The Saturday after my dad’s memorial, we drove back down to my parents’ place in Southern Iowa, a remote acreage of oak savanna they have been restoring since the late eighties. The weather was weird, in the way it almost always seems weird in this third decade of the twenty-first century. When we arrived two days earlier it had been in the twenties, but now a strong hot wind was gusting up from the south, and you could have thought it was summer but for the ripe red, orange and yellow leaves not yet fallen from the tall old trees.
Mike Davis - what a guy. So often on target. His writings are launching pads.