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One evening in early April I was waiting for my ten-year-old twin granddaughters to finish their indoor soccer practice when a girl their age approached me and said, “Your coat looks really nice.” It was a wet, chilly evening, and I was wearing a London Fog given me thirty years ago by an elderly widow
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For the last three years I’ve made my way as a freelance writer. I work seven to eight hours every day, seven days a week, and earn enough to remain solvent. I love what I do. Last week, I once again paid my income taxes. My children are all grown, I own no property, and
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Every time there is a mass murder event, the vultures launch. It’s fascinating in a sickening way. A bunch of people get killed, and within minutes the same crew of anti-gun zealots shows up all over the news and social media, pushing the same tired proposals that we’ve either tried before or logic tells us
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Can you kill truth? Probably not, but a lot of people are doing their best to dig its grave. A man I know teaches in a prestigious private school in Northern Virginia that prides itself on its progressive agenda. Students and faculty attend workshops on such subjects as critical race theory, and teachers must be
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