Strangers In A Strange Land. Three Texans Visit New England. Shenanigans Ensue.

When I was a kid growing up in rural Oklahoma, we could get three channels well enough. CBS, ABC, and PBS came in pretty good. But we were on the other side of the mountain from Tulsa, and we could only get NBC when the weather was just right and the planets were aligned, and we could get the antenna lined up exactly right. That was back when Letterman was the king of late night. A highlight of my 15-year old self was a night when I could stay up late AND the atmospheric conditions were just right for the NBC signal to come in clearly. I really loved Letterman. Hilarious. Stupid Human Tricks were the best. And some of his crazy skits he did! Loved his show.

In my four years in high school, I think there were maybe 1 or 2 kids from my area that were able to go see him, on their family vacations. We were solidly middle-class, as far as living in rural Oklahoma goes. I guess my dad “could have” taken us to NYC for a family vacation, but New York City wasn’t my dad’s idea of vacation. I had always hoped that I would be able to go see him “someday.” And then Letterman moved to CBS. And  I went to college, and graduated college, and got married, and moved, and had kids, and life went on for both Letterman and I. He retired from his show, and I never took the time to go see him but I sure wished I had done so.

I acknowledge that on Life’s Scale of Regrets, “not seeing David Letterman live” is small potatoes. Like maybe a #2 on a #10 scale. It’s a first-world problem. Still, that story has become part of the template with which I filter my life. It’s like seeing Willie Nelson. I’ve never seen Willie live. He plays everywhere here in Texas, but probably for not much longer. So I have to ask myself, “Is seeing Willie really that important to me?” I guess the answer is no.

So it was that I read Hardscrabble Farmer’s most recent writing essay. I knew he had been hosting an annual Fourth of July event at his farm for many years now. I had always hoped I could go, had wanted to go, had thought about going, but family obligations and kids and other plans and life, all just kind of happened. In his recent post, he said this was it. This was the last year the gates to the farm would be open.

And with that, I told my wife those words she loves to hear…. “Honey, make plans for a trip.” There is nothing she loves more than to get online, research a new destination, and make plans. Now, my favorite type of vacation is the type of vacation where you go to a singular location and chill for a week. And she gave me that. Once. Beyond that one time in New Mexico, our trips are on the go. “Ok, first, we’re gonna go here. And we’ll stay one night here, and then we’re gonna load up and go here. And then we’re going to see this thing, and eat at this cool restaurant I found, and then go here and see this other thing.” And over the years, I’ve found that if I suit up and show up, and try to keep a Positive Mental Attitude, our vacations usually turn out pretty good. She’s planned out some really memorable trips over the years, and she always includes something from everyone’s area(s) of interest.

I told her that I wanted to be at Hardscrabble’s Farm on the 4^th, and I wanted to stay in a “quintessential New England style Inn” but beyond that, the trip was hers to plan. And Woo Boy, did she plan a doozy! Because we’ve driven the length and breadth of Texas for the last 25 years, she took it as a personal challenge to try and check as many states off the list as possible. We flew into Providence, Rhode Island, and had lunch before driving on to Boston to stay our first night.

BOSTON:

Having grown up in small-town Oklahoma, I’m always excited to go to any big city. I’m excited by the buildings, and the constant construction, and the people, and the energy. And I’m always excited to leave. Boston was no exception. I thought it would be cool to stay in Boston on July 4, what with the Freedom Trail, and all. Over dinner that first night, I explained to my 15-year old daughter what the Declaration of Independence is, why it was written, why we celebrate July 4, and what that means, in terms of human freedom.

Some years ago, our church held the annual July 4 celebration. Maybe it was a good intention. Maybe I’m being too harsh. But what that day really was, was an over the top and grotesque display of military worship that had nothing to do with godliness. The event made me see the church in a whole new way, and likely caused permanent and terminal damage to my relationship with that body. There were about a million different spiritual directions they could have gone with celebrating July 4, related to declaring your independence, but they chose military worship.

We’re eating dinner right there at the corner of Cross and Hanover, thousands of people milling about, sirens blaring, fire trucks, cops, bikers, the whole world was spinning around us, and I’m trying to explain these concepts to my 15 year old.  The purpose of the declaration is NOT modern-day military worship, but instead, it’s purpose is explained, right there in the preamble:

“When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.”

