking anything from the Lakota. Pa tells that to the Lakota, and they ride away. Just after you start to hike again, however, they return, stating that they will travel as far as the next village. The men, whose names are Roaring Cloud and Bright Sky (father and son, respectively) point out various plants, telling you what's edible and what's used for making medicine (with Ma making notes in her journal). The Lakota disappear when you make camp, but return with a jackrabbit, which Ma prepares in a stew. After the meal, Roaring Cloud tells you Lakota legends, which you, Hannah, and Samuel enjoy. The next day, you make camp at the Lakota settlement and are invited to supper. You, Hannah, and Samuel get wildflowers, and Pa brings some fuel for the fire. During the feast, you see a loaf of bear root bread, wild onion stew, and a cake-like thing (which Pa has eaten and says tastes like a sweet potato) made of another root. Roaring Cloud is looking at you, and although you don't want to offend him, you're not used to this kind of food. The options you get are to force yourself to eat this food or to just wait for leftovers. Force yourself to eat the food.
You eat some of the root cake and realize that Pa wasn't kidding when he said that it tastes like a sweet potato! You ask Joseph about the stew, and he says that it's really good. After the meal, you have nuts, berries, and fragrant hot tea for dessert. Afterward, some performers perform some stories for entertainment. The night continues until Samuel nods off and Ma motions that it's time to head back to camp. The next day, you bid farewell to the Lakota and head to Fort Bridger, but when you get there, it's not what you expect! It's a collection of rickety wooden buildings belonging to fur traders. Fortunately, there's a blacksmith shop where Pa buys shoes for the oxen and replaces the cow you lost. That night, you're sleeping in a hut when Archie growls. You start to shush him, but then, you see what made him growl: a big rattlesnake! You are asked whether you want to run away or lie still. Pick the latter option.
You and Archie stay still. Eventually, the rattlesnake slithers into a small hole on the other side of the hut. Archie's barking wakes everyone up, but when they hear of your encounter, they congratulate you for not trying to strike the snake or run. However, no one, least of all you, gets much more sleep, and (even though you aren't sorry to leave Fort Bridger) you're exhausted when the morning bugle sounds. At Bear Lake Vally, you find plenty of firewood and water, but Caleb warns of another obstacle: Big Hill, one of the steepest climbs on the Trail. When you get there, everyone starts wondering how they will get up. Joseph suggests a windlass, and when you ask what that is, he explains the process: you anchor one wagon at the top of the hill, attach ropes to its wheels, attach the other end of the ropes to the rest of the wagons at the bottom of the hill, and then turn the wheel on the windlass like a crank, pulling the wagons up the hill. Some people agree with Joseph's suggestion, but others (nervous about using something with which they're unfamiliar) suggest the slow and steady route. You should go with Joseph's suggestion.
The windlass works (although it takes several hours to get all the wagons up). As everyone has leftover breakfast as a midday snack, you start wondering how you will make it down the hill. You remember that in Alcove Spring (during the second week of your journey), you used ropes to tie your wheels and make breaks, and it took the strength of all the men to slowly bring the wagons down the hill. Here, you take the same precautions, and the men take the wagons down the hill in a zigzag pattern rather than straight down (but not without some items falling out). For the next few days, it's smooth sailing. Then one afternoon, Samuel says that you're approaching Soda Springs! You marvel at the bizarre landscapes and drink some of the water. After you drink your fill, Ma and Pa let you explore the area with Joseph and Eliza. You hear a high-pitched whistle that Joseph says comes from Steamboat Spring, but Eliza would rather go to the hot springs to soak her feet. Go to Steamboat Spring.
Whereas other springs hiss, Steamboat Spring shoots out a stream of water every fifteen seconds. After camping, you trek four days to Fort Hall, where a fur trader named Henry invites the group to supper. During supper, he says that the most difficult part of the Trail is ahead: the mountains and the Columbia Valley! He suggests going southwest alongside the California Trail. Some people are tempted by Henry's suggestion and want to go to California, but others want to continue the journey to Oregon. The options that you're given are to go to the California Trail or continue on the Oregon Trail. You should continue on the Oregon Trail although one might instinctively pick that option anyway, given the title of this series.
In the end, only three wagons (luckily for you, Caleb's isn't one of them) split off. You hike for three days to the Raft River, a deep and rapid stream leading to the Snake River (and where the families leaving for California turn southwest). On the second day, it starts to rain and doesn't stop until the third. While you search for a spot for camping, you notice that because of all the rain that's fallen over the past two days, the water levels are higher than usual. The scouts pick out a spot, but the ground is muddy and wet. Some people complain, but others want to camp anyway. Ma asks you if you want to camp or look elsewhere. Pick the latter.
You find another spot to camp, but after you eat, your throat begins to feel sore, and so does Samuel's. Ma makes you some hot tea and sends you to bed early. The next morning, your throat is less sore, but you now have a cough, which isn't helped by Samuel (who is doing much better) running around and kicking up dirt. You try to rectify this with a swig from the water-skin, but at night, you start to cough a lot, much to the chagrin of Hannah. You then remember that Caleb has some tonics, but you don't want to wake him up. Your options are to take some of the tonic or just try to sleep without it. Try to sleep without the tonic.
Ma comes to check on you and, upon seeing your situation, wraps you in a blanket and gives you some of the tonic. The next day, you've recovered from your cough, and the train makes its way to the Shoshone Falls. It's a beautiful sight. A couple of days later, you see Shoshone people spearing fish. Pa barters for several large fish and grills them over a campfire that night. The evening gives everyone a nice break, which is important because you're about to approach the hardest part of Snake River: Three Island Crossing! Caleb explains that you have to ford one section of the river (which is about one hundred yards wide) to an island. Then you cross a swift and dangerous branch to another island, and then there's one more part to get across. One man suggests tying the wagons together, stating that the extra weight will make the wagons less likely to tip over or drift downstream. Another man suggests taking the wagons apart and floating them across the river so the animals only have to manage themselves. You now have the option of attaching the wagons together or floating them across. You should attach the wagons together. (This is only your second-to-last set of choices; floating the wagons across leads to two more choices, but they both lead to bad endings.)
You tie two wagons together and travel in pairs. After two pairs go, your wagon follows. As you go in, things go smoothly until the wagon jerks violently! Ma (who isn't a very good swimmer) falls in, hits her head on a rock, and is knocked unconscious (but thankfully not killed)! Pa manages to fish her out and revive her, and she seems okay. You quickly keep moving and reach the island safely. As you reminisce over your journey, you think of what comes next, but you're now a tried-and-true pioneer. You win (for now)!
Here are two more good endings:

• Pa finds a freshwater spring with clear water. Your family sets up camp and eventually decides that this is a better life than the one on the Trail.
• Pa opens a business with the Shoshone people to help those who have missing animals, want guides, or need food and water.

Its time. I've put it off for two years because I was overwhelmed with researching so I figure I would ask here. Does anyone have a working relationship with an honest /reliable chimney sweep that will service in East Dallas?
In need of:
New chimney cap
Chimney sweep/ maintenance
Chimney damper repair
I didn't see any other posts on a chimney sweep so I hope that this helps others as well..
Much appreciated!

Nowhere near hypercar material, but some mildly interesting spots I suppose.

