Chapter 3: Innocence Lost

The fluorescent lights of Catholic Charities buzzed overhead like angry wasps, their sterile glow casting harsh shadows across May’s face as she gripped the armrests of her wooden chair. Frank sat beside her, a man caught between duty and despair, while Mother Superior’s words fell like stones into the silence of her office. The clock on the wall ticked away mercilessly, each second another reminder of their impossible situation.

“Your daughter will receive the finest care here at Saint Catherine’s,” Mother Superior said, her voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who’d seen too much of humanity’s darker corners. She pulled out a thick manila folder, its edges worn from similar conversations with other desperate families. “We’re just minutes from Ramsay County Hospital, and our facility has handled countless cases like this.”

“Cases like this,” May repeated, her laugh brittle as winter ice. “You mean children having children? Products of—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Let me be clear about the legal aspects,” Mother Superior continued, spreading documents across her desk with mechanical precision. “The child, once born, will be placed immediately with Catholic Charities’ adoption services. We have a network of pre-screened Catholic families waiting to adopt. The adoptive parents will cover all medical expenses and legal fees associated with the transfer of custody.”

May’s fingers tightened until her knuckles went white. “Since we can’t have the child aborted, we just want this situation behind us.” The words came out sharp enough to draw blood. “Will Mary have to know who takes the baby?”

“No,” Sister Margaret interjected from her corner of the room, where she’d been silently taking notes. “The adoption will be closed. All records will be sealed by the court. The child will never know their biological family, and Mary won’t know the adoptive family’s identity.” She paused, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses. “However, when the child turns eighteen, they have the legal right to petition for their original birth certificate.”

“This child is a product of incest, Mother Superior!” May’s voice cracked like a whip in the small office. “We can’t risk them ever finding out—”

“All children are God’s children, May,” Mother Superior interrupted, though something flickered behind her eyes – perhaps judgment, perhaps pity. She pulled out another document, this one bearing the seal of the State of Minnesota. “We’ve arranged for a special provision. Given the… circumstances, the records will be permanently sealed under court order. Not even a judge can unseal them without extraordinary cause.”

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the muffled sounds of Mary’s sobs echoing down the corridor. Sister Ann appeared in the doorway, her starched habit crackling with each movement. “The girl is settled in her room. She doesn’t understand why she’s being abandoned.”

Frank’s shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible cross. Through the walls, Mary’s voice carried: “Daddy, why are you doing this? What did I do wrong?” Each word was a nail driven into his heart, but he couldn’t turn back now.

Mother Superior cleared her throat. “There are other matters to discuss. Mary will need prenatal care, counseling, and education during her stay. We provide teachers who will ensure she doesn’t fall behind in her studies.” She slid another paper forward. “This details our comprehensive care program. The total cost, including delivery and aftercare, comes to twelve thousand dollars.”

May’s face twisted into a mask of horror. “Twelve thousand dollars! Are you out of your Christ-loving minds?”

“The fee covers six months of room and board, medical care, education, psychological counseling, and legal services,” Sister Margaret explained, her voice clinical. “We also provide post-delivery care and ensure all adoption paperwork is handled properly through our legal team.”

Mother Superior absorbed May’s blasphemy with the patience of a stone weathering a storm. Her hands folded on the desk like pale birds at rest, while outside, the late afternoon sun painted the stained glass windows in shades of blood and gold. “We can arrange a payment plan, or as I mentioned earlier, there is the option of making Mary a ward of the state.”

Frank stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor like a soul against purgatory. His jaw worked silently, muscles pulsing beneath the skin as he paced the small office. “Seven kids,” he managed finally, voice thick with unshed tears. “A large farm. Our son in Vietnam. School just started.” His words hung in the air like a prayer without answer. “We can’t afford this, May.”

“The state ward option—” Mother Superior began.

The sound Frank made was more animal than human. His hand crashed against the chair with enough force to make the wood groan. “Like fucking hell! We’ll sell the goddamn farm!” He turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “The baby goes to a good Catholic family, far away from Minnesota. I want that in writing. And Mary never knows where it went.” His next words came out as both surrender and defiance: “Sign the damn papers.”

Sister Margaret quickly produced a document. “This stipulates the child must be placed with a family at least three states away. The adoptive parents must be practicing Catholics with no connections to Minnesota. They’ll sign agreements never to seek contact or return to this state while the child is a minor.”

The corridor to Mary’s room stretched before him like the path to Golgotha. He found her curled on the narrow bed, her twelve-year-old frame somehow smaller in the stark white room. The single crucifix above her bed watched with eternal sympathy as Frank gathered his daughter in his arms and began the impossible task of explaining why her world was about to change forever.

“You’ll be here until after Christmas,” he whispered, his voice rough as sandpaper. “The sisters will teach you, take care of you. And then… then you’ll come home, and we’ll never speak of this again.”

Outside, the city of St. Paul continued its relentless pace, unaware of the small tragedy unfolding within these holy walls. The sun slipped behind clouds the color of bruises, and somewhere in the distance, church bells began to toll, marking another hour in a day that would haunt three generations.

June 3, 2025June 3, 2025

Chapter 2: The Summer That Changed Everything

The July heat pressed down on the Minnesota farmland like a suffocating blanket, the kind that wraps around your throat and makes you wonder if winter’s bite might not be so bad after all. At 101 degrees, the air shimmered above the fields, creating mirages that danced and twisted like lost souls seeking shelter.

May sat at her office desk, the ancient fan doing little more than pushing the thick air around in lazy circles. Her mind wandered to the previous winter, to those endless nights when the cold had seemed eternal. How strange that now, in this crushing heat, she found herself longing for that bitter chill. At least then, they’d all been together, before everything changed.

Outside, Frank and the boys labored under the merciless sun, their shirts dark with sweat as they worked on the veranda and kitchen addition. The sound of hammers echoed across the property like irregular heartbeats, each strike bringing them closer to completion, though none of them could have known they were also counting down to something far more sinister.

Kathy managed the bar with the efficiency she’d learned from May, while Nana—bless her weathered soul—kept watch over the younger children. But even Nana, with all her years of experience raising hell-raisers, couldn’t have seen what was coming. Nobody could have.

The girls had scattered to their various hideaways, as children do when summer stretches endless before them. Julie and Pam lost themselves in their Barbie fantasies, while Lori, Junice, Bonnie, and Mary claimed the tree fort as their domain. The fort, with its rough-hewn planks and secrets whispered between gaps in the wood, would later become a place of memories they’d rather forget.

“Mary, you’re fat!” Junice’s words cut through the humid air with the thoughtless cruelty of youth. Mary looked down at herself, feeling the truth of those words sink into her bones. She knew she was getting bigger, but not for the reasons any of them suspected. Not yet.

The afternoon unfolded like so many others that summer—the girls splashing in the creek, mud fights and laughter, Bernice the cow joining their aquatic revelry. But beneath the surface of their play, something dark was growing, like storm clouds gathering on a distant horizon.

When the two men in uniform appeared at their door that evening, it felt like the first crack in their family’s foundation. Jim’s draft notice landed like a thunderbolt in their midst, but it wasn’t the lightning that would ultimately tear their world apart. That bolt was still building, waiting to strike from within their own walls.

The truth about Mary’s condition wouldn’t emerge until later that summer, when the heat had baked everything brittle and ready to shatter. But looking back, the signs were there, hidden in plain sight like snakes in tall grass. The way she’d avoid certain parts of the house, the way she’d flinch at sudden movements, the mysterious limp she’d explained away that February day.

Thomas lurked in the shadows of their lives, a darkness wearing familiar skin. He moved through the house like a ghost, leaving destruction in his wake that nobody could see—not until it was too late. Not until Mary’s secret became impossible to hide.

When May finally learned the truth at the doctor’s office, it felt like the world had tilted on its axis. Her baby—her little girl—carrying a child of her own. But it was the revelation of who was responsible that turned that tilt into a complete upending of their world.

Frank’s rage, when he discovered what his son had done to his daughter, was like nothing May had ever witnessed. It wasn’t the hot, explosive anger she’d seen from him before. This was something colder, deeper, more primal. The kind of fury that could freeze hell itself.

That night, as Frank drove Thomas from their property with violence born of betrayal, the summer air carried the sound of breaking—breaking bones, breaking hearts, breaking family. Thomas disappeared down that dirt road with his duffle bag, becoming nothing more than a dark figure against the setting sun, leaving behind a wake of destruction that would ripple through their lives for years to come.

May and Frank drove away from the farm that night with Mary sedated between them, the truck’s headlights cutting through the darkness like search beams seeking answers in a world that suddenly made no sense. Behind them, the farmhouse stood silent, its windows dark with secrets finally spoken, its foundations shaken by truths too heavy to bear.

The summer of 1970 would be remembered not for its oppressive heat or the war that threatened to take Jim away, but for the way it exposed the darkness that had been living under their roof all along. Sometimes the most dangerous monsters aren’t the ones that come from outside—they’re the ones that grow up right beside you, wearing a familiar face and carrying your own blood in their veins.

As they drove through the night, May couldn’t help but think about the winter that had come before, how they’d huddled together against the cold, never suspecting that the real threat to their family’s warmth had been living among them all along. The road ahead disappeared into darkness, much like their future, uncertain and foreboding, but they drove on anyway. Because that’s what the Winters family did—they endured, they survived, they pressed on, even when the path ahead seemed impossible to navigate.

The Minnesota summer night pressed in around their truck, hot and heavy with promises of storms to come. But for now, they drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, each carrying their own burden of guilt and grief and anger. The darkness outside was nothing compared to the shadows they carried within.

Chapter 3

June 3, 2025June 3, 2025

Chapter 1: Long Winter Nights.

The storm clouds gathered over Brainerd like a shroud, heavy with malevolent purpose. February in Minnesota wasn’t just cold—it was an arctic demon that clawed at windows and howled through pine trees with vindictive glee. Inside the farmhouse, a new Grundig transistor radio crackled to life, its orange dial glowing like a cat’s eye in the growing darkness. The newscaster’s voice cut through waves of static: wind chill plummeting to negative three, winds whipping to fifteen miles per hour. Stay inside, he warned, though only a fool would venture out on a night when even the shadows seemed to freeze.

Out on the twelve-hundred-acre farm, the cattle had found their sanctuary. They huddled together beneath an ancient oak that rose from a sunken knoll like the twisted hand of some buried giant. White pines and squat hemlocks formed a natural fortress around them, their branches interlaced like soldiers’ arms locked in protection. Here, in this circular grove, the arctic wind died to a whisper, as if even nature respected this sacred space.

The barn told its own story of winter refuge, but with darker undertones. Horses stamped restlessly in their stalls, sensing something their human masters couldn’t. Farm cats prowled the hay bales stacked halfway to the rafters, their eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. A great horned owl—more sentinel than mascot—peered down from its perch on a wooden truss, its occasional questioning hoot carrying hints of impending doom. In the attached coop, chickens nestled beneath the harsh glare of heat lamps, their rooster strutting below like a tin-pot dictator, pecking at imagined treasures in the straw.

Inside the farmhouse, May moved with the precision of a battlefield medic, her thirty-seven years etched in the tight lines around her eyes. Nine children needed shepherding to bed, lunches needed packing, and her own preparations for the night shift loomed like a sentence. She was a master of temporal gymnastics, performing ten tasks simultaneously while time slipped through her fingers like winter wind through bare branches.

Frank’s arrival shattered the routine like a stone through glass. His chrome-trimmed sky-blue rig sat in the yard, exhaust rising like ghost breath in the frigid air, a mechanical beast finally at rest after eight days on the road. He filled the doorway like a mountain, forty years of hard living carved into his face. “You performing tonight, babe?” The question carried more weight than its simple words suggested, his eyes lighting up with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

May nodded, adding with forced lightness, “Plus I’m tending bar—they called in. Care to help out?” But beneath her casual tone lay currents of desperation, of needs unspoken and burdens unshared.

Frank’s smile faltered, revealing the exhaustion beneath his rough exterior. “Just got off a long haul, love. Haven’t even showered yet, let alone eaten. Give me a moment to get my bearings?” His words carried an edge of pleading, a rare crack in his armor.

