Monday, June 30, 2008

From here at stately Goon Manor...

I look out and see redwing blackbirds trying to alight upon tractor-anticipating stalks of hay in the nearby field. Smaller chickadees stay balanced on those tall grasses while the blackbirds dart between rose-covered posts at the end of rows of vines of chardonnay and riesling grapes. Swallows soar defiantly through barely-cracked barn doors, swerve down along the dirt road to the grove of lush greens that have grown accustomed to the marshy ground. Every so often, a big tom turkey and his raffle will wander aimlessly around, unless the vineyard workers are about. Then, the dozen or so would-be Thanksgiving centerpieces just wander further down past the old farms' stone walls -- the proud unofficial symbols of Dartmouth -- past deer and streams and through the huge oaks and cedars to the saltmarsh.
The land I'm talking about is protected, saved for agriculture, conserved for the future. So you can see why I get antsy about jackpumps on ANWR. We're next under the 'dozer, if certain developers have their way.
But does the fact that I live here -- and like it here -- make me "elitist?"
I once said that I didn't believe that anyone should have two houses until everybody has one.
That's, er ... silly, of course.
Many of my neighbors would have no idea why I would say something like that, especially since most of my neighbors have at least a place to crash when they're in Boston as well as a Winter place on some island I won't learn how to pronounce.
I'll accept my elitist cred, earned because I pronounce most of my 't's and 'r's, and use "its" to designate the third person possessive. Rare, indeed. Elitist?
I enjoy being among the elite who meet here occasionally.
I just don't want this "Jed" character to follow me around GoogleEarth. Like he did for John McCain:

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