Georgia

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1 - BMW M3 F80 [Atlanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8448682,-84.3707381,3a,32.9y,96.07h,82.18t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1stXyivOs-ZgrvoqJEWUNnMw!2e0!5s20180501T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
2 - BMW M3 F80 + Cadillac CTS-V [Atlanta, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8448424,-84.3707014,3a,41.2y,352.98h,74.68t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s6_AlDqqXFJK6vkjRq9D4Og!2e0!5s20161101T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
3 - BMW M5 F10 [Atlanta, 2015]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8444495,-84.3703608,3a,15y,316.4h,89.28t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sXD6ZDkJOs2KtkAFgMA3R2Q!2e0!5s20150801T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
4 - BMW M6 F06 Gran Coupe [Atlanta, 2014]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8444161,-84.3703409,3a,15y,330.44h,89.35t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sf9ROXONipEw-RpO-HrUpow!2e0!5s20141101T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
5 - Mercedes-AMG S 63 W222 + Mercedes-AMG C 63 Coupe C205 [Atlanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8441158,-84.3705137,3a,45.4y,295.66h,84.27t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sffXZIg__Oj0o_SyMOHEu9A!2e0!5s20181201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
6 - BMW M3 F80 [Atlanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8442725,-84.3702462,3a,15y,330.46h,90.3t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sKEHZ2EhY3w7sUAFVC7mUtg!2e0!5s20181201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
7 - Ferrari California! [Atlanta, 2012]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8442121,-84.3702984,3a,20.4y,278.05h,87.59t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s_JBU509fTddDe3wguE4LRQ!2e0!5s20121001T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
8 - Bentley Continental GT II [Atlanta, 2023]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8435594,-84.3710086,3a,15.2y,258.13h,87.68t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sk97gOHTVWMqdUVABL3ywdQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
9 - Bentley Continental GTC I [Atlanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8436696,-84.3708617,3a,15y,261.22h,89.31t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sSGfDcnsqI99lhSN9tVAJhw!2e0!5s20181101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
10 - Bentley Continental Flying Spur I [Altanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.7592803,-84.3842149,3a,20y,96.77h,85.37t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1seuIkZz7BnBBBtMAzIZ0SzA!2e0!5s20181201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
11 - BMW M3 E93 Cabriolet [Atlanta, 2023]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8509468,-84.3622557,3a,16.9y,176.64h,88.7t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sNnVqpzkGkYHiTV4sx0T_Rw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
12 - Two tone Mercedes-Maybach GLS 600! [Atlanta, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8490272,-84.3639101,3a,15y,140.24h,84.78t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sOnwcf5r4QQzKUQmeK4MI5g!2e0!5s20220701T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
13 - Mercedes-Benz E 63 AMG W212 [Atlanta, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8491803,-84.3635932,3a,15y,249.21h,85.96t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1soFGyRr1vIF5Q2pSieUWjRA!2e0!5s20181201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
14 - Porsche 911 991.1 Turbo [Atlanta, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@33.8488861,-84.3647683,3a,15y,188.45h,84.81t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sES2NkdrcDKCNo-N87iT_zg!2e0!5s20160701T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
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Kentucky

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15 - Alfa Romeo Giulia QV + BMW M5 F90 Competition [Florence, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.0094073,-84.6302327,3a,15y,165.11h,89.38t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1ststVxpKpxLRgy_1vWvEiTg!2e0!5s20190401T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
16 - BMW M5 F10 [Florence, 2013]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.0095161,-84.6303527,3a,15y,159.14h,88.18t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1smpVWBqku2jXnCztUlFfCYg!2e0!5s20130701T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
17 - BMW M5 E60 [Florence, 2007]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.0093103,-84.6304996,3a,19.1y,129.39h,88.48t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sTkoJ6Eua61At0F05w8AcAA!2e0!5s20071001T000000!7i3328!8i1664?entry=ttu
​
​

New Jersey

-
18 - BMW M2 F87 Coupe [Jersey City, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@40.7087068,-74.0407269,3a,15.8y,324.5h,86.31t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sBD0nMf8oBaNaY14SoE9IYQ!2e0!5s20181001T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
19 - Porsche 911 991.1 Carrera S [Jersey City, 2023]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@40.7286224,-74.0301146,3a,39.3y,303.17h,73.61t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s3I1FAadaoZvtomR1CihVcA!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
20 - Maserati GranCabrio S [Teaneck, 2020]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@40.8918634,-74.0080351,3a,15y,109.56h,84.12t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s4FVuEM9GHFFSvnUdw9W21A!2e0!5s20201101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
21 - Ford Mustang Shelby GT 350 [Sea Girt, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@40.1278404,-74.0350305,3a,49y,221.17h,77.76t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s6dZeet6zXLE2cSG5t7tDvQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
22 - BMW M5 F90 Competition [Tenafly, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@40.9179974,-73.9787026,3a,15y,100.49h,86.49t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sl9_OV2jU50pQWidbPLYMfw!2e0!5s20210901T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
​
​

Massachusetts

-
23 - Bentley Continental GTC II + Ford Mustang Saleen S302 Convertible [Worcester, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@42.2600559,-71.8056876,3a,18.5y,85.63h,85.11t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1smbPjf7e8yduvCap4-SWRIg!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
24 - Bentley Continental GTC I [Worcester, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@42.2599394,-71.8055252,3a,16.5y,7.97h,79.2t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sycP7d-emy_PyxMYbs--U5w!2e0!5s20161101T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
​

Minnesota

-
25 - Audi RS3 Sedan 8V [Wayzata, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@44.9699207,-93.5176914,3a,73.2y,285.54h,84.1t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sdlIULstEQ9kQhrtidMD9Ww!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
26 - Porsche 911 996 Turbo S Cabriolet! [Wayzata, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@44.9699403,-93.5188288,3a,23.7y,51.77h,78.87t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sf1g7j9qksPY9q7HElbOTrw!2e0!5s20160901T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
​