As I was explaining this concept of declaring your freedom, and the necessary step of listing out the reasons, I thought about the obvious implications for today’s world we live in. I thought about and explained to her how those men were prepared to sacrifice everything for the freedom they believed in. Everything. “WE MUST HANG TOGETHER OR SURELY WE SHALL HANG SEPARATELY.” Those words hit me hard. They made me wonder what my enumerated list would look like. Am I able to articulate why I would separate myself from the political bands which have connected me to the Fed dot gov? Do I have the mettle to be willing to sacrifice everything for the cause of liberty and freedom for myself and my peers? Tough questions for all of us, maybe. For me, certainly.

Dinner led to a walk down to Paul Revere’s house after dark, and more ongoing discussions about liberty and freedom. I had had a few drinks during dinner, and I was more than willing to expound, loudly if needed, about my views. I have to tread really lightly with my 15 year old. She’s at that age. She’s a super sweet and loving child, with a kind heart that cares for others. But her mind is full of mush and claptrap, and she’s fallen right in line with the leftist globohomo woke vision. She identifies as this and that and the other thing. Pisses me off like you wouldn’t believe. But I can’t let her know it pisses me off. Momma says that with a few poorly-placed words, I can take years off of our relationship and cause harm that has the potential for permanent damage. So when I talk to her about these issues, I tread lightly and really try and approach the whole thing from a perspective of human freedom for all, and harm none. It’s hard to argue with harm to none, even for an argumentative teenage girl.

As we made a few stops here and there around the city, I was amazed at the amount of virtue signaling of The Current Thing I saw. Black Lives Matter? To who? To white enclaves in Boston and Northampton? Because Black Lives don’t seem to matter to the Black Lives in Chicago. Why are you flying the Ukrainian Flag again? Why are we supporting the rock star Zelensky and why is Putler the evil dictator again? Can anyone explain any of this to me? Love Conquers Ale? I get it’s a clever bit of wordplay for marketing, but why can’t we just go back to #colebeer? Why do I have to drink beer with hibiscus flower in it? /rantoff/ [No one “made” me drink the Love Conquers Ale. I poured it down my own throat. It was actually pretty good. No homo.]

We strolled around the downtown/Freedom Trail area. We didn’t have time for the complete walking tour, so we just walked to some of the buildings and sites convenient to downtown. The context of the overall picture was hard to digest with just a few random locations. Perhaps we’ll take another trip there in the future, and go into further depth of The Freedom Trail.

We passed a woman dressed in period clothing trying to explain something of Freedom to a crowd of onlookers. The irony was so thick, I wondered if I was the only one seeing it. A crowd of dozens was gathered up in that particular circle, and again numbering in the thousands if the circle were extrapolated to a slightly larger outlay, all of them talking about Freedom, and not one of them has any inkling of what Freedom means, and why they themselves are in bondage. I grew sick of it all. We ate our brunch at the Union Oyster House and the food was good, if overpriced, but what the hell. We drank some Sam Adams on tap. I like the cherry wheat quite well, but it was time to get on the road.

Hardcrabble Farmer and Hopewell Farms

Here’s a little fun fact about the Flood family. If you invite us over, it’s at least a little bit likely that we’re going to be fashionably late. (Read: Inevitable) It must come from all of our years that we lived in El Paso, TX. When you get invited to a Mexican party, the invite might say the party starts at 6:00 PM, and you show up at 6:00 PM, but then the party doesn’t even come close to starting until 8:00. You have to adapt. Over the years, I’ve learned to not fuss about it, and momma interprets my not fussing as tacit approval, and the cycle continues. It is what it is.

This trip was no exception – I had called Marc that morning and confirmed the address, and confirmed a rough time of arrival of “noon, or maybe just a little later.”  Getting out of Boston was a comedy of errors that included everything from us farting around in town, to car problems, to a couple of giant U-turns, to the point we went from fashionably late, to Marc calling, “Uh…..Tim……..Is everything ok? You guys still coming?” lol, yes, we’re on the way. Google Maps says we’re an hour away, so give us an hour and a half before you send the search party.

We pulled up at the farm, and it looked like the party was pretty subdued, even though we were pretty late. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Some of the people there who were multi-year attendees said this year’s event wasn’t as heavily attended as previous years. There was a pretty decent crowd of people under the shade tree, and a decent smattering of people milling about. We made some quick introductions to the friendliest faces under the shade tree, who showed us to the drink station. I didn’t remember that Marc was particularly religious, but I wanted to err on the side of caution, and we didn’t bring anything to drink. Fortunately, the small outbuilding contained three kegs of local cold beer, and plenty of wine. I was beginning to feel right at home. Gunshots rang out from across the property, and I knew I was at the right place.

