It was one of those wee-hours brainstorms I'm prone to. A week before Christmas in 2020, I awoke from a sound sleep with the closing words of the Declaration of Independence ringing in my head:
"And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."
I couldn't explain it. I couldn't shake it. All I knew was that I had to do something with the last eight words -- "our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."
I slipped out of bed, went into my office, shook my computer awake and began sketching out an idea. Lives. Fortunes. Sacred honor. How many brave Patriots committed high treason by making that pledge?
Fifty-six.
My early morning idea became a graphic design, and that design became a small bumper sticker. I had some made up and handed them out to friends. Today they appear throughout the land on cars and trucks and RVs, on bar coolers and laptop computers, adorning everything from rifle cases to guitar cases.
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I gave them away to like-minded people during the motorhome odyssey, too. One woman commented that it was akin to "the sign of the fish" for latter-day Patriots.
Naturally, I affixed one to each of my own vehicles. The Ranger's is still holding up fine, but I noticed recently that the sticker stuck to the SilverSilverado's rear bumper was badly faded after four years' service.
I remedied that yesterday morning. Not a moment too soon.
I go back and re-read the Declaration of Independence often. On Independence Day, it's something of a sacrament for me -- I step away from distractions, find a quiet place and read it out loud. I'll do that again today.
You should, too. (I'll even make it easy for you -- click HERE.) When you finish, shoulder the full weight of the words you just spoke. Feel the enormity of the jeopardy. Embrace the purity of the Founders' promise.
How does that not move you? How can you not be reduced to tears of gratitude?
The final word you uttered was "honor." Notice that the 56 men who risked everything considered it "sacred."
They believed that treason was duty.
Now, today, 250 years since they committed words to parchment and their whole selves to Liberty, how well have we acquitted ourselves? What have we done with our Lives and our Fortunes?
And our Honor? Is it sacred to us, as it was to them?
How we answer those questions will determine whether the United States of America will still celebrate Independence Day 250 years from now -- or even 25 years from now.
It's up to us.
* * *
I'd like to revisit briefly our trip to town Thursday for Flyover Arkansas. The public picnic area where we settled, situated next to Blacksheep BBQ and behind the Marion County Heritage Society, not only was ideal for watching the Blackhawks, it also offered a unique perspective on my adopted hometown.
Yellville is considered a "mountain town" by many locals. The weekly paper is the Mountain Echo. It doesn't always feel that way, though, especially to those of us who've experienced villages tucked among prominent peaks in Appalachia and the Rockies.
But the image below, from our perch northwest of town center, strengthens the case that this is, indeed, an Ozarkansas "mountain town."
Yellville nestles in a valley next to Crooked Creek and Shawnee Town Branch. The courthouse square sits 125 vertical feet lower than where that picture was taken.
The tallest ridge visible in the distance is, quite literally, my back yard -- Hall Mountain, between four and five miles away. Its summit elevation is almost 600 feet higher than the picnic area.
I absolutely love this vantage point.
I do want to highlight one other feature in that photograph. Maybe you saw it, close to the center of the image.
That American flag flies next to my bank, which is located just east of the junction of Arkansas 14 and US 62. It's well over a half-mile from where I took this snapshot.
Big flag? You could say that. It measures 30 feet by 50 feet and flies from a pole 90 feet tall.
'Merica.
* * *
I intend to live a long life -- as Ray Scott would say, I'm "nowhere near done." But if an accident should fell me before my time, there's a chance that it'll be caused by this (pictured):
That eastern cottontail (Sylvilagus floridanus) lives in the tall stuff directly across the driveway from the front door of the cabin. It's unrelated to the "Rabbit of Caerbannog" of Monty Python fame (as far as I know), but it seems to take perverse pleasure in darting past Smudge and me the moment we step outside.
The Heeler roars and gives chase -- or she tries to, anyway, lunging at the end of her leash. I know what's coming before we leave the cabin, so I ready and steady myself beforehand.
But someday I'll forget. Early some morning, I'll be too groggy to hold her back, and she'll pull me down. And that'll be that.
(Unless the baby gate gets me first.)
* * *
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