Nevada

-
27 - BMW M5 F10 [Las Vegas, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1081779,-115.1806127,3a,15y,15.25h,82.17t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s9Z3w6KNzVJ0r9M0NZnDpRA!2e0!5s20210201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
28 - BMW i8 [Las Vegas, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1287964,-115.1730059,3a,15.3y,355.1h,89.02t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sHJ7JFYbbIUU0FcNQhP0vew!2e0!5s20211101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
29 - Bentley Continental GT II [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1288161,-115.1729952,3a,19.3y,169.89h,88.1t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sBGytOe58Ufccq_Q0nRxveA!2e0!5s20190301T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
30 - BMW i8 [Las Vegas, 2015]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1288926,-115.1729012,3a,18.5y,164.27h,86.97t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sdqQGZWJ3n0kNRQIqJMfvUw!2e0!5s20150401T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
31 - Aston Martin V8 Vantage 2005 [Las Vegas, 2009]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1288721,-115.173212,3a,15y,163.49h,86.19t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1snC5iQ_i0LX3BKU9QgufcYg!2e0!5s20090501T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
32 - Bentley Continental GT I + Bentley Continental GT I Speed [Las Vegas, 2017]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1020365,-115.1680522,3a,19.2y,335.4h,85.27t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sB4Uc5iqJAevwX4YDNVb8Ng!2e0!5s20170101T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
33 - Nissan 350Z Nismo [Las Vegas, 2023]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1009359,-115.1689721,3a,19.2y,303.76h,82.61t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sp3XdsvgB4ufwBputgkzivQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
34 - Porsche 911 992.1 Carrera S + BMW X3 M F98 Competition [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1586529,-115.3131382,3a,37.1y,189.97h,85.36t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sN4xCXDwMdnQVCDRJ8UBK0g!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
35 - Chevrolet Corvette C7 Gran Sport Convertible [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1581118,-115.3129785,3a,26.6y,67.07h,80.18t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s8RJrCrSsmnRzJHHApPd4Vw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
36 - Mercedes-Benz SL 55 AMG R230 [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1580546,-115.311337,3a,17.9y,204.94h,77.73t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1se2lp2D7vp2JJQXq3UHuqKA!2e0!5s20190201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
37 - Solar Beam Yellow Mercedes-AMG GT [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.163501,-115.2917119,3a,15y,102.56h,83.28t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sEUcAsXTlft-72Qq-CNeaDQ!2e0!5s20190201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
38 - Audi R8 Type 42 V10! [Las Vegas, 2015]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1632488,-115.291299,3a,15y,321.6h,86.52t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sq2KvDJhThsBZ2q1oFqD-Ww!2e0!5s20150401T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
39 - Bentley Continental GT I [Las Vegas, 2011]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1634376,-115.2912254,3a,15y,252.97h,85.8t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sFIei8pUcQREnB6Ib9eXKZA!2e0!5s20110601T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
40 - Mercedes-AMG S 63 Coupe [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.163069,-115.2916248,3a,15y,220.41h,87.12t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sApyFsNl5XTkQHMoDdBp41Q!2e0!5s20190201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
41 - BMW M6 F13 Coupe [Las Vegas, 2015]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1629474,-115.2914068,3a,15y,241.66h,87.79t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sDec0gx0hLiiHXJYpr7ypzQ!2e0!5s20150801T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
42 - BMW M6 F06 Gran Coupe [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.15932,-115.2926078,3a,15y,73.85h,83.8t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s2IziOBQq9sKMISzNh55IYw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
43 - Mercedes-AMG GT [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1598196,-115.2921525,3a,24.9y,305.89h,85.41t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s6iS2_Kbb1rQ_cusVdu2UXA!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
44 - Porsche 911 991.2 Turbo S [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1603806,-115.2926097,3a,24.1y,132.46h,79.88t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sEiFB1cEdMVnXTUH6umjSGQ!2e0!5s20190201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
45 - Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder! [Las Vegas, 2013]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1599562,-115.291578,3a,15y,310.41h,87.3t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sXiZ7gCiIzpVHeECGegqTsQ!2e0!5s20130501T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
46 - BMW M5 E60 [Las Vegas, 2014]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1603036,-115.2913235,3a,15y,272.79h,87.29t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sMGGfOFqUISv3tVl6kkdpPA!2e0!5s20140601T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
47 - Audi RS7 Sportback C8 [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1610518,-115.2887248,3a,15.2y,154.96h,85.48t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1swkdUgu-jPTbhnPK3f47cuQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
48 - BMW M3 F80 [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1610572,-115.2880818,3a,20.5y,164.8h,85.05t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1smYqFVVWBwYdAU18CHyB4GQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
49 - Porsche 911 996 Carrera 4S [Las Vegas, 2015]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1683861,-115.2914787,3a,15y,282.62h,88.9t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sEEwTe6I64qRd4hEtH8FikA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
50 - Bentley Flying Spur II [Las Vegas, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1439993,-115.2957562,3a,45.1y,231.7h,75.66t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sG6562y-LAiAatJ4rV_ewrw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
51 - BMW M3 F80 [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.2101321,-115.267597,3a,25y,64.54h,75.85t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s1IpxSTICV_qgljj0XctaoQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
52 - Mercedes-Benz CL 55 AMG C215 [Henderson, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.0632395,-115.0794178,3a,31.3y,141.83h,85.94t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sUPX_PzxhGDNEdIC-wRUYuA!2e0!5s20180201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
53 - Rolls Royce Ghost + Bentley Continental GTC II [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.0667543,-115.1051692,3a,15y,89.2h,88.77t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1svifdwrgYY1SZJ1g7d8Jk_Q!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
54 - Bricklin SV-1! [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1114717,-115.0924629,3a,49.4y,57.96h,94.54t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sEpjvagUe3RJsGfmGjboLWg!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
55 - Lamborghini Urus [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.2637724,-115.2572672,3a,15.3y,310.51h,86.82t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sR2sO7Jm5ExDUczERCd9kew!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
56 - BMW M5 F90 [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.2638159,-115.2569818,3a,17.3y,131.45h,86.59t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1skZzgWpDxrY18Jtf5sNpheQ!2e0!5s20190101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
57 - Mercedes-AMG C 63 S Sedan W205 [Las Vegas, 2023]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1247675,-115.2788403,3a,15.2y,247.41h,87.82t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sp57cVhJFIYqD9twk2UL5bA!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
58 - Mitsubishi Evolution VIII [Las Vegas, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.125126,-115.27878,3a,17.7y,206.04h,87.85t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1st0-5ydJqJFTXqMc0mLmuEg!2e0!5s20180301T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
59 - Porsche 911 997.1 Carrera S [Las Vegas, 2011]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.125585,-115.2786795,3a,20.4y,267.46h,84.25t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1shh15HbuMFU6tR0eDBxyidA!2e0!5s20110801T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
60 - BMW i8 [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1276546,-115.2795887,3a,18.1y,249.95h,76.84t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1srZK-ByjsUrTskPorKbyoPQ!2e0!5s20220601T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
61 - Mercedes-Benz CL 63 AMG C216 [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1780036,-115.1783545,3a,41.8y,238.38h,78.21t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1skuvz3gjU6yBu3h3WSSyPvg!2e0!5s20190101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
62 - Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X [Las Vegas, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1940896,-115.1617601,3a,21.8y,263.02h,74.5t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sUbDE93UuXbra-ZO_W3fMcQ!2e0!5s20180401T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
63 - BMW M5 F10 [Las Vegas, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1440136,-115.2610996,3a,15y,121.85h,84.84t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s890LUVUoG50YmBYR85cEVQ!2e0!5s20210101T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
64 - Porsche 911 997.1 Turbo + Porsche 911 997.1 Carrera S [Las Vegas, 2013]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1437488,-115.2612234,3a,76.6y,355.02h,77.29t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sjRG_ss-pHLQsVx1nLdu2Pg!2e0!5s20130401T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu'
65 - Nissan 350Z Nismo [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1437922,-115.2616516,3a,15y,200.9h,84.66t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s3qkM-we6PvozXg3a57-ziA!2e0!5s20190301T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
66 - Bentley Continental GTC I [Las Vegas, 2017]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1436806,-115.2613975,3a,15.6y,88.14h,81.43t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sZ3_-iB_m_8s-lgn2_MJjLg!2e0!5s20170501T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
67 - BMW M3 E46 Cabriolet [Las Vegas, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.158984,-115.3329646,3a,15y,18.5h,88.68t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sDQESfc6yXdG1w9kDUKQ5zw!2e0!5s20190201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
68 - Porsche 911 992.1 Turbo S Cabriolet Aerokit [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1256015,-115.1695008,3a,15.6y,224.15h,83.56t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sp_b9mjtRj5gG63m91g9yTA!2e0!5s20221201T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
69 - Mercedes-AMG G 63 W463 2018 [Las Vegas, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1255927,-115.1697419,3a,19.6y,177.72h,86.24t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sGxt2H8IRbUanlFa1aNgewQ!2e0!5s20220501T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
70 - Mercedes-Benz S 55 AMG W220 [Las Vegas, 2013]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@36.1255413,-115.1690275,3a,19.3y,295.89h,76.64t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s1_VGf2dnEIQh1CobAIOGIw!2e0!5s20130701T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
​