Now, because we arrived so much later than intended, and because I wasn’t getting a good read on the crowd, I wasn’t sure what the situation was with food and lunch. I wasn’t sure if the food had been served, was about to be served, would be served later that night, or exactly what. Marc said there wasn’t really a plan, and we could eat now, or eat later, or eat now and later – and would I like to try some brisket? Well, heck, yeah! So Marc dropped everything he was doing at that moment, and proceeded to feed the three Texans, including the 15-year old, who’s a vegetarian. There was brisket, New England style, there were street tacos, there was birria, (A Mexican brisket dish), there were vegetables, there was fermented kimchi. We ate and talked, standing up in the kitchen of his barn, for a good 30 minutes.

Now, here’s the thing about Hardscrabble Farmer (Does anybody remember when “Billah’s Wife” called him ‘Hardscrambled’? God dang, I thought that was hilarious!) I know everyone on TBP likes his writing. He’s unusually gifted at being able to utilize imagery from the farm to draw out complex ideas and distill them down to easily accessible bites. I will tell anyone who will listen about physiognomy, and nearly everyone understands it, if you use cattle farming as your central theme to illustrate the point. I’ve really relished Marc’s writing over the years. My wife and I are a good bit like city mouse/country mouse, so I’ve been living vicariously through Marc’s stories. And when my wife and I discuss it, I say, “I don’t know if I can make country living work. But I know of one guy who did make it work.”

I’ve been buying syrup from him for so long, I don’t even need the syrup anymore. I’ve fermented it, stored it, kept it in the freezer, and I still have syrup left. But I continue to support Hopewell Farms because of what the farm, and the writings, mean to me.

In that way, meeting Marc was a dream come true, like finally making the trip to see David Letterman. I’ve read about the farm for so long, I feel like I know it. I saw the tree stump where he fell and busted his leg up. That was the only year in recent history that I didn’t buy any syrup from the farm – There was none to be bought. I saw the barn that burnt, and has been rebuilt. I saw the sugaring room, and the records written on the wall over the last 100 years. I saw the pigs that become prosciutto and I saw the cattle that become the brisket. We collected the eggs from the hen house, and I saw the dogs that watch over the whole place. It was like being able to complete a vision of what I’ve been reading about for so long.

But on the other hand, Marc was just a guy. He was like a buddy I’ve always known. A bro. He was a great host, engaging with plenty of funny stories. He invited me over to the Circle of Men, sampling their homemade bourbon. Obviously, there’s something to living intentionally in the way Marc does. There’s something that comes across in real life that’s hard to describe in words, unless you can grok to the idea of physiognomy. Both Marc and his wife are obviously very happy and healthy, and it shines through in a way that you have to see to believe.

For what this is worth, and my opinion is worth exactly what you paid for it, everything Marc has written since 2008-ish has been verified and passes Tim-Bo’s truthiness meter, which means a lot in the world today. If you wanted to try and gauge an accurate picture of where we are economically, socially, culturally or religiously, you could do a lot worse than to read Essays by Hardscrabble Farmer.

And that’s to say nothing of the people I met that day. Early on in the afternoon, I asked Marc what was a rough approximation of the ratio of TBP’ers to other friends and family. He thought for a few seconds, and said, “probably 50/50.” That in and of itself became a cool way to meet people – “Hey, I’m Tim Flood, from Fort Worth, Texas, and I’m here because I read The Burning Platform. How are you connected to Marc?”  And sure enough, about 50% knew of TBP, and the other half didn’t. But everyone there, whether from TBP or another circle, all seemed to be oriented in the direction of human liberty and freedom. From the young man who came with a baby on his hip, and his firearm on his belt, to the young man who was a conservative living in New York City and was on the verge of pulling the plug on city living, all of us there were ultimately bonded by more than just Marc. Hopewell Farms is just the vehicle that serves us a vision of human liberty and freedom.

It was super cool – Many of the people were the names and handles I’ve recognized for years, and have read their comments over and over and over again. To finally be able to overlay the template of the comments I’ve read so many times, onto an actual flesh and blood human being, was really a powerful experience. Because the instant I met the individual, I already knew what that person stands for, and who that person is, at least in terms of human freedom and sovereignty.