May’s sigh spoke volumes—of understanding, of resignation, of love tested by time and circumstance. “You betcha. There’s fried chicken in the fridge. I’ve got to run.” She watched him disappear down the hall, a ghost of his usual self, before wrapping herself in her mismatched winter armor: an oversized pink-and-black wool-lined coat, thick hand-knitted cap, and men’s mittens that swallowed her hands like hungry beasts.

Outside, the cold attacked with predatory ferocity. May wrestled with her keys, cursing as she yanked off a mitten to unlock her rusty ’67 Ford. The truck’s seat welcomed her with the familiarity of an old friend who’d seen too much. The engine protested like a cranky old goat before erupting into life with a series of backfires that echoed like gunshots in the frozen air. As she guided the truck around Frank’s rig and down the long driveway, she watched the farmhouse shrink in her rearview mirror, knowing that tonight, like every night lately, something dark and inevitable was gathering strength, waiting to strike.

Back inside, fresh from his shower, Frank retrieved his chicken and beer, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. An argument erupted upstairs like summer lightning. “You three little shits better simmer down and hit the lights,” he bellowed, his voice carrying the threat of thunder, “or Nana’s gonna come up and tan your hides!”

The house fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft creaking of settling wood and the whispered conspiracies of children plotting in the dark. Frank settled into a sturdy wooden chair with his cold dinner just as Marc, his seventeen-year-old son, stormed in like a force of nature, complaint written in every line of his body.

“Boy,” Frank’s voice carried the weight of years and miles, “you’re old enough to get a job and move out if you can’t handle your sisters. I don’t want to hear it.”

“It ain’t about handling them, Pops!” Marc’s protest crackled with teenage fury. “It’s about not being able to give them a piece of my mind!”

Frank fixed him with a weary glare that could have frozen hell itself. “Are you a boy or a man? Get out of my face—I’ve had a long week, and you’re grating on my last nerve!”

Marc thundered upstairs like a storm front, pausing at his sisters’ doorway to deliver his parting shot. “If you three can’t shut up and let a guy sleep, go join the other animals in the barn!” The girls responded by slamming the door, their giggles floating through the wood like smoke through cracks. “Stupid bitches,” Marc muttered, retreating to his room.

Frank, overhearing, allowed himself a small smile that held more sadness than mirth. Chicken leg dangling from his mouth like a forgotten cigar, he gathered his feast—the bucket of chicken and two more beers, his armor against the night—and settled into his favorite recliner opposite the fireplace. Channel 11 flickered to life, casting shadows that danced on the walls like memories trying to escape.

Hours later, Frank dozed in his chair, his ninth beer balanced precariously like a liquid tightrope walker. Johnny Carson’s monologue provided a soundtrack to his dreams while Thomas, his hippie son and bitter high school dropout, stumbled in. The boy was stoned beyond comprehension, his eyes glazed with chemical escape. “Sorry, Pops,” he slurred, the words tumbling out like broken glass, “was out with the guys.”

Frank grunted without opening his eyes, a bear disturbed from hibernation. “Shut it, Tommy boy. I’m sleeping.”

Thomas fumbled his way to the basement door, giggling at his own numbness, a sound that carried dark undertones of despair. He crashed down the stairs with all the grace of a wounded animal, stripped, and swallowed two barbiturates before collapsing onto his decrepit couch beneath an unwashed quilt. “Hate this family,” he mumbled into the darkness, each word falling like a stone into a bottomless well. “Hate this town. Hate everything. It’s all fucked up.” His words dissolved into troubled sleep, but the darkness listened, and the darkness remembered.

At the bar, May found Doreen waiting like a harbinger of change. “That offer still on the table?” The owner’s question hung in the air like smoke, heavy with implication. May’s heart quickened, a trapped bird against her ribs. “Which offer?” she asked, though she knew—oh, how she knew.

“To buy this heap. I’m done with these townspeople!”

The moment stretched between them like a wire about to snap. May secured her truck before responding, each word carefully chosen. “Doreen, I made that offer two years ago. Why now?”

“My office. We need to talk.” They weaved through the crowd of regulars, one calling out like a lost soul: “Hurry up, May! We want music!”

May turned back, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a few minutes, I promise.” The office door closed behind them with the finality of a coffin lid, shutting out the bar’s chaos. The small room, once a keg storage space, now housed a metal desk crowned with a garish cowboy-and-Indian lampshade that cast shadows like war dancers on the walls. A pine-and-leather couch exhaled decades of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, while in the corner, a black-and-copper Gary Safe Co. vault stood sentinel, “Doreen Heifferman” and “Buffalo N.Y.” emblazoned across its face like a challenge.

They settled on opposite ends of the couch, two women on the edge of destiny. “Drink?” Doreen offered, but May shook her head, clinging to her principles like a lifeline. “You know my rules about mixing work and spirits.”

“That’s exactly why you’d be perfect for this place.” Doreen reached for May’s hand, but May pulled back, sensing the weight of what was coming. “Cut the sweet talk, Dor. Why sell now?”

“I’m tired. Family’s gone, husband’s dead, and this place has lost its meaning. Time to live a little before I can’t.” The words fell between them like autumn leaves, each one carrying its own shade of sadness.

May absorbed this in silence, feeling the threads of fate weaving tighter around her. “I’ll need to discuss it with Frank. Things have changed since I made that offer.”

“Take your time,” Doreen said, rising with the effort of ages. She opened the safe with practiced movements: left, right, left, like a dance she’d performed too many times. “Here’s your band earnings from last week. Better get ready—you’re on in forty.”

May headed for the stage while Doreen lingered, drinking in her office one last time before securing the safe and sinking onto the couch, surrounded by the ghosts of decisions past and futures yet to come.

The night unfolded like a dark flower, each petal revealing new secrets, new sorrows. At the bar, May leaned toward Henry, the heavily tattooed fifty-six-year-old bartender, his long beard a silver cascade in the dim light. “Mind staying late? Jen called in sick.”

Henry stroked his beard thoughtfully, lining up shots with his free hand like a general positioning troops. “For you, May, I’d move the moon itself.” The words carried more truth than either of them wanted to acknowledge.

May took the stage, her presence electric, a force that commanded attention. “Hey boys and girls, time for some harmony!” The sixty-three regulars erupted in cheers, their voices rising like a tide. “Sing it, May!”

She caught the drummer’s eye, a silent communication born of countless nights. “Dizzy, baby… One… Two… Three…” The opening beats of Tommy Roe’s “Dizzy” filled the air like smoke, but beneath the music, beneath the laughter and the calls for more, something darker stirred, waiting for its moment to emerge from the shadows of this long winter night.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Thomas jerked awake, executing an unintentional cartwheel into the coffee table that sent him sprawling like a broken marionette. Blood gushed from a gash running from below his eye to his jawline, a crimson ribbon in the dim light. “Fuck my life,” he whimpered, stumbling to the bathroom like a wounded animal. His solution—a bottle of superglue—spoke volumes about his desperation. He squeezed the adhesive into the wound before pressing the edges together with trembling hands, sealing more than just flesh with his actions.

Back on his couch, he took a deep hit from his bong, exhaling slowly between coughs that sounded like sobs. After thirty minutes of ceiling-staring, the munchies drove him upstairs like a puppet on invisible strings. He raided the fridge for a beer, drumstick, and potato salad, consuming his midnight feast at the kitchen table like a condemned man’s last meal.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, he paused, as if sensing the weight of all his bad decisions pressing down from above. The darkness seemed to pulse around him, whispering secrets only he could hear, promises that would soon turn to nightmares in the cold Minnesota night.

The house held its breath, waiting for what would come next, knowing that some sins can never be washed away, some wounds never heal, and some winter nights stretch on forever, their darkness reaching far beyond the dawn.

Chapter 2

May 21, 2025May 21, 2025

The State of American Democracy: Analysis and Path Forward

American democracy stands at a crossroads in 2025. This analysis examines current political dynamics, historical trends, and pathways toward a more constructive political discourse.

Current Political Landscape

Recent data from Pew Research shows that registered voters are now evenly split between the Democratic Party and Republican Party, reflecting an increasingly competitive political environment. The most pressing issues facing the nation include economic concerns, healthcare affordability, gun violence, and climate change, with 78% of Americans citing the role of money in politics as their top concern.

Shifting Voter Behavior

The American electorate has undergone significant changes in recent years. Demographic shifts have particularly impacted the Democratic coalition, while the Republican base has remained more demographically stable. These changes reflect broader societal trends and evolving policy preferences among different voter groups.

Traditional partisan loyalties are becoming more fluid. Gallup’s recent polling indicates that party affiliations remain closely divided, suggesting that neither party has achieved a dominant position in American politics. This competitive balance creates both challenges and opportunities for addressing major national issues.

Policy Impact Assessment

Recent administrations have faced increasingly complex policy challenges. Key areas requiring attention include:

Economic Policy: Inflation concerns and wealth inequality remain central issues
Healthcare: Ongoing debates about accessibility and affordability
Climate Change: Growing urgency for environmental action
Immigration Reform: Continued challenges at the border
National Security: Evolving global threats and domestic concerns

Bridging Political Divides

Recent research from Stanford University suggests that political parties have become weaker institutionally while polarization has increased. However, there are proven strategies for reducing political division:

Focus on shared values and common goals
Engage in fact-based, respectful dialogue
Seek understanding of different perspectives
Support local community initiatives that bring diverse groups together
Emphasize practical problem-solving over ideological purity

The Role of Civic Engagement

Effective democracy requires active citizen participation. This means:

Staying informed about issues through reliable sources
Participating in local government meetings
Volunteering in community organizations
Engaging in respectful political discussions with those holding different views
Voting in all elections, not just presidential races

Looking Forward

While political polarization presents significant challenges, research from Cole et al. (2025) suggests that understanding social psychological perspectives on polarization can help develop effective solutions. The path forward requires commitment from both political leaders and citizens to prioritize constructive dialogue and collaborative problem-solving.

Success in addressing our nation’s challenges will depend on our ability to move beyond partisan rhetoric and focus on evidence-based solutions. By combining active civic engagement with respectful political discourse, we can work toward a more effective and unified democracy.

May 3, 2025May 3, 2025

House of Mirrors and Dystopian Societies.

The world teeters on a precipice. As George Orwell forewarned in “1984,” the manipulation of truth has become our daily reality, where political extremes wage an endless war of narratives. The left and right no longer engage in dialogue but rather in what Neil Postman described in “Amusing Ourselves to Death” as a form of political theater, where substance drowns in spectacle.

Our civilization bears an unsettling resemblance to Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World,” where pleasure and distraction mask deeper systemic rot. We find ourselves caught between competing ideologies, each claiming absolute truth while pushing us closer to what Ray Bradbury predicted in “Fahrenheit 451” – a society where critical thinking burns in the flames of willful ignorance.

The signs are everywhere: nuclear tensions escalate between world powers, environmental systems collapse, and social fabric tears along lines of class and ideology. Ayn Rand’s warnings in “Atlas Shrugged” about the dangers of collectivism clash with Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” cautions against authoritarian control – yet both authors recognized how quickly society can unravel when power concentrates in the hands of the few.

History mocks our attempts at perfect governance. From Plato’s Republic to modern democracy, every system eventually confronts its own contradictions. As Hannah Arendt observed in “The Origins of Totalitarianism,” the path to political disaster is paved with the bricks of fear, isolation, and the dissolution of common truth.

Yet perhaps the answer lies not in finding the perfect system, but in understanding what Kurt Vonnegut suggested throughout his works – that human dignity and compassion must prevail over ideological purity. We stand at a crossroads that Philip K. Dick might have envisioned: reality itself seems to bend under the weight of competing narratives, while the masses bear the cost of decisions made by those who will never face their consequences.

The grand canyon of division that splits our society runs deeper than political allegiance – it cuts to the very heart of how we define truth, justice, and humanity itself. As Cormac McCarthy showed us in “The Road,” the future may hold both unimaginable darkness and persistent glimmers of hope. The question remains: will we learn from the prophetic voices of literature’s greatest dystopian authors, or are we doomed to live out their darkest warnings?

Allow me to Reiterate what I’m trying to convey

We’re living in strange times. Turn on the news, scroll through social media, or just talk to your neighbors – everyone seems to be living in their own version of reality. The gap between these realities grows wider every day.

It’s tempting to see our moment as uniquely apocalyptic. Writers like Orwell and Huxley saw this coming decades ago: a world where truth becomes fluid and distraction serves as a social sedative. But they didn’t predict everything. They never imagined a world where everyone would carry around a device that could access all human knowledge – and use it primarily to argue with strangers and watch cat videos.