North Carolina

-
71 - Mercedes-Benz E 55 AMG W211 + Cadillac CTS-V [Cary, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@35.7369858,-78.7986234,3a,58.8y,199.45h,71.92t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sGyjZwbaiDK_aArNuAYCNkQ!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
72 - Maserati 4200 GT Spyder [Apex, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@35.7131862,-78.8116728,3a,17.2y,327.96h,82.28t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sxah82hH_QCDaSdhMog2_zA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
73 - Mercedes-AMG E 63 S Estate W213 [Davidson, 2021]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@35.4613108,-80.8040693,3a,19.2y,74.7h,90.31t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1s8Q55V0LuFcvRwkdVTFu5hQ!2e0!5s20210601T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
74 - BMW M3 E92 Coupe [Davidson, 2012]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@35.466184,-80.8035654,3a,15y,357.41h,87.52t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1scdRN0jruuUANEIAcMM24bQ!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
​

Ohio

-
75 - Porsche 911 G-Series Carrera [Blue Ash, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.2548279,-84.3656193,3a,17.1y,105.01h,83.15t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sclZoBqLYHsQbjcc3qQaHUQ!2e0!5s20180501T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
76 - Audi R8 Type 42 V10 Spyder! [Springboro, 2016]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.5637733,-84.2589867,3a,15y,170.26h,87.85t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sx6KN5RsQFddQLIyKnOnwGQ!2e0!5s20160901T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
77 - Porsche 911 997.1 Turbo [Springboro, 2011]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@39.5637258,-84.2585171,3a,15y,198.86h,87.89t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sm4umCBWT8J6tqJnZv1WsBQ!2e0!5s20110901T000000!7i13312!8i6656?entry=ttu
​
​

Oregon

-
78 - Jensen Healey [Ashland, 2008]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@42.1975074,-122.713884,3a,20.4y,202.57h,88.3t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sGmWTtB67SQ3rtfDFEilJPQ!2e0!5s20081001T000000!7i3328!8i1664?entry=ttu
​
​

Rhode Island

-
79 - BMW M3 E46 Cabriolet [Newport, 2019]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@41.490172,-71.317194,3a,15y,161.9h,87.48t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sbmEKH7hxkaeuEWY7hek21Q!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
​
​

Virginia

-
80 - Abandoned Acura NSX NA1! [Blacksburg, 2022]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@37.2230564,-80.4019114,3a,15.4y,28.41h,87.99t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sMrjncEx3XdbSSVOiu9k_xw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu
​
​
​

Washington

-
81 - BMW M5 F10 [Newcastle, 2018]
https://www.google.com.au/maps/@47.5337228,-122.1824453,3a,15y,317.4h,85.63t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sgMBanoVZztHe2CkrtjUe_A!2e0!5s20180601T000000!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu

Given Democrats’ all-out assault on traditional values and the American way of life, a single-minded focus on the economy—especially at the expense of major social and cultural issues at top of mind for many Americans—isn’t the winning strategy some Republicans might believe.
[...]
For much of the last year, no cultural issues have dominated the political airwaves more than the rise of Critical Race Theory (CRT) and gender ideology in K-12 education. Virginia Governor Glenn Youngkin’s victory last November [...] should serve as a clear sign for conservative candidates everywhere not to hide from the culture wars, but rather to embrace them.
- Seamus Brennan, May 12, 2022

