I sing the praises of my small charcoal grill that defines homecoming for my godsons Nelson and Will (and me) on their cross-country visits. No longer young apprentices, these now early twenty-somethings commandeer the operation. Nothing intervenes—snow, sleet, rain, nor my occasional (faint) reluctance. Our love renews as the corn turns.
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Abraham Lincoln: “We must rise—with the occasion. As our case is new, some must think anew, and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.”