Editor’s Note: Marlow chimes in this morning with the current signage in his Coastal Empire region. It has been a national phenomenon.

Here, the last Trump sign is down on the farm lane where we reside in Piedmont Virginia. I do not display signs of political allegiance. I do not want to simplify other people’s targeting problems, after all. But I ran across something in the mass of files last night that helped me understand some of the emotion flying around.

It was a manuscript penned by a 28-year-old man who was irritated by the prospect of a 14-month one-year assignment to the Republic of Korea in 1980. To stimulate his thoughts, the ROK helpfully provided a real threat from Northern aggression, an impromptu civil war in Kwang-Ju province and a military coup. Reading it, I almost felt at home. Here is the cover art. It depicts a US Army guard in the Joint Security Area (JSA), standing at the good end of The Bridge of No Return, the path to freedom of US prisoners in North Korea after the end of the Police Action. It is all about signage, you know?

– Vic

14 December 2020

Signs of the Times

After a week in our local corral and being denied church attendance due to our tardiness securing via the church’s website a service seat reservation, we bolted for open spaces west of Savannah late on a sunny Sunday morning.

As we blasted out towards Georgia route 21 we noted with interest a bumper crop of Republican and Democratic party Senate candidate signs inside the city limits with the donkeys holding the in-town advantage. Out in the country, the elephants were stomping it, and the donkeys were shut out.

There were no Biden-Harris signs spotted during our two plus hour trip, while only a few in-town Trump-Pence signs were being slowly being taken down. There were many stalwart holdouts who were adding to their Trump displays. Out beyond city limits, Trump and a boatload of Trump-Jesus signs were still loudly and proudly mega-abundant in Effingham County.

Well out west of Savannah, we stopped to fill W’s hot rod tires at something one could only see here in the south:

Yeah, the Lord, gas, pizza, and hot dogs 24/7. Is America a great country or what?

Along our aimless but generally westward way we stopped in the old, off road, forgotten small town of Springfield in front of well-worn junk store. Its unshaven 60ish operator told us masks were optional as he basked out in front of his store under summer-like sunny skies. We were surprised to find therein among the vintage political posters an unusually well-preserved collection of military uniform kit from US and allied soldiers and sailors that went way back. It included a French WW I cuirassier helmet and an American soldier’s French Morocco theater winter jacket.

As we passed by mile upon mile of pecan tree groves and smallish fields of cotton both waiting to be picked, we found what we had been looking for since we last visited it two plus years ago — a small, nearly invisible sign across the newly blacktopped Old Dixie Highway for a you-pick-em strawberry and blackberry operation well off an old treelined path that’s been family owned and operated since 1869. After driving along a grass encroached road, we paid them a visit to photograph it again and swear that we’d be out there next spring to pick, can, jam, jelly, pie and daiquiri ourselves into a fruity bliss.

We look forward to seeing all our red and black berry stained faced, picking friends out at Hodges Farm as they grace us with the bounty of their rich earth and down-to-earth family.

PS Rest In Peace, John LeCarre, the Cold War’s preeminent novelist. A true master. Too bad Renault didn’t do a better job on the car with his name.

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