Oftentimes, there are long political traditions that have been dead for years but continue shambling to the frontlines like reanimated corpses, only to be exposed as frauds. Politics doesn't listen to tradition. My favorite example of this is Professor Helmut Norpoth's Primary Model, which basically predicts Presidential elections based on who had the harder time in the primary.
Obviously, this model heavily favors incumbents, who are generally not challenged. It hedges by saying that an incumbent who is facing issues in the primary is in serious trouble. Indeed, it has a fair track record. When George H. W. Bush was rattled in the primary by Pat Buchanan, it was a sign that his tax increases would ultimately come back to bite him. Jimmy Carter's near-defeat to Ted Kennedy foreshadowed that liberals would ultimately defect to moderate Republican John Anderson.
The model gave Donald Trump a 91% chance of winning in 2020, and we all know how that turned out. Political realities change, and sometimes strong predictors for who is going to win are either incidental or outdated. Or both.
Let's keep in mind a tale of two midterms: in 2018 and in 2022, the incumbent President was unpopular and held a trifecta, having passed parts of his agenda but not others. Tradition dictated he was in for an ass-whooping in the midterm.
But the actual picture was far more complex. While Republicans lost the House in 2018 and the year is generally characterized as a blue wave, they actually gained in the Senate. Against all odds, too. Polls showed Missouri and Indiana as pretty close, even blue-leaning, races. Mississippi and Tennessee were supposed to be super competitive. But even as Democrats triumphed nationally, Republicans redoubled their totals with the base and even managed to gain in the Senate.
The Democrats' surprise 2022 overperformance was much more dramatic. Republicans, frankly, got whooped considering the circumstances. Every single incumbent Democrat Senator held on, and one seat, Pennsylvania, flipped despite polls giving Republican Mehmet Oz a lead going into election day. Democrats came very close to winning two seats they'd written off, North Carolina and Wisconsin. Lofty Republican ambitions in New Hampshire, Washington, and Colorado went up in smoke.
What's interesting about both of these elections is that there's one very important thing that doesn't make sense: the economy. Biden and Trump were both unpopular, but things were pretty good when Trump was President. In fact, with the exception of Bill Clinton, it's difficult to imagine any President that was dealt as good of a hand as Trump after World War Two. Under Trump, the economy was better than ever, and it remains the backbone of his electoral strength. Biden, meanwhile, had one of the more difficult terms in recent history. He broke several records when it came to disapproval, at one point being further in the toilet than his predecessor.
The Presidential elections were interesting, too. In 2016, President Obama was just generally popular and the economy was mostly on the right track. However, it was here that Donald Trump managed a huge overperformance that ultimately swept him to the Presidency. True, it is not unheard of for an incumbent party to fumble the ball and narrowly lose to an outsider (2000), but it's certainly rare. Then in 2020, when the country was at the most miserable and leaderless point in recent history, Trump overperformed again and nearly kept the Presidency.
So why did Trump overperform when Obama was popular, get whooped outside of his base when he was in charge and managing an economy most people were begrudgingly pleased with, and then noticeably overperform while having the worst hand of any incumbent since Herbert Hoover? And why did Biden, a well-known, establishment politician, underperform when all the stars had aligned for him but proved surprisingly resilient when everything was against him?
I think the answer is that it's really not about the economy anymore, or at least that the economy occupies a much smaller place in voters' minds than it used to. Another interpretation would be that the economy is now seen largely through a partisan lense-- by which I mean, the Democrats' (they're usually on the ass-end of economy questions these days) dissatisfaction with Biden's economy won't stop them from voting, and even if they are begrudgingly pleased with Trump's economy they'll still vote against him.
A consequence of this is that wave elections are over. In 2010, Obama had a trifecta and entered office with high expectations. However, key parts of his agenda flopped, and in the worst way possible. He managed to trigger the right while deflating his own base. In the 2010 midterms, the right turned out in full force, the left stayed home, and the center figured they weren't happy with the way things were so they might as well give the opposition a shot. Even states like Hawaii and Massachusetts saw breakout Republican success. This is basically the anatomy of a wave election before everything changed, thanks to Trump, and I doubt we're going back.
The matter is of particular importance because right now Trump is the overwhelming favorite to win the Republican nomination. We will get the 2024 election nobody wanted-- a rematch.
In 2020, Trump held an absolutely terrible hand. He attracted withering criticism from many sides due to his response to the COVID-19 pandemic, and conventional wisdom dictated that nice moderate Joe Biden would win just on virtue of that alone. The COVID-19 pandemic and the ensuing economic crash had theoretically robbed Trump of the one thing he could actually tout, and that was an America where he hadn't managed to break anything. The nice, unifying Joe Biden was supposed to sweep him away in an election that resembled 1980, 1992, or 1932. At the end of the day it looked quite a bit more like 1948. Trump ran a bitter, divisive, unpresidential campaign to the fiery end, rallying his base and throwing crude but workable talking points to the suburbanites. He was narrowly edged out after a week of vote-counting in a few key states.
The fact of the matter is, "cultural" issues and a healthy dose of partisanship have at least partially supplanted the economy. At least partially, Trump kept his strength with economy voters because it was impossible to blame him for the country closing down. In 2010, many voters might've abandoned President Obama because he hadn't brought the prosperity he'd promised. In 2020, many voters toughed it out with Trump because (for better or for worse) they were too partisan to blame him for the country's ills. Democrats were destined to do a lot better in 2022 than in 2010 just on this virtue alone. The public now sees not voting like letting cancer win because your doctor didn't cure it in time.
Similarly, culture issues are eclipsing the economy in importance. In 2018, the Trump Administration's shenanigans mostly dictated which way the country voted. Republicans enjoyed miniature waves in a lot of red states, and got absolutely buried in purple and blue states. Similarly, in 2022, when the main issues were Trump's ongoing attempts to subvert the electoral process and red states banning abortion, Democrats were surprisingly resilient. But in solid blue states where those concerns were distant, cultural issues like crime gave Republicans surprise gains. The most infamous was New York, but Republicans also took the House because of strength in states like California and Oregon.
I'm going to close this post by saying that we'll be entering 2024 with the roles basically reversed-- Biden will be the divisive, unpopular incumbent overseeing a shitty America. Trump will be the guy on the outside talking a big game with no real suggestions and banking on dissatisfaction winning out. I had friends tell me the Democrats' 2022 messaging was just January 6th and abortion, and the general expectation (myself included) was that nobody would care about Lake's open declarations that she would overturn the 2024 election if Biden won it, or that abortion really wouldn't weigh on the Wisconsin Republicans.
2024 will be a bitterly partisan race where people will indeed care. If the Republicans nominate Donald Trump, people will care. They will blow yet another perfectly winnable race and hand a desperately unpopular President another term.

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Please critique early August itinerary: too ambitious? 1 night Portland, 2 nights Rockaway Beach, 2 nights Brandon, 2 nights Bend, 1 night Mt Hood, 2 nights Hood River
Day 1 - Fly into Portland, spend the afternoon/eve in Portland. Hotel for 1 night in Portland Day 2- drive to Canon Beach, Ecola State Park, and stay in Rockaway Beach Day 3 - explore Rockaway Beach area...Short Beach, Tunnel beach, Cape Meares,, Tillamook Creamery. Day 4 - Cape Lookout, Neskowin Ghost forest, Hobbit beach, Face rock, Thors Well. Hotel in Brandon. Day 5 - Explore Bandon area Day 6 - early start, Crater Lake scenic drive, do short hikes in area, arrive Bend late Day 7 - Painted Rock, Smith rock, Old Mill district, Deschutes brewery Day 8 - early start, Trillium lake and/or Mirror lake hikes, check in to Timberline lodge Day 9 - do a hike from lodge in AM, drive to Hood River via fruit loop, Tamanas hike or Multnomah fall, Hood River hotel Day 10 - Mitchell point, Rowena Crest, Wahclella falls Day 11- return rental car, fly home
Thanks!

After receiving higher than normal levels of rain, I checked the attic for signs of water intrusion. Everything looked fine except for where our chimney meets the gable end truss. It looks like some sort of repair was done in the past (maybe added mortar?) where the barrier between the chimney and truss wood was removed. Now there are signs of moisture on the wood at this location - not sure if this is from condensation only or water intrusion from the roof. However, flashing on the roof looked okay. How can I go about addressing this issue - is this something I can fix myself, or should I call a professional to inspect and repair? If the professional route is preferred, would I call a chimney sweep, building envelope specialist, or someone else? Location is Denver, CO. Thanks in advance for the help and information.
https://imgur.com/a/FwcV450
https://imgur.com/a/9kulIfD

PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

1
I live in a suburb surrounded by forest. My house is in a row of other properties built next to a tree line. The neighborhood was always quiet. The sounds of crickets, birds, and sight of black bears were routine on most summer days.
The scenic area was something I was always grateful for. I lived completely alone since the death of my parents. An accidental fire took both of their lives. Once I collected my inheritance, I relocated to a much more peaceful region. I had always fantasized about moving there.
I tried to start a relationship with Samantha. I had gone to High School with her sixteen years before. She had gone on to become a respected Detective. My attempt at something long lasting with her failed. She was too career oriented. I was reeling from grief. Focusing on building something meaningful with her was a pipe dream.
Things around my community changed once the Murphy family went missing.
The first sign that something was off on that Wednesday was how their blinds had closed. Their silver Chrysler remained parked in the driveway.
A tennis instructor at the country club noticed the wife of that house did not show up for the program. He called their number to make sure everything was alright. When no one responded, he notified the authorities. Rumors abounded immediately among the home owners association about an alleged affair. The gossip only furthered when the married couple and their three kids were not found in the abode.
I watched from my balcony as the patrolmen roped the place off with caution tape. The domicile was a three story building with brick chimney’s and a few peaked roofs in the style of English towers. They were beige, light blue and crimson.
On the morning of the Murphy’s desertion of society, the architecture became a hollow image. It was one that was once filled with activity and life.
The law did what they could. Any success they may have had in the investigation was secret. A few months passed by and they removed the caution tape.
I followed the on-line police logs. The weather was pristine and clear the day they vanished. The fact that there were no witnesses to what direction they may have gone disturbed me.
I had heard how the man, Frank Murphy, had a bit of a temper and always had a bourbon in hand. I had heard mutual friends describe him as an alcoholic in denial of his servitude to liquor. He was an indignant individual who knew no true repercussions for his behavior. He always had bail money from a software company he founded and sold a long time ago.
I was never close to that family, but I peered out at their vacant house far more than I ever had. I was in need of an answer. What could have happened?
2
I called Samantha one evening as I sat on my bed, wondering how she would respond to my reaching out. We were never argumentative or on bad terms. I still worried about her reaction, and hoped it would not be a dismissive one.
I heard her say hello. Her voice still impressed me. I had almost forgotten how silky her tone was. I knew it could change to a much firmer pitch when she was interviewing a suspect.
“Hi, Sam. I’d like to know if you’d be free tomorrow for a cup of coffee. We can go to that place, The Bean Field, off Pond road. It’s been a while and I know you have a lot to tell me about what’s new in your life.”
There was a pause on the other end, and for a second a bout of anxiety hit me. I judged my own words as robotic, stilted, and sure to push her away. I reasoned she was summoning an excuse to get out of having to interact with me. How dare I presume she would even entertain the notion of having a meeting.
“That sounds great,” she said. “Tomorrow is my day off, luckily for you. I’m in the middle of an incident right now. It’s a five car pile-up about forty minutes from where you live. I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When she hung up, I was triumphant. I looked at our old text conversations. I realized we had not been in communication with each other for over twelve months. Now was my opportunity to reconcile that gap of unintended avoidance. I knew it would be an undeserved opportunity.
3
I sat outside of the cafe the next morning at a black metal table. I had a view of rolling hills dotted with trees. A highway with multitudinous shrubberies sat on either side of it. I sipped a piccolo latte while waiting for her.
When she arrived and stepped out of her hatchback in the parking lot, her appearance floored me. She had not dressed up for our supposed date, but that did not make a difference. She had arrived from the gym and wore shorts and a top set. She donned a gray and green hoodie.
She sat across from me and reached for the menu.
“Can you go to the front and order me avocado toast?” Samantha asked. “I’ll also take a mocha with a few shots of espresso. Please.”
I did exactly that. When I returned with her items, she apologized for consuming her meal in less than two minutes.
“I hadn’t eaten since five PM yesterday,” she said between sips.
“I understand,” I said. “I doubt you ever have a consistent schedule anymore.”
“You’re right, but that’s why I have to enjoy my free time when I can.”
We settled into talking about what had happened since we last saw each other. I referenced my trying to learn another language (French) with the hopes of moving to Europe or Canada.
After fifteen minutes of small talk, I asked her about work, but I did so with caution. It started with me wondering about what the call she was on when we were on the phone was about.
“A drunk driver blew a stop sign and hit two other vehicles,” she said. “It was ugly. A few people died. We’ll see if the man in silk pajamas gives him the proper sentence or a traffic citation.”
“You know, I’m curious about what happened to the Murphy’s, if they’re hurt or not.”
“You and everyone else,” she said. “We’ve been getting so many witness accounts, and so far they’ve all been bogus. All I know is what I saw when I got there.”
“I didn’t know you were one of the responders,” I said.
“Yeah. Something about the place was off from the moment I walked in. I found heavy items in placed they should not have been in. The toolbox was not in the garage but on the second story. A disassembled snowblower lay scattered everywhere in pieces. The oven door was on their bed. Frank Murphy was not the strongest guy in the world, either. For him to cause the kind of property damage I saw doesn’t make a lot of sense. At the risk of sounding crazy, inexplicable things happened when I was there.”
“Like what?”
“I was under the impression that something was playing a trick on me. Electrical outlets sparked a few times out of nowhere. The ceiling fan would go from still to spinning when I looked up at it. Books would fall off of the shelves. A volume on black magic, of all things, almost hit the top of my head when I walked on by. Another book about fairies collapsed with it.”
“So the home intruder set up a bunch of weird diversions,” I said. “I’ve heard of that before. These killers or kidnappers want the victims to think there was more than one of them. It’s so their account’s disputed in court.”
I’ll tell you right now,” she said, “we didn’t find any outside DNA.”