The real problem isn’t that we’re living in a dystopia. It’s that we’re living in all the dystopias at once. For some, we’re sliding into the authoritarian nightmare of “The Handmaid’s Tale.” For others, we’re facing the collectivist threats that Ayn Rand railed against. The truth is probably messier than any single story can capture.

Look beneath the surface, though, and you’ll find something interesting. People still fall in love. They still help strangers after disasters. They still share meals and tell jokes and dream about better tomorrows. Even in our most divided moments, humanity’s basic decency keeps showing up – not in grand gestures, but in small acts of kindness that rarely make headlines.

This isn’t to downplay the serious challenges we face. Climate change isn’t waiting for us to get our act together. Nuclear weapons haven’t gone anywhere. Inequality keeps growing. But maybe the solution isn’t to find the perfect political system or to win the ideological war. Maybe it’s simpler than that.

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that we’re here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is. He was right. While the talking heads on TV argue about whose dystopia is winning, regular people keep finding ways to bridge the divides in their daily lives. They’re not doing it through grand political theories or social media manifestos. They’re doing it through conversations, through shared meals, through small moments of understanding.

The future won’t look exactly like any book predicted. It’ll be stranger, messier, and probably both better and worse than we imagine. But if we can remember our shared humanity – if we can look past the screens and slogans to see each other as people rather than positions – we might just write a better story than any of those authors imagined.

The choice isn’t between competing dystopias. It’s between fear and hope, between isolation and connection, between giving up and showing up. Every day, in small ways, we all make that choice. And that’s where the real story begins.

April 30, 2025April 30, 2025

Long Winter Nights (rewrite) (to be continued)

Storm clouds gather over Brainerd, Minnesota on a bitter February evening. The new Grundig transistor radio perched on the fireplace mantel crackles to life as the newscaster’s voice cuts through the static: wind chill dropping to negative three degrees Fahrenheit, winds whipping up to fifteen miles per hour. Stay inside, the voice warns, as if anyone needed telling.

Out on the twelve-hundred-acre farm, the cows have found shelter in a natural sanctuary. They huddle together beneath an ancient oak that rises from a sunken knoll, surrounded by a fortress of towering white pines and squat hemlocks. Though the air bites with arctic teeth, the wind dies to a whisper within this circular grove.

The barn tells its own story of winter refuge. Horses stamp restlessly in their stalls while farm cats lounge on the hay bales stacked halfway to the rafters. A great horned owl – the farm’s unofficial mascot – peers down lazily from its perch on a wooden truss, letting out an occasional questioning hoot. In the attached coop, chickens nestle snug in their roosts, unbothered by the harsh glare of heat lamps while their rooster struts importantly below, pecking at imagined treasures in the straw.

Inside the farmhouse, nine siblings prepare for bed as their mother, May, races against time. At thirty-seven, she moves with the efficiency of a woman who’s mastered the art of doing ten things at once. She packs tomorrow’s lunches while barking orders about pajamas and teeth-brushing, preparing for her night shift and trying to arrange everything so she can sleep in instead of orchestrating the morning chaos.

Frank, her forty-year-old jack-of-all-trades husband, trudges through the door after eight days on the road. His chrome-trimmed sky-blue rig sits in the yard, exhaust rising like ghost breath in the frigid air. “You performing tonight, babe?” he asks, his face lighting up at the sight of his wife. May nods, adding, “Plus I’m tending bar – they called in. Care to help out?”

Frank’s smile falters. “Just got off a long haul, love. Haven’t even showered yet, let alone eaten. Give me a moment to get my bearings?” May’s sigh carries years of understanding. “You betcha. There’s fried chicken in the fridge. I’ve got to run.” She watches Frank disappear down the hall before bundling up in her mismatched winter armor: an oversized pink-and-black wool-lined coat, thick hand-knitted cap, and men’s mittens that swallow her hands whole.

Outside, May wrestles with her keys, cursing the cold as she yanks off a mitten to unlock her rusty ’67 Ford. The truck’s seat, worn smooth by years of use, welcomes her with familiar resignation. The engine protests like a cranky old goat before erupting into life with a series of backfires and black smoke. She guides the truck around Frank’s rig and down the long driveway, watching the farmhouse shrink in her rearview mirror with something between relief and regret.

Back inside, fresh from his shower, Frank retrieves his chicken and beer just as an argument erupts upstairs. “You three little shits better simmer down and hit the lights,” he bellows, “or Nana’s gonna come up and tan your hides!”

The house falls silent. Frank settles into a sturdy wooden chair with his cold dinner just as Marc, his seventeen-year-old son, storms in complaining about his sisters. “Boy, you’re old enough to get a job and move out if you can’t handle your sisters. I don’t want to hear it.”

“It ain’t about handling them, Pops!” Marc protests. “It’s about not being able to give them a piece of my mind!”

Frank fixes him with a weary glare. “Are you a boy or a man? Get out of my face – I’ve had a long week, and you’re grating on my last nerve!”

Marc thunders upstairs and lingers in his sisters’ doorway. “If you three can’t shut up and let a guy sleep, go join the other animals in the barn!” The girls respond by slamming the door, their giggles floating through the wood. “Stupid bitches,” Marc mutters, retreating to his room. Frank, overhearing, allows himself a small smile. Chicken leg dangling from his mouth, he gathers his feast – the bucket of chicken and two more beers – and settles into his favorite recliner opposite the fireplace, clicking on channel 11.

Hours later, Frank dozes in his chair, his ninth beer precariously balanced as Johnny Carson flickers on the black-and-white TV. Thomas, his hippie son and bitter high school dropout, stumbles in stoned beyond comprehension. “Sorry, Pops,” he slurs, “was out with the guys.”

Frank grunts without opening his eyes. “Shut it, Tommy boy. I’m sleeping.”

Thomas fumbles his way to the basement door, giggling at his own numbness. He crashes down the stairs, strips, and swallows two barbiturates before collapsing onto his decrepit couch beneath an unwashed quilt. “Hate this family,” he mumbles into the darkness. “Hate this town. Hate everything. It’s all fucked up.” His words dissolve into troubled sleep.

At the bar, May finds Doreen, the owner, waiting. “That offer still on the table?” Doreen asks without preamble. May’s heart quickens. “Which offer?” she asks, though she knows exactly which one.

“To buy this heap. I’m done with these townspeople!”

May secures her truck before responding. “Doreen, I made that offer two years ago. Why now?”

“My office. We need to talk.” They weave through the crowd of regulars, one calling out, “Hurry up, May! We want music!”

May turns back. “Just a few minutes, I promise.” The office door closes behind them, shutting out the bar’s chaos. The small room, once a keg storage space, now houses a metal desk crowned with a garish cowboy-and-Indian lampshade, a pine-and-leather couch, and a single desk chair. In the corner stands a black-and-copper Gary Safe Co. vault, “Doreen Heifferman” and “Buffalo N.Y.” emblazoned across its face.

They settle on opposite ends of the couch. “Drink?” Doreen offers, but May shakes her head. “You know my rules about mixing work and spirits.”

“That’s exactly why you’d be perfect for this place.” Doreen reaches for May’s hand, but May pulls back. “Cut the sweet talk, Dor. Why sell now?”

“I’m tired. Family’s gone, husband’s dead, and this place has lost its meaning. Time to live a little before I can’t.” May absorbs this in silence. “I’ll need to discuss it with Frank. Things have changed since I made that offer.”

“Take your time,” Doreen says, rising with effort. She opens the safe with practiced movements: left, right, left. “Here’s your band earnings from last week. Better get ready – you’re on in forty.”

May heads for the stage while Doreen lingers, drinking in her office one last time before securing the safe and sinking onto the couch.

At the bar, May leans toward Henry, the heavily tattooed fifty-six-year-old bartender. “Mind staying late? Jen called in sick.”

Henry strokes his long beard, lining up shots with his free hand. “For you, May, I’d move the moon itself.”

May takes the stage, her presence electric. “Hey boys and girls, time for some harmony!” The sixty-three regulars erupt in cheers. “Sing it, May!”

She catches the drummer’s eye. “Dizzy, baby… One… Two… Three…” The opening beats of Tommy Roe’s “Dizzy” fill the air.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Thomas jerks awake, executing an unintentional cartwheel into the coffee table. Blood gushes from a gash running from below his eye to his jawline. “Fuck my life,” he whimpers, stumbling to the bathroom. His solution? A bottle of superglue, which he squeezes into the wound before pressing the edges together with trembling hands.

Back on his couch, he takes a deep hit from his bong, exhaling slowly between coughs. After thirty minutes of ceiling-staring, the munchies drive him upstairs. He raids the fridge for a beer, drumstick, and potato salad, consuming his midnight feast at the kitchen table. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, he pauses, as if sensing the weight of all his bad decisions pressing down from above.

Tom stares at the clock mounted above the washing machine. With effort, he pushes himself off the couch, his movements slow and deliberate as he makes his way up the stairs. In the kitchen, he grabs a beer, a drumstick, and a Tupperware container of potato salad, settling at the table to devour his midnight feast.

The LeCoultre Atmos on the fireplace mantle chimes 2 AM, making Tom jump. He eyes Frank, passed out in the La-Z-Boy, before approaching the staircase. His hand grips the banister post as he hesitates, weighing his next move.

Halfway up, a wooden step betrays him with a loud creak. Tom freezes, dropping into a crouch to peer through the banister rails at Frank’s sleeping form. After a steadying breath, he continues his silent ascent to the bedroom door.

He taps lightly, listening for movement inside. The door opens with painful slowness as he creeps across the room to the furthest bunk bed. Dropping to one knee, he gently shakes his sister’s shoulder. “Mary… Mary… wake up.”

“What do you want, Tom?” Mary mumbles, annoyed. “You know you’re not allowed upstairs anymore!”

“I need your help with something. Come on, get up already!”

“Fine!” Mary rolls out of bed, her ankle-length nightgown nearly tripping her.

“Stop playing around, Mary. I really need your help.”

They descend the stairs quietly, passing through the kitchen to the basement. “Mary, I need you to clean this wound for me.” He gestures to his head.

“Tom, you need to stop getting into fights!”

“This isn’t from a fight. I fell and hit my head on the table. See?” He points to the table, then to the stain on the potato fiber rug.

Mary laughs. “Maybe if you’d stop being a pig, you wouldn’t trip!”

Tom glares at her. “Why do you have to be so judgmental?”

“I’m 12, you’re 19. You’re supposed to be telling me to be mindful, not the other way around!”

“You know something, Mary? You’re right. You are a grown woman. I respect that.” Mary silently cleans his wound, applying the bandage with care.

“There. I’m going back to bed, Tom.”

He grabs her hand. “Mary, do you want to know how adults treat one another when they’re thankful?”

She gives him a suspicious look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, would you like to know how we show our appreciation?”

Mary hesitates. “No… not really. Why? Is there something I should know?”

Tom nods with a half-smirk. “Just sit down on the couch. I’ll show you.” As she sits, he joins her. “Keep quiet now. It won’t take long, and it’ll make everything better.” His hand slides up her leg, lifting her nightgown as he leans in to kiss her.

May finished her last song thirty minutes ago. The musicians have packed up and gone home, leaving behind an overflowing tip jar at the stage’s edge. Only the most dedicated barflies remain, nursing their final drinks of the night.

“Okay, John!” May pats her favorite customer’s back. “Time to head home. If I let you drink anymore, your wife will give me an earful on Sunday!”

“Yeah, yeah, May.” John downs his beer, stumbling as he stands. Outside, he lights a Camel. “May, you’re the reason I come here. You sing beautifully.”

May giggles. “You charmer. Now get home!”

She turns back to gather glasses, calling out, “Last call, gentlemen! Closing time. I’ve got kids to mind in the morning.”

The three remaining men at the bar mumble their acknowledgments, content to finish their beers and listen to the jukebox’s last songs.

Joe, an elderly World War II vet, slurs, “You know, May, I’d ask you to be my wife, but I don’t think it’d work out!”

“Why’s that, Joe?”

He chuckles. “Think your kids would give me a heart attack! I’m too damn old!”

May roars with laughter. “Joe, you’re an ass! That they would! So why am I still alive and breathing?”

“Because you’re an Irish woman! A runaway tractor could run you over, and you’d bounce up with fists in the air!”