I’ve taken so many red pills over the years, that I can no longer take any red pills. There’s literally no end to The Rabbit Hole and how deep it goes. Who killed JFK? I dunno. But I do know the official story isn’t the truth. Did we go to the moon? Maybe. Maybe not. But the official story isn’t the truth. Who did 9-11? Don’t know about that, but the official story isn’t the truth. (The passport found in the rubble? Really?)

The red pills have lost their effectiveness, or maybe they’ve become too bitter. There’s no point in trying to explain anything to normies. They don’t want to know, or they would have already looked it up. There are none so blind as those who will not see.

I mean, I must be crazy: I’ve reached the conclusion that our world really is a Prison Planet, ruled by an ancient religion that rules and oppresses humanity through a system of organized pedophilia, and systematic blackmail. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and conversely, I’m the only one who can end it. And as far as I can tell, this system of oppression runs straight up a cosmic ladder to a force higher than anyone can conceive, the very force of consciousness itself. What can you do with that?

I can’t tell that to my brother-in-law, at least not in a way that’s serious. Holy fuck, my family already thinks I’m kooky – They would think I’m crazier than they already do! To that end, I keep my head down and don’t say much. I don’t comment much on TBP anymore, because there’s nothing more to say. I appreciate Jim Quinn’s effort to keep TBP alive and running. He must feel like Sisyphus, continually pushing the rock up the hill to keep TBP alive. I appreciate all of you who are willing to continue to engage in the discussion. I’ve got a business I’m trying to build and grow, and I’ve got to work a job to keep the mortgage paid and food on the table between real estate deals. I scan headlines to try and read the tea leaves in a way that makes sense for me and my family. Most days I feel utterly alone. Ultimately, no one has responsibility for my life but me. There’s a part of autonomy that’s lonely.

And so to meet with a crowd of people who knows my journey, because my journey has common elements to their journey, and vice versa, we at least have a common foundation with which we view life. We talked about all kinds of things that day.

• “Who do you listen to?”
• “Oh, man I LOVE Mark Passio!” I didn’t know anybody listened to him but me. None of my friends will commit to listening to him.
• “What? You live near Jack Spirko and go out to his place? Wow! Tell me more!”

And so forth and so on. I didn’t hear anyone lionize Trump, nor demonize Biden. I didn’t hear anyone celebrate the US Military and being thankful for “muh freedoms’ by the fact that the USA is dropping bombs in remote corners of the world. Hanging out with people like this, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch anywhere else.

The one thing I noticed was nearly universal, 100% loss in faith of all of our systems and institutions. Not one of us present that day believes in the social contract anymore. I’d say we were fairly representative of white, middle-class America. We were just a somewhat randomized sampling of people, even if a biased sampling. Point being, all of our systems today run on faith. They work because we believe they work. Churches, schools, the monetary system, medical & health systems all work because the people behind them believe in them. What happens if you stretch out the idea that all of our systems in America today are thoroughly corrupt from top to bottom and they deserve to fail? What happens if it’s not just a small sampling of people on a random farm in a random location? What happens if more and more people begin to see what a small few see?

To some of you I mentioned that I’m a big fan of Jack Spirko’s “The Survival Podcast” and that he lives not far from me in Fort Worth. When Jack has an event, I always try and attend, because, again, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch anywhere else. I’ve met people from all over the country and world who have all come to the same conclusions. At some point, critical mass will be reached. All of our institutions will be revealed for what they are.

And the day drew on, and the bourbon was poured, and the kegs got lighter and the floaters taken out of service, the party began to take on a more festive feel. There was a fire built in the fire pit – My wife and teenager left in the rental car, and said I could catch a ride back to the Inn, which was just around the corner and owned by Marc’s friend, Stan. Stan was sticking around for a bit. He said he could give me a ride when he left.

Now, I promise you, at this point in the evening, I’m in my prime element. I’ve gotten a pretty decent buzz from the day, there’s a blazing campfire, and the party is just about to start rolling, and rolling good. The beer is still cold, and there’s still plenty left. And where’s that jug of whiskey, by god? Maybe it’s for the best that Stan said he was ready to leave shortly thereafter. Sometimes, discretion is the better part of valor. There’s nothing I love so much as a good beer-drinking session around a campfire. I can’t make it to sunrise anymore, but I still try like hell and would have definitely given it my best shot. I don’t know how late you guys stayed up, or how much of the beer you drank. lol

The next morning, I woke up feeling not great, but not terrible. A little coffee, a hot shower, and my morning constitutional, and I was as right as rain. We went back out to the farm to say our goodbyes, where Marc and family wished us well on our way.