“So it’s a case of family annihilation,” I said as I took a long swig of my beverage. “I don’t know if you can substantiate the facts, but a few people have said that Emily had a big life insurance policy. Frank knew about. He may have been using steroids and having an affair, and that could have contributed to-“
It occurred to me that she eyed me with suspicion, as though I was digging too deep. I could also tell she regretted letting information about the forensic results slip.
She stood up and stared at me with a flash of anger in her eyes.
“I thought you wanted to piece something back together with me,” she said. “I didn’t know you wanted to play armchair investigator like every true crime fan. You know, your parents were kind. I wish you’d follow their example. I’ll let you get the bill.”
She walked back to her vehicle and I knew it would be a while before we conversed again.
Later that night, I stared out my window at the Murphy home. I saw a star shoot across the sky, and it almost seemed ready to plummet into the side of their house.
4
The next evening, I took a walk around the suburb. I spotted a thin line of dried red fluid along a path which led into the woods.
I was attempting to get in some movement to get my mind off of the events of the day before. Negativity and self-deprecation were all-consuming. I felt the need for a long saunter to try and release some of the meandering and pessimistic energy I accrued.
When I saw the carmine ribbon along the dark soil, a sense of worry filled me. I was not that far removed from a cul-de-sac with palatial manors a block away. There was no way I could speculate on me being the first to see it.
Could it be a hint where they are? I thought.
The notion seemed absurd, a reach.
I had read in the local newspaper that there was an uptick in bobcat sightings due to recent wildfires. The animals relocated during prior summers. I reasoned it could have been a house pet which became a victim after it got snatched away into the overgrowth.
I followed it, and the uneven road of red stretched on past many bushes and over logs. A shrill chirping in the background became louder. I moved between two conifers with petrified wood and found myself in a part of the forest I had never been in.
There were so many branches that it blacked out the falling sun. Ahead of me was a clearing. A swarm of gnats and mosquitos descended upon it. The sea of insects soared together in chaotic unison as a wave among the sedges and lichen.
I looked towards the right of the meadow and saw a ramshackle tree house. I trailed the red line towards it. I peered in through one of the windows and saw a statue of a woman with wings. I knew she was not an angel. There was no halo, nor were her organs of flight feathery, but rather they were thin and bat-like.
I entered the place knowing the danger I was putting myself in. I had tracked mud in and was oblivious to the incriminating actions I partook in. I was trespassing and risking stumbling into whoever may have owned the land. My curiosity got the better of me and caused me to keep moving forward.
The room was sparse but decorated. The walls had carvings of men and women, also with wings. Their bodies held yogic-like positions as they reached out to one another mid-air.
A piece of parchment with a few words sat in the corner. I picked it up and read it:
‘Humans are the greatest living beings to play tricks on. Especially when they go through a time of drought and extreme cold.’
I sat it down where I found it, unsure of what to make of it.
I touched the central figure’s neck. The chiseling was not only cold, but below freezing, as though I had submerged my hand in a polar pool.
The noise of some kind of bird attempting to escape a confined space reverberated below me.
Something brushed against my leg. I looked down and saw an army of glow bugs float up between the cracks, and they circled around me. They were like dragon flies. At the time I had labeled them as such, but in reality their shapes were far too humanoid.
I walked back home. I went to bed and slept. I was still perturbed at the wine-colored avenue and cabin.
I awoke in the middle of the night after something tapped at my walls from the outside. I peered out and saw the Murphy home, and observed how the blinds over their casements were wide open. A hive of mites filled every inch of the interior.
5
I found the decomposing body of a chipmunk stuffed into the tailpipe of my vehicle the next day.
This horrified me, because the deliberation of the act was too evident to ignore. While I did have a surveillance camera on my porch, the coverage of my vehicle was non-existent. I calmed myself down by thinking it was likely a tempestuous child. I retrieved a pair of medical gloves and disposed of the creature before going on with the errand. The rotting body had a horrible smell. It was like an onion left out in humidity for days, and my stomach turned as I sealed it off in the garbage with the lid.
The next morning, I looked in my closet. Some of my favorite shirts had disintegrated. Holes and patches of destroyed fabric littered them. I found it odd, and even searched on-line for possible answers before I decided it had to be a moth infestation. I sprayed lavender. Information on a website statEd that was a cure-all, but the problem persisted. It bothered me that I had not seen a single aphid, but I pushed that concern away.
A few days afterward, when I had tossed my disheveled pieces of attire, the power in my house went out. This was not such an unusual occurrence during the heavy winter months. For it to occur in the summer was strange.
It was a rolling blackout. Once my house had electricity again, I noticed how someone moved items around.
Something turned my kitchen table on its side and stuffed into a part of the kitchen I would have never placed it in.
I grabbed a butcher knife and did a sweep of the premises, and I did not find anything. There were no footprints or signs of anything else tampered with. When I got to the second story, birds nested along the tree tops, and the repugnant odor of fish attacked me.
My allergies became insufferable over the next month. Nothing purchased over the counter which helped it.
6
I went to the beach on an overcast day. After roughly half a mile of walking, I saw an illustration someone had drawn in the sand with a stick. It was of a being with airfoils.
A light precipitation had fallen earlier. As I trailed along the former part of the sand, a glint in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked out at the water and saw what appeared to be a light blue outline of wings beneath the surface.
A phosphorescent wall of creatures surrounded me.
As the days march on, I know I am stalked by something I cannot rebel against, let alone have any agency or autonomy over. My pillowcases have shredded, the pipes in my basement have burst, and someone left me a gift at my front door. When I opened it, I saw mice scurry away. It was a book, and it was one about the history of fairies.
I picked it up and had to blow the dust off of it. Someone had stolen it from a musty subterranean chamber and brought it here.
I theorized that it was Samantha, passive aggressive with her disappointment in me. Yet I flip through its pages and find it all too familiar. I cannot help but wonder if this is a sign of something far more dangerous.