As the men prepare to leave, laying generous tips on the counter, one asks, “When are you singing again, May?”

She hands Joe his coat. “It’ll be a while. Other obligations need attending.”

They protest, but May stands firm. “Come on, guys, let me close up and get home to my husband. See you tomorrow!”

Opening the door to let them out, she notices the heavy snowfall. “Drive safely, gentlemen!”

“You betcha!” they chorus.

May springs onto the bar top, grabbing her keys before dashing out to start the truck. After it catches, she leaves it idling and runs back inside, cursing the bitter February Minnesota winter. “Fuck the heavens, that’s freezing my titties off!”

She finishes cleaning, puts up chairs, and counts the till. The tip jar thrills her: “Three hundred twelve dollars! Damn!” She divides the money into envelopes for the band, decorating each with their names and little daisies. After securing everything in the office safe, she notices the owner asleep on the couch. Smiling, she turns off the lights and locks up, whispering to the empty bar, “I get to have you to myself!”

The drive home takes thirty minutes through thickening snow. She can barely make out her porch light as she pulls into the driveway. May guides the truck into the barn, hooks up the glow plugs to the generator, and secures the doors against the strengthening wind.

Inside the house, shaking off snow, she spots Mary coming up from the basement. “What are you doing down there, child?”

“Nothing, Ma.”

“Don’t sass me. What were you doing?”

“Tom busted his face. I was helping him put a bandaid on it. He was bleeding.”

“Get to bed, and don’t go down there again. Tom’s a bad influence, and I don’t want you girls smoking his dope or listening to his trash music.” May misses Mary’s slight limp as the girl retreats upstairs.

In the kitchen, May tends to the Monarch Malleable stove, adding wood to the dying embers. She retrieves fresh milk from Bernice’s morning milking, stored in a clay jug in the fridge, and pours it into a cast iron pot. Reaching for Nestle cocoa and sugar, she crafts the perfect hot chocolate, stirring it with a wooden spoon and letting it simmer.

She hangs her coat in the hall, arranges the boots neatly, and returns to pour herself a steaming mug of cocoa in her favorite A&W cup. After adjusting the stove’s ventilation, she retrieves her book from atop the fridge, settles at the table, and begins to read, waiting for 5 AM to arrive.

The Summer of Confusion

On a sweltering Friday afternoon in mid-July, the world seems to move in slow motion. May hunches over her desk in the office while Kathy tends bar, serving the usual crowd of customers. Outside, Frank and his crew are hard at work on the veranda and kitchen addition. Nana keeps watch over the younger children at home. The Minnesota summer shows no mercy – the thermometer reads 101 degrees, and the humid air weighs heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

May rises from her desk and flicks on the air conditioner. Making her way to the bar, she prepares a refreshing mixture – ice tea and lemonade in a flask, complete with glasses on a tray. She carries her offering outside to the workers. “Looking good, boys. Keep it up.” They respond with grateful smiles, sweat glistening on their faces.

Upstairs, Julie and Pam are lost in their world of Barbie dolls, while Lori, Junice, Bonnie, and Mary have claimed the tree fort as their domain. The peace doesn’t last long. Junice, with childhood cruelty, blurts out, “Mary, you’re fat!” Mary glances down at herself, knowing the truth in those words but unwilling to admit it. Lori’s fist connects with Junice’s arm. “Shut up!” Before the situation can escalate, Bonnie takes charge. “I’ll beat all of you if you don’t knock it off.” She retrieves four bottles of Coke from a hidden box in the corner.

“Where’d you get those?” Mary asks, eyes wide.

Bonnie grins mischievously. “Swiped them from Tom’s chest in the basement. He’s not coming back anyway.”

“You’ll get your ass beat if he does,” Junice warns.

Mary nods solemnly. “You know he’ll find a way to hurt you and blame you for it.”

“Don’t care,” Bonnie declares. “I’ll tell Dad and watch him kick Tom’s ass.” They settle down, sharing warm Cokes and conspiratorial giggles.

The afternoon beckons them outdoors. They scramble down from the tree fort and race through the hay fields, dodging scattered cows during their game of tag. “Let’s go down by the creek!” Junice suggests. Bonnie’s eyes light up. “Yeah, we can throw rocks at the fish.”

“You’re such a bitch,” Lori throws over her shoulder, taking off through the field with Bonnie in hot pursuit. Mary and Junice follow, their laughter trailing behind them.

Bonnie’s fingers brush Lori’s hair as she closes in. Just as victory seems certain, Lori drops into a squat. Bonnie, carried by momentum, sails right over her and plunges face-first into the creek. The water’s depth saves her from injury, but creates a magnificent splash. Mary and Junice double over with laughter. Bonnie retaliates with a handful of mud, spattering them with red-brown muck. Soon they’re all in the creek, engaged in an all-out mud war, their shrieks and name-calling echoing across the field.

Bernice, the family’s beloved milk cow, ambles over from the hay field. She positions herself upstream from the chaos, seemingly unbothered by the children’s antics as she drinks. Mary approaches, scratching behind Bernice’s ear and stroking her velvet nose. The cow responds by wading into the creek, and soon the girls are splashing water on her coat. Bernice shows her appreciation with a long, high-pitched moo.

Within minutes, half the herd joins them. Some cattle lie in the cool water, others welcome the splashing, while the more cautious ones observe from a safe distance. Their revelry comes to an abrupt halt when Nana appears at the creek’s edge. Junice’s eyes go wide. “OH SHIT!”

“Junice, house. Now.” Nana’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. “I’ll deal with you later.” Her gaze sweeps over the mud-covered girls. “Look at yourselves! You’re an absolute disgrace – covered in muck, probably stinking to high heaven. What possessed you to play among the cattle?”

“We were giving them a bath,” Lori responds with teenage defiance. “It’s hot out.”

“Get out of that water this instant and clean yourselves up!” Nana commands. The girls sprint home, stripping down to their underwear on the porch. They drape their muddy clothes over the railing, line up their shoes on the steps, and take turns washing at the bathroom sink.

Nana storms in, grabs Junice by the ear, and forces a bar of soap into her mouth. “Swear again and you’ll get worse than this!” She marches out, calling back, “Five minutes, Junice, then you can remove it.”

The other girls can’t resist teasing. “Ooh, Junie’s in trouble,” Lori sing-songs. “Bonnie’s only bitch junior now.” Bonnie responds by snapping Lori with a rolled towel, igniting chaos just as Nana returns. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

The girls struggle to contain their laughter while Junice gags on the soap. Nana yanks it from her mouth, but it’s too late – Junice vomits into the toilet as the others dissolve into fresh peals of laughter.

“Clean this mess up NOW!” Nana roars. “I don’t care how long it takes!”

“Yes’m,” Mary manages between giggles.

“One more burst of nonsense and I’m getting the bobby,” Nana threatens.

Bonnie’s jaw drops. The threat of the dreaded wooden spoon sobers them instantly. They clean in silence, restoring the bathroom to order within ten minutes. Nana watches from the doorway. “Now get downstairs and clean the kitchen since you have so much energy.” The girls file past her, and she follows, shaking her head and sighing.

Jim, Kenny, and Frank enter later, trailing sawdust and sweat. They find the girls quietly watching cartoons while Nana nurses her fourth beer at the kitchen table. Her face is flushed as she glares at Frank. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Jim and Kenny head upstairs, avoiding the tension. Marc grabs a Coke and escapes to do his barn chores. Nana stalks onto the porch with Frank following. “Son, I’m done watching those monsters. Find a babysitter – I can’t handle it anymore.”

“What happened now, Ma?”

Nana collapses onto the porch swing, taking another swig. “Those little devils nearly gave me a heart attack today – playing with the herd, tracking mud everywhere, destroying the bathroom, and the language!”

Frank peeks inside at his seemingly angelic daughters, then turns back to his mother. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Supper’s in thirty minutes. Get cleaned up,” Nana says, rising. Frank catches her arm. “Mom, they’re just being kids. When they’re outside, you get peace and quiet, don’t you?”

Nana pulls away and storms inside. Frank heads to the bathroom while his daughters retreat upstairs, knowing their father’s television time is sacred. They avoid his evening news – Tom Brokaw’s reports about President Nixon and Vietnam hold little interest for them.

“Frank, turn that off!” Nana calls from the kitchen. She announces dinner, and the house comes alive with movement. Kathy arrives in the Buick, heading straight to wash up. “Mom’s closing tonight,” she announces, then yells through the window, “Marc! Get your ass in here!”

Marc sprints in from the barn, and the family gathers around the table, another summer day drawing to a close in their chaotic household.

Jim reaches for the rolls, but Nana’s hand cracks across his wrist like a whip. “You say grace tonight, Jim.”

“Yessum,” Jim sighs. He looks around at everyone’s bowed heads. “Lord, bless this family for the bounty you have granted to us, and bless our business, health, and keep us safe from harm.”

Nana smiles warmly. “Dig in, kids.”

Halfway through dinner, a knock echoes at the door. Frank rises to find two uniformed men standing outside the screen. “What can I do for you gents?”

A gruff voice responds, “Sir, we need to speak to you and your son Jim.”

Frank studies them both. “What’s this about?”

The sharp-dressed shorter one blurts out, “Sir, this is important. Is Jim home?”

Jim appears behind his father. “I’m Jim.”

Frank pushes Jim back into the house, steps out, and closes the screen door behind him, positioning himself in front of it. “You gents haven’t answered my question. What is your business?”

“Sir, your son is being drafted,” the gruff voice states.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Sergeant Wikimson, sir, and this is Private Brackson. Your son is required by law to come down to the recruitment office for a physical and testing.”

Frank’s eyes turn to steel. “I served in the Korean War as a decorated Marine. My family already did their civic duty! You are not taking my son. He’s needed here on the farm to run it.”

“Sir, these are perilous times,” Sergeant Wikimson explains. “We don’t have a choice. President Nixon has ordered all able-bodied men to join in the effort to keep the communist North Vietnamese from invading their southern counterparts.”

Frank fixes his gaze on the sergeant. “When does he need to be there?”

“Technically, we’re supposed to drive him in right now for testing, but if you wish, you can bring him on Monday.”

Frank stands silent for several moments, his jaw tight. “Fine. I’ll drive him there on Monday myself. Now if you please, you’re interrupting our family dinner.” He motions them off the porch.

The two men walk to their green Studebaker with its large white star on the door. They climb in and nod at Frank before driving away. Frank turns and walks into the house where Jim stands waiting. His voice is dead and flat: “We’ll discuss it after dinner when the kids are in bed.”

Jim nods and follows him back to the table. They eat in heavy silence.

Nana rises to fetch the honey sweet cake for dessert. Lori pipes up, “Daddy, is Jimbo going to fight the rice eaters?”

Frank’s head snaps toward her. “Lori, you watch what you say. NEVER disrespect someone, or I swear I’ll smack the stars out of you.”

Lori sighs. “Yes, daddy, but does Jimbo have to leave?”

Frank looks at Jim. “Well, honey, that’s up to your brother, really. We’ll be discussing his options later tonight.”

Marc straightens in his chair. “If you go, I’ll enlist too.”

Jim shoves Marc off his chair. “You’re too young, and you’re a pussy.”

Marc springs up and punches Jim in the face.

“Marc, sit your ass down right now!” Frank thunders.

“I’m gonna beat you later,” Jim whispers through clenched teeth.

Marc flips him off under the table.

Frank turns to the girls, Kenny, and Marc. “Take your desserts and go watch some television.”

Nana settles next to Frank. “Jim, I forbid you from going.”

Jim shrugs. Frank states flatly, “He doesn’t have a choice, Ma.”

“Like hell he doesn’t,” Nana interjects. “Five generations of this family have seen every war since the Civil War.”

Frank shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, Ma. It’s a presidential order—might as well consider it martial law.”

Jim looks at his father. “I heard Mr. B at work mention something about agricultural deferral.”

Frank nods slowly. “That’s the option I was going to present to you, but there’s a catch.” Jim nods for him to continue. “If you get the agricultural deferral, you’ll have to quit your job at B’s Feed and work on the farm round the clock. You’ll need to increase the livestock almost four times what we have, and you’ll have to provide some kind of crop.”

Jim nods again.

Frank stares at his son. “You do realize what this means, right?”

Jim shrugs. “Not really, Pops.”