The Rosewood Country Inn

Earlier in the piece, I mentioned that I told my wife I wanted to stay at a “quintessential New England Country Inn” while there. She asked me what that meant. I said, “I don’t know, but I feel like I should expect to see Bob Newhart come around the corner at any moment.”

As a young boy, my Aunt Sis held duty as Mom #2. She was always doing those puzzles from the 70’s, and I remember vistas of church steeples nestled in mountain valleys, and the gold and orange leaves in all the trees surrounding the small towns. I remember pictures of water mills on streams, and snow covered peaks. I wanted to stay in all of them. And The Rosewood Country Inn delivered, in spades. The owner, Stan, is a buddy of Marc’s, as their sons are childhood friends. Sunnie and I had a scheduling SNAFU and Stan was able to book us a REALLY nice room, The Harry Potter suite, at the very last minute. The place is exactly what I was looking for, and would totally recommend to anyone going to stay in the area. And as an interesting side note, Stan is originally from Dallas/Fort Worth, and retired up here, so that was a cool connection.

A Few Concluding Thoughts

I’m not going to bore you with the play-by-play of the rest of our trip. As I mentioned early on, my wife loves to plan this kind of stuff. She started calling this trip, “What can you do in 72?” and she packed it full. I really liked Portland, Maine, and I loved eating lobster and drinking beer beachfront. I loved the weather. I don’t think we saw a day over 80 and one day was cool and rainy. We NEVER experience that in Texas in the summer. The scenery was beautiful. I really loved the old architecture of Boston. The mountains and trees were beautiful, and the ocean views were stunning. We even found a small boardwalk and beach town in Maine. I had no idea!

I was a little apprehensive about meeting local people. I guess I should say I had preconceived notions about what a New Englander would be like, in contrast with Texans’ desire to say “Howdy” to everyone they meet in passing. I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised. We got about the same level of service we receive anywhere we go – Some of the teenage girls behind restaurant counters were disinterested in us as customers, but you can find that anywhere you go. In general, the locals were super friendly. Hell, one random guy at a gas station in Portland saw me with the tourist map in my hand, and gave me the whole rundown of things to do in the city, while we were both filling up! The food was great. I ate lobster and seafood as much as I could. I’m gonna stick with Texas brisket as the best in the world, though. 🙂

As far as any kind of concluding thoughts about the economy, the gub’mint, ‘Merica, who to vote for, or anything along these lines, I do not have them. Shit is fucked up and bullshit. What is going to happen is going to happen, regardless of anyone’s attempts otherwise. So anytime you see an article where the premise is “should” as in “Here’s what should happen to avoid this negative outcome…..,” disregard the article in its’ entirety. Because it ain’t gonna happen that way. Faith in public institutions is gone. The social contract is broken, and will not be restored. The Rule of Law is gone. We have a man who is obviously not competent to lead sing-along night at the old folks home occupying the office of the most powerful man in the world. We have people who are so focused on rallying support for The Current Thing, they have no idea how reality functions. There’s a whole huge swath of people who, when we cross The Event Horizon, and reality can no longer be ignored, that are going to lose their ever-loving minds. And I think we are drawing more and more rapidly to that time.

The best thing you can do, in my opinion, is to tribe-up. Find some like-minded, Freedom-loving people to be in community with. You become like those you associate with. Choose wisely and choose liberty-minded, freedom loving people. Online, if you must, but the more local, the more better. Would I consider New England as my spot? Sure! Maybe someday. My immediate near-term future is pretty well locked-up in North Texas, at least for the time being. I’ve got kids to get through school, my mother-in-law is aging, etc, etc. You know how it is. But the whole area is just beautiful, and resource rich. It looks like a great place to create a great new future. Maybe I’ll be successful enough in my real estate business, that eventually, I’ll own a little house out there on Peak’s Island. But for now, Tarrant County is where I have to make my stand.

I wanted to give Hardscrambled something in return for all he’s given me over the years. We took him up a little care package with some locally made Texas salsas, and the one thing I’ve worked on over the years is home fermentation. I cannot grow shit, but I can ferment very nearly anything, including maple syrup. So I took him a bottle of my honey mead. It’s not great, to be honest. But it’s strong stuff, and that’s good enough, if you just need a bottle of strong stuff. So I told Hardscrambled that on some cold, New England winter night, when they’re burning down Chicago and Detroit, he can open up that bottle of “end-of-the-world hooch,” pour a couple of glasses, and think about his old buddy Tim-Bo, who’s watching the world burn, too.

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