I live in a suburb surrounded by forest. My house is in a row of other properties built next to a tree line. The neighborhood was always quiet. The sounds of crickets, birds, and sight of black bears were routine on most summer days.
The scenic area was something I was always grateful for. I lived completely alone since the death of my parents. An accidental fire took both of their lives. Once I collected my inheritance, I relocated to a much more peaceful region. I had always fantasized about moving there.
I tried to start a relationship with Samantha. I had gone to High School with her sixteen years before. She had gone on to become a respected Detective. My attempt at something long lasting with her failed. She was too career oriented. I was reeling from grief. Focusing on building something meaningful with her was a pipe dream.
Things around my community changed once the Murphy family went missing.
The first sign that something was off on that Wednesday was how their blinds had closed. Their silver Chrysler remained parked in the driveway.
A tennis instructor at the country club noticed the wife of that house did not show up for the program. He called their number to make sure everything was alright. When no one responded, he notified the authorities. Rumors abounded immediately among the home owners association about an alleged affair. The gossip only furthered when the married couple and their three kids were not found in the abode.
I watched from my balcony as the patrolmen roped the place off with caution tape. The domicile was a three story building with brick chimney’s and a few peaked roofs in the style of English towers. They were beige, light blue and crimson.
On the morning of the Murphy’s desertion of society, the architecture became a hollow image. It was one that was once filled with activity and life.
The law did what they could. Any success they may have had in the investigation was secret. A few months passed by and they removed the caution tape.
I followed the on-line police logs. The weather was pristine and clear the day they vanished. The fact that there were no witnesses to what direction they may have gone disturbed me.
I had heard how the man, Frank Murphy, had a bit of a temper and always had a bourbon in hand. I had heard mutual friends describe him as an alcoholic in denial of his servitude to liquor. He was an indignant individual who knew no true repercussions for his behavior. He always had bail money from a software company he founded and sold a long time ago.
I was never close to that family, but I peered out at their vacant house far more than I ever had. I was in need of an answer. What could have happened?
*
I called Samantha one evening as I sat on my bed, wondering how she would respond to my reaching out. We were never argumentative or on bad terms. I still worried about her reaction, and hoped it would not be a dismissive one.
I heard her say hello. Her voice still impressed me. I had almost forgotten how silky her tone was. I knew it could change to a much firmer pitch when she was interviewing a suspect.
“Hi, Sam. I’d like to know if you’d be free tomorrow for a cup of coffee. We can go to that place, The Bean Field, off Pond road. It’s been a while and I know you have a lot to tell me about what’s new in your life.”
There was a pause on the other end, and for a second a bout of anxiety hit me. I judged my own words as robotic, stilted, and sure to push her away. I reasoned she was summoning an excuse to get out of having to interact with me. How dare I presume she would even entertain the notion of having a meeting.
“That sounds great,” she said. “Tomorrow is my day off, luckily for you. I’m in the middle of an incident right now. It’s a five car pile-up about forty minutes from where you live. I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When she hung up, I was triumphant. I looked at our old text conversations. I realized we had not been in communication with each other for over twelve months. Now was my opportunity to reconcile that gap of unintended avoidance. I knew it would be an undeserved opportunity.
*
I sat outside of the cafe the next morning at a black metal table. I had a view of rolling hills dotted with trees. A highway with multitudinous shrubberies sat on either side of it. I sipped a piccolo latte while waiting for her.
When she arrived and stepped out of her hatchback in the parking lot, her appearance floored me. She had not dressed up for our supposed date, but that did not make a difference. She had arrived from the gym and wore shorts and a top set. She donned a gray and green hoodie.
She sat across from me and reached for the menu.
“Can you go to the front and order me avocado toast?” Samantha asked. “I’ll also take a mocha with a few shots of espresso. Please.”
I did exactly that. When I returned with her items, she apologized for consuming her meal in less than two minutes.
“I hadn’t eaten since five PM yesterday,” she said between sips.
“I understand,” I said. “I doubt you ever have a consistent schedule anymore.”
“You’re right, but that’s why I have to enjoy my free time when I can.”
We settled into talking about what had happened since we last saw each other. I referenced my trying to learn another language (French) with the hopes of moving to Europe or Canada.
After fifteen minutes of small talk, I asked her about work, but I did so with caution. It started with me wondering about what the call she was on when we were on the phone was about.
“A drunk driver blew a stop sign and hit two other vehicles,” she said. “It was ugly. A few people died. We’ll see if the man in silk pajamas gives him the proper sentence or a traffic citation.”
“You know, I’m curious about what happened to the Murphy’s, if they’re hurt or not.”
“You and everyone else,” she said. “We’ve been getting so many witness accounts, and so far they’ve all been bogus. All I know is what I saw when I got there.”
“I didn’t know you were one of the responders,” I said.
“Yeah. Something about the place was off from the moment I walked in. I found heavy items in placed they should not have been in. The toolbox was not in the garage but on the second story. A disassembled snowblower lay scattered everywhere in pieces. The oven door was on their bed. Frank Murphy was not the strongest guy in the world, either. For him to cause the kind of property damage I saw doesn’t make a lot of sense. At the risk of sounding crazy, inexplicable things happened when I was there.”
“Like what?”
“I was under the impression that something was playing a trick on me. Electrical outlets sparked a few times out of nowhere. The ceiling fan would go from still to spinning when I looked up at it. Books would fall off of the shelves. A volume on black magic, of all things, almost hit the top of my head when I walked on by. Another book about fairies collapsed with it.”
“So the home intruder set up a bunch of weird diversions,” I said. “I’ve heard of that before. These killers or kidnappers want the victims to think there was more than one of them. It’s so their account’s disputed in court.”
I’ll tell you right now,” she said, “we didn’t find any outside DNA.”
“So it’s a case of family annihilation,” I said as I took a long swig of my beverage. “I don’t know if you can substantiate the facts, but a few people have said that Emily had a big life insurance policy. Frank knew about. He may have been using steroids and having an affair, and that could have contributed to-“
It occurred to me that she eyed me with suspicion, as though I was digging too deep. I could also tell she regretted letting information about the forensic results slip.
She stood up and stared at me with a flash of anger in her eyes.
“I thought you wanted to piece something back together with me,” she said. “I didn’t know you wanted to play armchair investigator like every true crime fan. You know, your parents were kind. I wish you’d follow their example. I’ll let you get the bill.”
She walked back to her vehicle and I knew it would be a while before we conversed again.
Later that night, I stared out my window at the Murphy home. I saw a star shoot across the sky, and it almost seemed ready to plummet into the side of their house.
*
The next evening, I took a walk around the suburb. I spotted a thin line of dried red fluid along a path which led into the woods.
I was attempting to get in some movement to get my mind off of the events of the day before. Negativity and self-deprecation were all-consuming. I felt the need for a long saunter to try and release some of the meandering and pessimistic energy I accrued.
When I saw the carmine ribbon along the dark soil, a sense of worry filled me. I was not that far removed from a cul-de-sac with palatial manors a block away. There was no way I could speculate on me being the first to see it.
Could it be a hint where they are? I thought.
The notion seemed absurd, a reach.
I had read in the local newspaper that there was an uptick in bobcat sightings due to recent wildfires. The animals relocated during prior summers. I reasoned it could have been a house pet which became a victim after it got snatched away into the overgrowth.
I followed it, and the uneven road of red stretched on past many bushes and over logs. A shrill chirping in the background became louder. I moved between two conifers with petrified wood and found myself in a part of the forest I had never been in.
There were so many branches that it blacked out the falling sun. Ahead of me was a clearing. A swarm of gnats and mosquitos descended upon it. The sea of insects soared together in chaotic unison as a wave among the sedges and lichen.
I looked towards the right of the meadow and saw a ramshackle tree house. I trailed the red line towards it. I peered in through one of the windows and saw a statue of a woman with wings. I knew she was not an angel. There was no halo, nor were her organs of flight feathery, but rather they were thin and bat-like.
I entered the place knowing the danger I was putting myself in. I had tracked mud in and was oblivious to the incriminating actions I partook in. I was trespassing and risking stumbling into whoever may have owned the land. My curiosity got the better of me and caused me to keep moving forward.
The room was sparse but decorated. The walls had carvings of men and women, also with wings. Their bodies held yogic-like positions as they reached out to one another mid-air.
A piece of parchment with a few words sat in the corner. I picked it up and read it:
‘Humans are the greatest living beings to play tricks on. Especially when they go through a time of drought and extreme cold.’
I sat it down where I found it, unsure of what to make of it.
I touched the central figure’s neck. The chiseling was not only cold, but below freezing, as though I had submerged my hand in a polar pool.
The noise of some kind of bird attempting to escape a confined space reverberated below me.
Something brushed against my leg. I looked down and saw an army of glow bugs float up between the cracks, and they circled around me. They were like dragon flies. At the time I had labeled them as such, but in reality their shapes were far too humanoid.
I walked back home. I went to bed and slept. I was still perturbed at the wine-colored avenue and cabin.
I awoke in the middle of the night after something tapped at my walls from the outside. I peered out and saw the Murphy home, and observed how the blinds over their casements were wide open. A hive of mites filled every inch of the interior.
*
I found the decomposing body of a chipmunk stuffed into the tailpipe of my vehicle the next day.
This horrified me, because the deliberation of the act was too evident to ignore. While I did have a surveillance camera on my porch, the coverage of my vehicle was non-existent. I calmed myself down by thinking it was likely a tempestuous child. I retrieved a pair of medical gloves and disposed of the creature before going on with the errand. The rotting body had a horrible smell. It was like an onion left out in humidity for days, and my stomach turned as I sealed it off in the garbage with the lid.
The next morning, I looked in my closet. Some of my favorite shirts had disintegrated. Holes and patches of destroyed fabric littered them. I found it odd, and even searched on-line for possible answers before I decided it had to be a moth infestation. I sprayed lavender. Information on a website statEd that was a cure-all, but the problem persisted. It bothered me that I had not seen a single aphid, but I pushed that concern away.
A few days afterward, when I had tossed my disheveled pieces of attire, the power in my house went out. This was not such an unusual occurrence during the heavy winter months. For it to occur in the summer was strange.
It was a rolling blackout. Once my house had electricity again, I noticed how someone moved items around.
Something turned my kitchen table on its side and stuffed into a part of the kitchen I would have never placed it in.
I grabbed a butcher knife and did a sweep of the premises, and I did not find anything. There were no footprints or signs of anything else tampered with. When I got to the second story, birds nested along the tree tops, and the repugnant odor of fish attacked me.
My allergies became insufferable over the next month. Nothing purchased over the counter which helped it.
*
I went to the beach on an overcast day. After roughly half a mile of walking, I saw an illustration someone had drawn in the sand with a stick. It was of a being with airfoils.
A light precipitation had fallen earlier. As I trailed along the former part of the sand, a glint in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked out at the water and saw what appeared to be a light blue outline of wings beneath the surface.
A phosphorescent wall of creatures surrounded me.
As the days march on, I know I am stalked by something I cannot rebel against, let alone have any agency or autonomy over. My pillowcases have shredded, the pipes in my basement have burst, and someone left me a gift at my front door. When I opened it, I saw mice scurry away. It was a book, and it was one about the history of fairies.
I picked it up and had to blow the dust off of it. Someone had stolen it from a musty subterranean chamber and brought it here.
I theorized that it was Samantha, passive aggressive with her disappointment in me. Yet I flip through its pages and find it all too familiar. I cannot help but wonder if this is a sign of something far more dangerous.