Frank grips Jim’s shoulders. “You’re going to be working yourself into an early grave. Up at 4:30 in the morning, working until 10 at night. No pay. No help. Your mother owns and operates the bar, I drive semi, and the kids will be in school in a few weeks.”

Jim considers his father’s words. “I’ll think about it and give you my answer on Sunday. Tomorrow I’m going to see my girlfriend, discuss it with her.”

Frank nods. “Fair enough. Just remember, your choices are limited, and once you decide, you have to commit, or you’ll end up in a stockade with a court martial.”

Jim rises from the table and heads upstairs. Nana looks at Frank with pain-filled eyes, but before she can speak, Frank cuts her off. “Don’t, Ma. I already know what you’re going to say.”

He gathers plates from the table and walks to the kitchen, standing over the sink as water runs over the dishes. Silent tears roll down his cheeks as he mumbles, “Curse you, Lord, for your need to allow men to kill one another.”

Nana overhears him as she brings in more dishes. She wraps her arms around him and whispers, “Everything has a reason.”

Frank drops a plate in the sink, breaking it in half. He stalks to the fridge, grabs a six-pack of Miller, and heads out to the barn. Grabbing his fly fishing equipment off the walls, he clambers into his truck and drives off. Nana watches with sad eyes. “Lord save my family.”

Around midnight, May’s car rolls up the driveway. She finds Nana on the porch swing, surrounded by coffee cans smoking with sage and a collection of empty beer bottles—seven down, working on the eighth.

“Well shit, Ma, I know you can put them away, but what’s bothering you?”

Nana looks up at her daughter. “You’ll have to talk to Frank and Jim. Frank’s probably sleeping in the back of his truck drunk near First Island.”

“My girlfriend threatened to leave me if I join. I don’t want to run the farm single-handedly, and I don’t want to fight alongside—” Jim spat out a racial slur that made the room go cold.

May shot up from the table and strode over to Jim, striking him hard across the face. “Don’t you ever say that word under this roof again! You will respect everyone!”

Jim rubbed his reddening cheek. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

Frank shoved his plate away, anger radiating from every movement. “You’re a disgrace, Jim. I taught you better than that.” He stood abruptly and stormed out to the barn, leaving Jim looking bewildered as he continued eating in silence.

A few hours later, Jim found his father on the knoll, laying out hay bales for the cattle. “Why are you so angry, Pops?”

Frank cut the tractor’s engine and jumped down. He walked casually over to Jim before landing a solid punch to his son’s face. “We are not racist people, Jim. I fought alongside Native Americans and Black soldiers during the Korean War.”

Jim lay on the ground, rubbing his jaw and looking up at his father. “But why do so many people in town use that word?”

“Son, they’re ignorant, hateful people,” Frank replied, extending his hand. “That’s no excuse to disrespect anyone.”

Jim grunted as he pulled himself up using his father’s hand. “I’m sorry, Pops.”

Frank nodded, then climbed back onto the tractor. Before starting it up, he looked Jim dead in the eye. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

Jim looked down and sighed. Frank gave a knowing nod, fired up the tractor, and resumed his work. Jim stood there watching the cattle, lost in thought. When he turned back toward the house, he caught sight of Kathy, May, Kenny, and Marc driving down the driveway.

Inside, he grabbed a beer and settled onto the porch swing. Nana joined him, studying his face. “Jim, I don’t like it, not one bit. But if you don’t have a choice, you have to do what’s necessary.”

Jim answered by angrily gulping down his beer.

The next morning, Frank and Jim rose early and drove to St. Paul’s recruitment office. The sergeant motioned them to sit and began reviewing options with Jim. Suddenly, Jim stood up, jabbing two fingers onto the desk. “I’m not joining the Army. I’m joining the military!” He turned to leave.

The sergeant rose. “But sir, the Army would be a better choice for someone like you.”

Jim paused at the door. “No, it wouldn’t. My father is military, so I will be too.”

Frank followed him out, sliding into the vehicle beside Jim with a smile. “You made a fine choice, son.” He started the engine, and they headed for the USMC recruitment office.

That evening, the family gathered around the dinner table. Frank cleared his throat. “Jim is joining the military, and because his aptitude scores are off the charts, he’s being sent to military training school for education. My son is going to be an officer.”

Nana smiled hopefully. “You mean he won’t be fighting?”

“No ma’am,” Jim explained. “I’m going to military school and training on the East Coast. It’s twenty-seven weeks of training and six weeks of boot camp.”

“You’re going to be away for almost a year?” May asked, shocked.

Jim nodded. “Possibly longer when I’m shipped overseas.”

“So you are going to be fighting,” Nana pressed.

“No,” Jim assured her. “I’ll be working in the officers’ quarters.”

By late September, Jim had shipped out to West Point, and life shifted into a new rhythm. The kids returned to school while May worked at the bar. Frank cut back his long-haul hours to tend the farm. Kathy moved in with her boyfriend—now fiancé—just weeks after Jim’s departure. The family slowly adjusted to the emptiness Jim left behind. Kenny continued at Bjerges Feed after school, now trusted to drive the truck as a senior. Marc landed a job there too after turning seventeen, thanks to Kenny’s recommendation. He proved himself a dedicated worker, rising from stock boy to granary foreman within months. Thomas moved back home after Jim left, but Nana’s lingering disapproval confined him to the barn’s loft.

May was in her office when the school nurse called about Mary’s severe stomach pains. She quickly phoned Frank, asking him to watch the bar while she rushed to the high school.

Frank drove over, leaving the truck running as he entered. May kissed his cheek on her way out.

“Hey! Not in public!” Frank protested.

“Oh, hush, Frank!” May called back as she left.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up to the school and entered the office. The clerk recognized her immediately. “Hello, follow me. I’ll take you to the nurse’s station.” May followed her down the long hallway, her footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor.

She arrives at the school fifteen minutes later, parks the truck, and walks into the office. The clerk recognizes her immediately. “Hello, follow me. I’ll take you to the nurse’s station,” she says, rising from her desk. May follows her down the long, fluorescent-lit hallway.

May enters the nurse’s office, where she’s greeted with an icy statement: “Your daughter is experiencing extreme stomach distress. She’s so fat—you really ought to stop feeding her so much!” May fixes the nurse with a look that could shatter glass, then walks over to Mary. “Come on, hon. Let’s get you to the doctor.”

A couple of hours later, after thoroughly examining Mary, the doctor pulls May into the hallway. “Ma’am, I have some rather disturbing news for you.”

“Yes… and?” May prompts.

The doctor responds nervously, “Your daughter is having contractions. She’s going to have a baby soon.”

May’s mouth drops open, and she staggers forward, nearly fainting. The doctor steadies her. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

He helps her to the chairs outside the room and motions to the nurse. “Get some water, quickly.” May sits in stunned silence before tears begin rolling down her cheeks. “My baby, my poor little girl,” she whispers.

The doctor softens his tone. “You had no idea what was going on?”

May shakes her head, speaking through sobs, “I just thought she was gaining weight like typical girls do at that age.”

“Should I notify the authorities?” the doctor asks with concern.

May’s response is sharp and immediate. “No one is to know. This is a family matter, got that?” The doctor nods solemnly.

May requests pain medication to help manage the situation, not wanting Mary to know what’s happening. The doctor prescribes heavy sedatives that will keep her sleeping most of the time.

After picking up the medication from the pharmacy, May returns to the examination room, gathers Mary’s things, and heads home. When they arrive, the girls are sitting on the porch drinking lemonade with Nana. May quickly guides Mary into the house and up to her bedroom. She retrieves a heating pad and a glass of water from the bathroom, gives Mary the medication, places the heating pad on a pillow beneath her stomach, and instructs her to lie in a fetal position until she returns home.

Once Mary drifts off to sleep, May descends to the kitchen. She picks up the rotary phone and dials Kathy’s number.

“Hello?” Kathy answers.

“Kat, no time to explain—I need you to come to the bar. Emergency,” May says tersely.

“Be there shortly, Mom,” Kathy responds.
May pulls up to the bar just as Kathy’s car rolls into the lot. Perfect timing. She steps out of the truck, catching her daughter’s eye.

“Great timing, Kat. I need you to close up tonight—family emergency. Your father and I need to have a long talk.”

Kathy gives her mother a confused look. “Okay, sure thing, Mom.”

May hurries inside, finds Frank, and leads him back to the truck.

They drive in tense silence to the island where Frank usually fishes, a secluded spot far from prying eyes. Frank turns to her, his face etched with concern.

“What the hell is going on, May?”

May stares out the window, tears streaming down her face. Frank shifts uncomfortably, helpless in the face of her distress.

“MAY! What the HELL!”

She turns to him, her voice barely a whisper. “Mary is pregnant and she’s about to give birth.”

Frank stares at her, disbelief frozen on his face while May continues to cry. After what feels like hours, May pulls herself together, and suddenly the realization hits her like a physical blow.

“I know who did this!” Her voice shakes. Frank’s confusion deepens. “Talk to me, May. Don’t leave me hanging!”

“Last February, I caught Mary coming up from the basement. She was limping, said she’d been patching up his face—remember that nasty gouge he had? Well…” She swallows hard. “I think he might have raped her.”

Frank’s face flushes crimson. “That fucking piece of shit. I’m going to kill him!”

They spend the next hour crafting plans before driving home. At the house, May heads inside while Frank stalks toward the barn. He climbs the ladder to find Thomas sprawled on his couch. In one fluid motion, Frank grabs him by the scruff of his neck and hurls him off the loft.

Thomas hits the ground hard, shock and pain evident in his voice. “What the hell? What the fuck did I do?”

Frank descends the ladder, grabs an ax handle from the workbench, and starts swinging. “Get the fuck off this property! Don’t ever come back here. You’re not part of this family. You’re no son of mine!”

Dodging the swings, Thomas pleads through tears, “What did I do, Pops?”

Frank charges, tackling Thomas to the ground. His fists rain down as he roars, “You raped your sister, you piece of shit!”

Reality dawns on Thomas’s face as he scrambles away, backing toward the far side of the barn. “I’m sorry, Pa, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not your Pa. You’re nobody to me. Now get off this property before I get the twelve-gauge.”

“Where am I supposed to go? I have nowhere!” Thomas’s voice cracks with desperation.

“Makes no difference to me. You’re trespassing. Get the hell out of here.”

“Fine, I’ll grab my shit.”

“No, you wait right there!” Frank climbs back to the loft, retrieves his old Korean War duffle bag, and stuffs Thomas’s belongings into it. He throws it down. “If I ever see you on this property again, I’ll kill you!”

Thomas slings the pack over his shoulder and disappears down the dirt road. Years would pass before anyone heard from him again.

Upstairs, May packs Mary’s clothes with trembling hands. Frank enters the house, his expression so thunderous that Nana retreats to the kitchen, wanting no part of what’s happening. He climbs the stairs, and together they prepare to leave—May with the suitcase, Frank carrying their sleeping daughter. They load the truck in silence: suitcase in the back, Mary gentle placed in the middle seat. Then they drive away into the darkness, leaving behind a home forever changed by one terrible secret.

Innocence Lost

Mary’s voice echoes through the sterile hallway. “Daddy, why are you doing this? What did I do wrong?” The words pierce Frank’s heart like shards of glass. He turns away, unable to face his daughter as Sister Ann leads her around the corner. Only when Mary disappears from view does he allow the first tear to fall, quickly wiping it away as he trudges toward Mother Superior’s office. Inside, he slumps into the chair beside May, his wife’s face a mask of stone.

Mother Superior’s voice fills the oppressive silence. “May, I assure you that Saint Catherine’s provides the finest care. We’re mere minutes from Ramsay County Hospital.” Her weathered hands fold carefully on the desk before her. Before she can continue, May cuts in, her words sharp as razors.

“Since we can’t have the child aborted, we just want this situation put behind us.”

“All children are God’s children, May.”

“This child is a product of incest, Mother Superior!”

The words hang in the air like poison. Mother Superior’s face drains of color. “Oh… I see.”

Sister Ann appears in the doorway, her habit framing a face etched with concern. “Mary’s settled in her room. I gave her some food and a book, but she’s crying terribly. She doesn’t understand why she’s being abandoned.” Her eyes find Frank. “She keeps asking for you.”

Mother Superior’s gaze bores into Frank. “You haven’t told her?” When he shakes his head, she sighs deeply. “She needs to know. This isn’t something we can shield her from. She’ll experience pain like she’s never known – bringing a child into this world at her age…”

“I don’t want Mary to see or know this child,” May interrupts, each word precise and cold. “Once it’s gone, we’re moving on with our lives.”

Before Sister Ann can protest, Mother Superior silences her with a look. “May, your daughter will receive the best care possible. We’ll contact you when the baby arrives, and you can collect Mary after she recovers.”

“How much is this going to cost us?” May’s question cuts through the room like a knife.

Mother Superior pulls out a stack of papers, arranging them with practiced precision. As she explains the expenses, Frank sits motionless, tears threatening to spill. He reaches for May’s hand, seeking any comfort in this nightmare, but she pulls away, focused on the paperwork.

“Twelve thousand dollars!” May’s voice rises, hysteria creeping in. “Are you out of your Christ-loving minds?”

The blasphemy hangs heavy in the air, but Mother Superior’s face remains impassive, understanding etched in the lines around her eyes.

Frank suddenly lurches to his feet, pacing behind his chair like a caged animal. His fingers dig into the upholstery, knuckles white with tension. The reality of their situation crashes over him in waves. “Seven kids,” he chokes out, “a large farm, our son in Vietnam, school just started…” His voice cracks. “We can’t afford this, May.”

May reaches for him now, too late, mouthing silently: “I know.”

“Sir, please calm yourself,” Mother Superior interjects, concern softening her voice. “There is another option. We could arrange for Mary to become a ward of the state. The expenses would be covered.”

The words fall like stones in a deep well, each one echoing with the weight of what they’re about to do to their daughter.

The chair shudders against the wall as Frank’s hand crashes down. “Like fucking hell we’ll sell the goddamn farm!” His words echo through the small office, sharp and final. He spins on his heel, and as he crosses the threshold, his voice drops to something darker, more dangerous. “Sign the damn papers.” His footsteps fade around the corner, leaving only the trembling aftermath of his rage.

The hospital room is barely bigger than a jail cell. White walls stretch up to meet a stark ceiling, broken only by a simple cross hanging above the narrow bed. A lamp casts weak light across untouched food and scattered books. Frank lowers himself beside Mary, drawing his twelve-year-old daughter close, his arms encircling her like a shield against what he has to say.

“Mary,” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, “you’re old enough now to understand what’s happening.” He pauses, searching for words that don’t exist. “Those stomach pains you’ve been having, the weight you’ve gained so quickly… baby girl, you’re going to have a child.”

Mary’s body goes rigid against him. “What?” Her voice cracks, dissolving into desperate sobs. “You’re lying! You don’t love me anymore – that’s why you’re leaving me here!” Her small fists beat against his chest, each blow carrying the weight of her betrayal.

Frank fights back his own tears, holding her tighter. “No, sweet girl. This is just temporary – a place where young mothers stay until their babies are born. We’re not abandoning you.” His voice breaks as she looks up at him, confusion and fear warring in her eyes.

“But how?” she whispers. “How can I have a baby?”

Frank’s composure shatters. He pulls her closer, rocking her as his own tears fall. “Just trust me, baby girl. Everything will work out.” He holds her until her sobs quiet into sleep, his grief matching the rhythm of her breathing.

May appears in the doorway, her face ashen. “You didn’t…” The words hang unfinished in the sterile air.

Frank gently lays Mary down, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. Without a word, he brushes past May. They walk to the truck in heavy silence, the gravel crunching beneath their feet like broken glass. Once inside, Frank’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

“I don’t care how it happened,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s my baby girl. You will not disrespect me for loving my child, May. I’ll handle this as I see fit.” May’s only response is a strangled sound as she turns to stare out the window, and Frank guns the engine.

Outside Saint Cloud, they pull into McDonald’s, order food they won’t taste, and drive to a rest stop. May’s composure finally breaks. She clutches Frank’s elbow, her sobs violent enough to shake the truck cab. Frank pulls her close, his jaw clenched against his own threatening tears.

“We’ll get through this, May,” he whispers into her hair.

When she can speak again, her words come like a death sentence. “We have to sell the bar.”

Frank stares at her, stunned. “That was your dream! No – we’ll mortgage the farm instead.”

“We can’t,” May chokes out. “I already used the farm as collateral instead of the bar. We can sell the bar, pay off the farm, and the rest…”

Frank’s fist slams into the steering wheel, his rage exploding. “I swear to God, if Tom ever shows his face again, I’ll put a shotgun to his head and pull the trigger!”

The crack of May’s palm against his cheek silences him. Her tears start fresh.

Frank rubs his stinging face, his voice bitter. “If it wasn’t for him, none of this would be happening. Of all the kids, why did we get cursed with one like him?”

May’s only answer is her continued weeping. Frank bolts from the truck, seeking refuge in the rest stop’s outhouse. After, he pumps the old artesian well’s handle furiously, the red iron creaking in protest. He splashes his face with the cold water, drinking deeply, as if he could wash away the day’s horror with enough water.

The drive home stretches like a funeral procession. May’s occasional sobs punctuate the silence while Frank’s thoughts spiral darker and darker. As they pull into their driveway, he turns to her, his decision as heavy as a headstone. “I’m selling all the cattle. Going back over the road again.”

May just nods, defeated. They climb out of the truck like old people, their steps heavy toward the house. Frank detours to the fridge, grabs an armful of beers, and heads for the barn, leaving May alone with their shared grief.

Frank stumbles through the doorway an hour later, his knuckles weeping blood and his eyes swollen to slits. The floorboards creak under his heavy steps as he bellows for everyone to gather in the dining room. The family filters in, one by one, settling into their usual chairs around the scarred oak table.

“Mary’s sick.” His voice is stripped of all color. “She’ll be gone for a while. And there are going to be changes around here. Big ones.” The words fall like stones into still water.

“Frank,” Nana’s voice quavers, “what’s wrong with Mary?”

His fist slams the table. “She’s sick, Ma. That’s all you need to know!”

May reaches across the table, her face a roadmap of fresh worry lines, cheeks flushed and eyes rimmed red. She looks like she’s lived a decade in a day. “We’re selling the cows,” she cuts in before Frank can explode. “Your father’s going back on the road.”

“What’s going on?” Marc’s question hangs in the air.

“Shut up, Marc!” Junice snaps. Bonnie’s fist finds Junice’s arm, followed by a harsh whisper to be quiet. Junice retaliates with a sharp slap to Bonnie’s head before slumping back in her chair.

“Stop it right now!” May’s voice cracks like a whip.

Kenny leans forward, his young face etched with determination. “If we’re in trouble with money, Pa, I can give half my paycheck.”

“Me too!” Marc chimes in.

Frank’s head shake is fierce. “That’s your money. For college or a car. We won’t hear of it.”

“Our options are limited,” May says, each word measured carefully. “We either sell the cows and Frank goes over the road, or I sell the bar. The bar’s our main income right now, so that’s our last resort.”

Kenny and Marc exchange glances before slipping onto the porch. When they return, Marc’s voice is steady. “How much per head?”

Frank eyes them suspiciously. “About five twenty-five, give or take.”

“We’ll take Bernice, the Red Face bull, and the pregnant heifers.” Kenny’s words tumble out in a rush.

“What are you boys getting at?” Frank’s hand finds his chin, scratching thoughtfully.

Marc launches into his explanation, words spilling out like water. “Bernice is our milking cow, the bull’s our sire, and with the two heifers, we can start fresh. We’ve got twenty-five hundred between us from overtime at Bjerges and side work before we quit Mr. B’s. We want to buy four cows.”

Frank’s laugh catches in his throat, transforming into something closer to a sob. “My boys… my boys…”

May’s head snaps up. “Wait just a minute. You quit your jobs?” Her voice rises sharply. “What were you thinking?”

Kenny’s shoulders hunch defensively. “Mr. B said my services weren’t needed anymore. Said there were rumors about our family. Didn’t want it hurting his reputation.”

“That’s when Kenny told me to get in the car,” Marc adds, his voice hard. “Got our last checks this morning. He threw in an extra three hundred each, said he felt bad but had no choice. F—” He catches himself. “The old bastard.”

Frank moves like lightning, his hand connecting with Marc’s head with a crack that echoes through the room. “You will not use that language in this house, or in front of women. Ever!”

Marc sprawls across the table, then slides bonelessly into his chair, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Don’t change what he is or what he ought to do,” Kenny mutters.

Nana’s voice cuts through the tension. “That’s enough out of you, young man. That’s no different than saying what your brother just did.”

Kenny’s jaw sets stubbornly. “Don’t care. He’s an ignorant jerk, and I’m glad to be done with him.”

—-

Turmoil and Change

The stale air in the East Saint Paul medical office clings to Rose Brungart like a second skin. She shifts in the hard plastic chair, pen scratching against the stack of forms in her lap. A woman with shocking pink hair catches her eye, and Rose mutters under her breath, “Goddamned hippie chicks with their crazy hairdos.”

The metallic screech of hinges breaks the silence as a nurse appears in the doorway. Her beehive hairdo seems frozen in time, much like the dated cream-colored scrubs and impractical knee-high boots she wears. “Rose Brungart?” The hallway she leads Rose down is a garish orange, with fading Curious George murals that feel more ominous than cheerful.

Time creeps by in the examination room. The apple-green tiles have long since lost their luster, and the October issue of Rolling Stone only serves to remind her how quickly the world is changing. Janis Joplin, dead. Jimi Hendrix, gone. The sharp smell of bleach makes her head swim, and just as she considers leaving, Dr. Felix enters.

“How are you today, Rose?”

She meets his eyes, her throat tight. “Well, that depends on what you have to tell me, Felix.”

He studies her paperwork, and for a moment, the only sound is the rustle of paper. “The cancer is in remission. The abnormal growth has disappeared completely.”

The sob that escapes her chest surprises them both. Through her tears, she sees Felix’s confused expression. “I thought this would be good news?”

“Happy tears,” she manages. “I was so scared.”

His hand finds her knee, his expression growing serious. “Rose, there’s a downside we need to discuss.”

“Couldn’t be worse than dying of ovarian cancer, Doc.” Her voice carries a lightness she doesn’t quite feel.

“With only half your ovaries remaining, having children will be nearly impossible.”

She places her hand on his shoulder, cutting off his carefully prepared speech. “It’s okay, Felix. You’re a good doctor.” Before he can respond, she’s gone, leaving him with his unspoken words.

That evening, cross-stitch pattern in her lap, Rose listens to the familiar sounds of Stanley coming home. The lock turns, and he appears, tired but solid. He follows their nightly ritual: removing his boots caked with sawdust, stripping off his work clothes into the wicker basket, all while seated on the burgundy velvet bench he’d crafted for her last summer.

When she joins him in the shower, his surprise melts into desire. His hands find her waist as steam swirls around them. “Guess what?” she whispers.

“What?” His fingers trace patterns on her skin.

“I’m cancer-free.”

The news transforms him. His exhaustion vanishes as he lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist, their laughter echoing off the tile walls.

Later, she moves through their apartment naked, pulling dinner from the oven, setting the table, savoring this newfound freedom in her body. She finds Stanley in the bedroom, still damp from the shower, and tackles him onto their bed. He protests halfheartedly about his sore back from work, but she just grins wickedly.

“I’ll give you something to be sore about.”

Their laughter fills the room, and for the first time in months, tomorrow feels like a promise instead of a threat.

In the heat of passion, Rose whispers against Stanley’s ear, her breath warm and intimate. “I want to adopt a child.” Stanley freezes, his hands hovering mid-caress. Without thinking, he pulls back, his voice cracking. “Wait… adopt?” Rose, determined, tries to maintain their closeness, but Stanley shifts, pressing his back against the wooden headboard. His eyes search her face in the dim light.

“Yes,” Rose says softly, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “We both knew I couldn’t have children after the treatment.” The words hang heavy between them, a reminder of their shared pain. Stanley’s throat tightens. “But honey, the wedding, the house payments—we can’t afford a child right now!” Rose wraps her arms around him, her body warm and persuasive against his. “We can make it work, Tiger. I’ll get a job if I have to.” Stanley sits motionless, one arm around her waist as she straddles him, his other hand absently adjusting a pillow behind his back. His eyes grow distant, lost in thought as he stares into her hopeful gaze.

“I’m hungry,” he announces suddenly, gently moving her aside. He throws on his worn terrycloth robe and bedroom slippers, padding toward the kitchen while his fingers dance in the air, tallying invisible calculations. Rose slips into her nightgown and follows, her voice soft but persistent. “Can we talk about this?”

The kitchen welcomes them with lingering aromas from dinner. Stanley retrieves the deep dish of fried liver nestled on baked mashed potatoes and gravy, his movements careful with the mushroom-patterned oven mitts. Rose gathers the remaining dinner items—fresh salad, dressing, and a gallon of Kemps milk. They sit across from each other, the silence broken only by their whispered grace. The meal passes without words, each lost in their own thoughts.

Stanley drains his milk glass after his final bite. “If we do this, Rose, you know what it means. John Schroeder’s been after me to take on more responsibility at work. Longer hours.” A glimmer of hope brightens Rose’s face as she nods. Stanley’s voice softens. “I need time to think. This is… this is a lot.”

Rose clears the table while Stanley moves to the stereo, his movements deliberate as he places the vinyl on the turntable. The needle finds its groove, and The Everly Brothers fill the room. He sinks into his aquamarine and beige lazy-boy, extending the footrest with a familiar creak. Above him, the Aphrodite hot oil lamp casts amber shadows, its slow-moving droplets matching the rhythm of Rose’s dish-washing in the kitchen.

When Rose finishes, she finds him with his eyes closed, lost in thought. She settles gently in his lap. “What if we go to church on Sunday?” she suggests. “Pray on it?” Stanley’s left hand finds her knee while his right draws her close to his chest, his eyes remaining closed. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s a plan.”

They doze together until the 10 PM news intrudes—Channel 11’s familiar jingle pulling them from their comfort. Rose switches on the television as Hee Haw wraps up. Gil Amundson’s steady voice delivers the evening’s grim headlines: Vietnam casualties, Hell’s Angels violence in South Saint Paul, the tragic Wichita State football team crash claiming thirty lives.

The weather report prompts Rose to prepare for bed. Stanley grabs a cold Schmidt beer and returns to his chair, losing himself in Johnny Carson and M*A*S*H before finally joining his already-sleeping wife.

Months later, Stanley bursts through the door, tracking sawdust across the carpet from his work boots. Rose looks up from her embroidery, ready to scold him about the mess, but something in his face stops her. “Get off my carpet, Stan! You’re filthy!” The words barely leave her mouth before he lifts her by her hips, grinning. “Schroeder gave me a dollar twenty-five raise!” Rose squeals with delight, peppering his face with kisses as he tries to dodge them. “We can go to the adoption agency,” he says, “if you still want to.” Rose responds by attacking his clothes with passionate determination.

They stumble toward his chair, caught up in each other, when a sharp crack splits the air. The recliner collapses beneath them, butterflying open. “FUCK!” Stanley shouts, sprawled on his back with Rose still on top of him. Her laughter bubbles up uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Stan, but I love you!” He glances at the ruined chair, his favorite, then back at her flushed face. “Fuck it,” he growls, scooping her up and carrying her to the bedroom.

On a bitter February morning in 1971, they bundle up against the Minnesota cold and climb into their dark blue Ford Fairlane. The twenty-minute drive to downtown Saint Paul leads them first to Mickey’s Diner on 7th Street, Stanley’s preferred lunch spot. The silver and red Art Deco trailer car, a Saint Paul landmark since 1945, operates around the clock, and Stanley knows every member of the family that runs it.

Over breakfast, they discuss their upcoming visit to Catholic Charities. The old Saint Catherine’s Psychiatric Hospital looms before them, its six stories of red brick converted into the Catholic Charities home for wayward children. Rose clutches Stanley’s arm, suddenly uncertain. “I don’t know about this, hon. This place gives me the creeps.” Stanley pats her hand reassuringly. “It’ll be fine, babe. We’re just here to ask questions.” But even he feels the weight of the building’s history pressing down on them as they approach the entrance.

The heavy wooden doors of St. Mary’s Orphanage creaked open, welcoming Rose and Stanley into a world of polished floors and hushed whispers. A nun in powder-blue habit approached them, her face warm and inviting.

“I’m Sister Angeline. How may I help you today?”

Rose’s fingers found Stanley’s, squeezing gently before she spoke. “We’re here about adopting a child.”

Sister Angeline led them into Mother Superior’s office, a room that smelled of lemon polish and old books. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Mother Superior will join you shortly.” She paused at the doorway. “Would you care for some water?”

“No, thank you,” Rose said softly as Sister Angeline disappeared into the hallway.

Stanley’s craftsman’s hands traced the intricate woodwork of the massive desk before them. “Look at this workmanship, Rose. The detail, the precision—someday, I’ll have this kind of reputation.” His eyes gleamed with pride and ambition.

Rose touched his shoulder. “I know you will.”

Mother Superior swept in, her obsidian habit rustling like autumn leaves, a rosary wrapped around her weathered hands. She settled behind the desk, her keen eyes studying them both. “How may I help you today?”

“We want to adopt a child,” Rose said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

“Very direct. I appreciate that,” Mother Superior smiled.

“It’s our first,” Stanley added.

Mother Superior retrieved a stack of papers from her desk drawer. “What sort of child are you hoping for?”

“A boy,” Stanley said without hesitation. “Definitely a boy.”

“And we’d prefer a newborn,” Rose added quickly.

After rifling through several manila folders, Mother Superior extracted one particular file. “We have a four-month-old boy, born last October.” She paused, eyebrows rising. “Twelve pounds, three ounces at birth. Goodness.”

“The mother?” Stanley asked.

Mother Superior’s face softened. “We don’t usually share this information, but… she was thirteen.”

“That poor child,” Rose whispered, her hand instinctively finding Stanley’s.

The conversation turned to logistics—home studies, background checks, references. When Mother Superior mentioned the ten-thousand-dollar fee, Stanley’s sharp intake of breath filled the room. The promise of healthcare and educational allowances for nine years seemed to ease the sting.

By the time they left, they’d written a check for five hundred dollars and carried a stack of papers that would change their lives forever.

Three weeks later, on a rainy April morning, Rose was in their kitchen, the sweet scent of baking muffins filling the air when an unexpected knock echoed through the house. She opened the door to find three social workers, led by Sandra Whitherton, standing on her doorstep.

The inspection went better than Rose could have hoped. Sandra praised the nursery with its sailing ship wallpaper, plush brown carpet, and the handcrafted toy box Stanley had made. When Sandra announced their approval, Rose could barely contain her joy.

She couldn’t wait to tell Stanley. The moment the social workers left, she caught two buses across town to his workshop, bursting through the door of the cabinet shop. The smell of sawdust and varnish filled her lungs as she ran past Mr. Hanson, the foreman, who pointed her toward Stanley’s workstation.

“Baby, we got him!” she exclaimed, nearly colliding with Stanley at his bench. “We can pick him up tomorrow!”

Stanley lifted her off her feet, their laughter echoing through the workshop. The usual cacophony of saws and sanders fell silent until Stanley shouted, “I’m going to be a daddy!”

The shop erupted in cheers. Mr. Schroeder emerged from his office, taking in the scene before giving Stanley the rest of the day off. They practically floated to their Ford, the future stretching before them like an open road, full of promise and possibility.

As they drove home, Rose’s hand found Stanley’s on the gear shift, and they shared a look that said more than words ever could. Tomorrow, they would become a family.

Dawn crept over the horizon that Monday morning, painting the sky in watercolor hues of pink and gold. Stanley hadn’t slept – couldn’t sleep. His mind wouldn’t stop racing. The kitchen offered refuge, where he nursed a cup of black coffee that had long since gone cold.

Rose found him there, wrapping her worn cotton robe tighter against the morning chill. One look at his face told her everything. “The adoption’s getting to you, isn’t it?” she asked softly, knowing the answer before he could speak. Stanley just stared into his coffee, the dark liquid reflecting his troubled expression.

His thoughts thundered like a freight train: What if the baby gets sick? What if I’m not cut out to be a father? What if something happens to Rose? What if the child has special needs? What if I lose my job? The weight of responsibility pressed down on his shoulders, making even breathing feel like work.

“Everything will be fine,” Rose whispered, touching his arm. “We’ve got this.” Stanley pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and retreated to the bathroom, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet house.

Rose dressed in her Sunday best, hands trembling slightly as she fastened each button. When Stanley emerged from his shower, steam rolling off his skin and a towel slung low on his hips, she felt her breath catch. Even after all these years, he could still make her heart race. She hurried from the room, his knowing smile following her hasty exit.

The drive to downtown St. Paul felt longer than usual. They stopped at Mickey’s Diner, where the smell of coffee and fried potatoes filled the air. Stanley cut into his country fried steak, the question he’d been holding back finally spilling out. “Rose, are you sure about this? Really sure?”

She studied him across the worn Formica table, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Five months I’ve thought about nothing else, Stan. Five months of dreaming about our baby. I’m sure.”

The Catholic Charities building loomed before them just four blocks away. Rose clutched Stanley’s arm as they walked in, her grip tight enough to leave marks. “Have faith,” she whispered, as much for herself as for him.

Mother Superior’s office felt too small for the magnitude of the moment. “Are you ready to meet your son?” she asked, her voice warm with joy. When Sister Angeline entered carrying their baby, Rose’s startled laugh broke the tension. “He’s like a watermelon!”

The bundle transferred to Stanley’s arms, and the world shifted on its axis. Twenty-two and a half pounds of pure love, with eyes the color of summer skies. When the baby reached up, tiny fingers brushing Stanley’s cheek, something broke open in his chest. The name came to him without thinking: “Joseph Bradley Alfred Derszcwski.”

Rose’s eyes widened, then softened. “Perfect,” she breathed.

Later, driving to his parents’ Victorian home in Maplewood, Rose glanced at their son. “I think I’ll call him JB for short.”

Stanley smiled, his earlier fears forgotten in the warmth of new fatherhood. “That’s fine. I’m calling him Tiger – at least until he’s old enough to object.”

The port wine-red house waited halfway down Arlington Street, surrounded by towering pines and wrapped in a wooden fence. Inside, the women descended like a flock of loving birds – Beth, Ann, Louise, and Lynn with little Jewels on her hip. Their exclamations filled the air as they crowded around, cooing over the baby’s cherubic face.

Beth, Stanley’s mother, carried her Depression-era stoicism like armor, but even she melted at the sight of her grandson. Ann, perpetual gossip and Stanley’s sister, couldn’t stop touching JB’s cheeks. Louise, Rose’s mother, adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses for a better look at her new grandson, while mousey Lynn bounced Jewels and smiled.

“Let’s head to the kitchen,” Rose suggested, arms aching sweetly from holding their son. “I need to put him down and grab a pop!”

Stanley watched his wife and son disappear into the kitchen, surrounded by their family’s love. His earlier fears seemed distant now, washed away by the simple truth of this moment: they were a family.

April 7, 2025April 7, 2025

Demand fair taxation for billion-dollar nonprofits!

It’s time to demand fair taxation for billion-dollar nonprofits! While these organizations often claim to operate for the greater good, many have amassed staggering wealth without contributing their fair share to society. This is not just an issue of equity; it’s a matter of accountability.

Billion-dollar nonprofits enjoy tax-exempt status, allowing them to retain vast sums of money that could otherwise support public services and community programs. Imagine the impact if these funds were redirected toward education, healthcare, and infrastructure! By advocating for fair taxation on large nonprofits, we can ensure that they contribute meaningfully to the communities they serve.

We must unite in our call for reform. It’s time to hold these organizations accountable and demand transparency in their financial practices. Fair taxation isn’t just a fiscal policy; it’s a moral imperative that can lead us toward a more equitable society. Join the movement today and make your voice heard—demand fair taxation for billion-dollar nonprofits!

December 26, 2024December 26, 2024

Gretehen Needs to be Impeached!

Mismanagement Of The Covid-19 Pandemic
Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s tenure during the COVID-19 pandemic has drawn substantial criticism, with many believing her actions to have been detrimental to the citizens of Michigan. Chief among the grievances is her implementation of stringent lockdown measures, which were seen by many as draconian and economically devastating. Small businesses across the state faced insurmountable challenges due to these extended restrictions, leading to closures and financial ruin for countless Michiganders.	“Whereas, In responding to the COVID-19 Pandemic, Gretchen E. Whitmer has acted in conflict with her constitutional duties as Governor.” [0] “The tourism economy, in particular, was shown to have been directly and heavily hit by the implementation of the lockdown measures.” [1] “This will ensure continued operations for many small businesses that would otherwise have to shut down due to decreased revenues and the state lockdown.” [2]
The shutdown of in-person schooling for a prolonged period also raised serious concerns about the developmental and educational setbacks faced by children, with little consideration given to alternative or flexible solutions.
Furthermore, the governor’s controversial decisions regarding nursing homes ignited a firestorm of outrage. By mandating that COVID-19 positive patients be housed in these facilities, critics argue that she placed the most vulnerable at an unnecessarily high risk of exposure to the virus, resulting in increased mortality rates within these communities. Moreover, her unilateral approach to decision-making during the pandemic often sidelined the legislative branch, causing frustration and further polarizing the state’s political landscape.	“Whitmer became engulfed in the flames of scandal after the governor issued a similar executive order to Cuomos nursing home order.” [3] “Whitmer put our mom and grandma at risk along with other vulnerable seniors by placing COVID-19 patients into long-term care facilities alongside uninfected residents.” [4] “She is heralded by some political observers for navigating both a divided state government and a pandemic in her first term, while still making progress on many priorities.” [5]
The lack of transparency and communication throughout the crisis bred distrust among citizens, leading to protests and widespread disillusionment with her leadership. These issues, among others, form the basis of calls for impeachment by those who feel her management has been profoundly flawed.
Controversial Executive Orders
Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s tenure has sparked significant debate, particularly over some of her executive orders during the COVID-19 pandemic. Critics argue that her approach was often heavy-handed and at times overstepped constitutional boundaries. One of the most controversial aspects was her issuance of stay-at-home orders, which, while aimed at curtailing the spread of the virus, were seen by some as excessively restrictive.	“In the case of Michigans governor, Gretchen Whitmer was barred from making any executive orders pertaining to the pandemic.” [6] “Gretchen Whitmer signed one of the most restrictive stay-at-home orders in the country late last week in hopes of containing the coronavirus outbreak in her state — one of the hardest hit.” [7]
Business owners in Michigan faced significant challenges as many were forced to close their doors, leading to financial distress and unemployment for thousands. The order banning travel between residences also drew ire, as it was seen as an overreach into personal freedoms.	“Michigans lockdown has closed businesses statewide and led more than 1 million people — a quarter of the states workforce — to file for unemployment.” [8] “She also drew ire from libertarian and small-government groups for what they saw as overly heavy-handed stay-at-home orders and mask mandates.” [9]
Another contentious decision was the classification of essential and non-essential businesses, which critics argued lacked consistency and transparency. Small business owners, in particular, felt marginalized, watching essential larger corporations remain open while they were forced to shutter. Additionally, there were grievances about nursing home policies, where COVID-positive patients were placed back in facilities, allegedly leading to increased fatalities among the vulnerable populations there.	“As neighboring states relaxed restrictions on non-essential businesses, she classified even more businesses as non-essential.” [10] “Under her administrations policies, hospitals released many elderly, recovering COVID-19 patients back to their long-term care facilities or to nursing homes designated to accommodate them and keep them isolated.” [11]
Detractors highlight these measures as prime examples of executive overreach, believing they caused unnecessary harm to Michigan’s economy and citizen’s rights. They argue such actions justify calls for her impeachment as they reflect a disconnect from the needs and rights of Michigan’s residents.
Economic Impact Of Lockdowns
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Governor Gretchen Whitmer implemented some of the country’s most stringent lockdown measures in Michigan. While intended to curb the spread of the virus and protect public health, these measures had significant economic repercussions that sparked considerable debate over their necessity and execution. Businesses across various sectors, particularly small and family-owned establishments, bore the brunt of these restrictions.	“Gretchen Whitmer made a national name for herself in the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic by issuing some of the strictest lockdown policies in the country.” [12] “There is a huge public debate whether the economic costs of actions designed to arrest the spread of COVID-19 are worth the potential health benefits achieved.” [13] “This is particularly noteworthy considering the overwhelming predominance of small, thinly-capitalized and narrowly financed firms within these sectors.” [14]
Many were forced to shut their doors permanently due to an inability to endure prolonged periods of inactivity and income loss. This led to a marked rise in unemployment rates as countless employees from affected businesses found themselves without work.	“Many have already shut their doors for good, unable to make it through the Governors orders.” [15]
The automotive industry, a cornerstone of Michigan’s economy, also faced challenges. Supply chains were disrupted, and manufacturing slowed, impacting both large-scale operations and smaller suppliers reliant on consistent production schedules. The mandated closures of non-essential businesses extended beyond immediate financial losses, affecting long-term economic growth prospects. Michigan’s tourism sector, an important revenue stream, was likewise decimated by travel restrictions and public gathering bans.	“Rebuilding complex supply chains in manufacturing, however, is much more difficult, with bigger implications for the creation of downstream jobs.” [16]
Critics argue that the economic strain placed on the state’s citizens and businesses was exacerbated by a lack of tailored approaches that considered localized data and the varying needs across different regions. These economic disruptions underscored growing discontent with Governor Whitmer’s handling of the crisis, fueling calls for reconsideration of her leadership and potential impeachment.	“Needless to say the United States as a whole suffered economically from the lockdown measures; the degree of economic loss, however, varied widely between regions and their constituent states.” [14] “And Democratic governors, like Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan, who maintained lockdown orders and criticized the Trump administrations response to the crisis, became targets of his ire.” [17]
Issues In Nursing Home Policies
During Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s tenure, her handling of nursing home policies has been the subject of extensive criticism and controversy. One of the most contentious issues has been her administration’s approach to managing COVID-19 in these vulnerable facilities. At the onset of the pandemic, Governor Whitmer’s policies allowed the placement of COVID-19 positive patients back into nursing homes, facilities already struggling with insufficient staffing and inadequate protective measures.	“Gretchen Whitmer has faced criticism over a nursing home policy that her administration put in place in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic.” [18] “Whereas, The Governors policies placed COVID-19 patients into nursing homes despite a lack of proper equipment, staffing levels, and protocols to protect residents.” [19]
Critics argue that this decision greatly exacerbated the spread of the virus among one of the most vulnerable populations, leading to preventable outbreaks and numerous deaths among residents.	“Whitmer claims to want to slow the spread of the virus to protect Michigan residents, yet sees no fault whatsoever in putting some of our most vulnerable residents at great risk every day.” [4]
Adding to the controversy, many claim there was a lack of transparency and inadequate reporting regarding the number of COVID-19 cases and related deaths in nursing homes. Critics argue that this lack of accountability hindered efforts to assess the true impact of the virus on this critical sector. Moreover, the state’s inadequate support for nursing home staff, many of whom were working under extraordinary stress without necessary protective equipment, further intensified criticism of the governor’s policies.	“At issue is how many nursing deaths occurred in Michigan and whether Whitmers COVID-19 policies exacerbated nursing home deaths by housing infected patients with those most vulnerable to die from COVID-19.” [20]
These factors combined have led some to advocate for Governor Whitmer’s impeachment, arguing that her decisions regarding nursing home policies reflect mismanagement and negligence. Critics assert that such decisions signify a profound failure to protect Michigan’s most vulnerable citizens during a public health crisis.	“Michigan undisputedly faces a youth vaping crisis, and each day that passes, this crisis is causing immediate and lasting harm to the public health of this state.” [21]
Allegations Of Government Overreach
Governor Gretchen Whitmer has faced numerous allegations of government overreach, which critics argue have significantly impacted the citizens of Michigan. A central point of contention has been her use of executive powers during the COVID-19 pandemic. Many Michiganders felt that the extended lockdown measures were excessive and imposed undue hardships on individuals and businesses alike. The closure of schools, bars, restaurants, and other non-essential businesses was seen by some as a blanket approach that did not adequately consider regional differences in infection rates and economic conditions.	“This means the consequences of Governor Gretchen Whitmers policies are still taking a drastic toll on the pocketbooks of Michigan workers.” [22]
This approach led to economic strain, with small businesses, in particular, suffering dire consequences, including permanent closures and significant loss of income.
Moreover, her unilateral decisions on which sectors could remain operational and which could not were perceived as arbitrary, exacerbating the public’s frustration and resentment. Critics argue that these decisions lacked transparency and input from the legislative body, undermining democratic processes and checks and balances that are fundamental to governance in a representative democracy.	“The rise of delegative democracy in Latin America exposed a flaw at the heart of American-style democracy: how the separation of executive and legislative power can grind government to a halt, opening the door to unpredictable and even outright undemocratic behavior.” [23]
Furthermore, Whitmer’s policies on mandatory mask-wearing and social distancing, enforced through steep fines and penalties, were labeled by detractors as infringements on personal freedoms. These measures fueled public protests and legal battles, intensifying the debate on the balance of power and the role of government during public health emergencies.	“Over the course of the pandemic, Whitmer sparked a great deal of debate over how much power a states executive branch should have in addressing a public health crisis.” [24]
Public Dissatisfaction And Calls For Accountability
Public dissatisfaction with Governor Gretchen Whitmer has been a significant point of discussion among certain segments of Michigan’s population, particularly those who feel that her policies have negatively impacted their lives. One of the primary sources of frustration stemmed from her handling of the COVID-19 pandemic. Critics argue that the stringent lockdown measures, while intended to curb the virus’s spread, had detrimental effects on the state’s economy, small businesses, and individual freedoms.	“In responding to the COVID-19 Pandemic, Gretchen E. Whitmer, Governor of the state of Michigan, has taken a number of extreme actions that have not been necessary for the protection of public and have had significant adverse effects on the people of Michigan.” [0] “Whitmer faced bipartisan criticism during the onset of the pandemic over her lockdown orders, which shuttered many small businesses but allowed big-box corporations to remain open.” [25]
Many Michiganders felt the prolonged restrictions were excessive, leading to financial hardships and impacting mental health and personal liberties.
Furthermore, Whitmer’s administration faced backlash over allegations of lack of transparency and accountability in governmental decisions. Concerns were raised about the allocation of resources and the enforcement of regulations, which some believed were inconsistently applied or politically motivated. Issues surrounding road infrastructure and the state’s education system also contributed to public discontent, as promises for improvement in these areas remained unfulfilled in the eyes of many constituents.	“As nursing home deaths began to spike last spring, Whitmer faced heavy criticism over her orders and her administrations lack of transparency about the impact on nursing home patients.” [11]
These grievances have fueled calls for accountability through potential impeachment proceedings. Proponents argue that holding Whitmer accountable is necessary to restore fairness and trust in leadership. However, it is essential to acknowledge the polarized political atmosphere that often amplifies discontent, as well as the strong support she still maintains among others who believe her actions were justified or necessary given the unprecedented challenges.

November 23, 2024November 23, 2024

A ticTok Violation #5

November 21, 2024November 21, 2024

Understanding the Science behind Herbs:

Nettle Leaf: Study of Asthma and Anti-Inflammatory

Phenolic Acids and Polyphenolic Compounds:

p-Hydroxybenzoic acid
Protocatechuic acid (3,4-Dihydroxybenzoic acid)
Vanillic acid
Caffeic acid
Ferulic acid
5-O-Caffeoylquinic acid

These compounds are widely distributed in various foods and exhibit antimicrobial, antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, anti-carcinogenic, anti-diabetic, and cardio, neuro, and nephron-protective properties.

Flavonoids:

Kaempferol
Rutin

These flavonoids are also present in stinging nettle and have been shown to exhibit antioxidant and anti-inflammatory activities.

Fatty Acids:

C18:3 (linolenic acid)
C16:0 (palmitic acid)
C18:2 (linoleic acid)

These fatty acids are present in stinging nettle leaves and have been identified as important components of the plant’s chemical profile.

Carotenoids:

Chlorophylls
Carotenoids (e.g., beta-carotene)

These pigments are responsible for the plant’s green color and have antioxidant properties.

Terpenes:

Linalool (dominant compound)

Linalool is a terpene present in the essential oil of stinging nettle and has been shown to exhibit antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory activities.

Other Compounds:

Nitrogenous compounds (e.g., amino acids, peptides)
Organic acids (e.g., tartaric acid, oxalic acid)

These compounds are also present in stinging nettle and contribute to its chemical profile and biological activity.