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In the dusty lanes of Willow Creek, where the cotton fields hummed with cicadas, folks gathered at the Blue Moon Café to swap stories over biscuits and gravy. Lately, the talk was sour.

A slick-talking drifter named Cal had blown into town, promising to fix the old mill and bring jobs. He’d charmed half the county with big words, but the mill stayed rusty, and Cal’s promises evaporated like dew.

Miss Vera, who ran the café with an iron skillet and a soft heart, watched young Danny, a lanky seventeen-year-old, hang on Cal’s tales. Danny, eager to prove himself, had been toutin’ Cal’s plans to his pa, who’d lost work when the mill shut.

“He’s gonna save us,” Danny said, eyes bright.

Vera shook her head, “Boy, if you always have to eat your words, you’ll end up starving. Say what you mean, and mean what you do.”

Danny, stung, didn’t listen until Cal skipped town, leaving nothing but unpaid tabs and the broken-down mill. Danny’s pa felt crushed, and Danny held the weight of his own loud hopes.

“I told everyone he’d deliver,” he muttered to Vera, mopping her floor to earn pocket money. “Now I look a fool.”

Vera handed him a rag. “Ain’t about looking foolish, son. It’s about filling your words with truth. Empty talk’s like a bucket with no bottom, it don’t hold nothing.”

She told him of her uncle, who’d promised a new barn to neighbors but never built it, losing their trust. “Words gotta have roots, Danny.”

Spurred, Danny rallied his friends. They scrounged tools, cleaned the mill’s gears, and studied old manuals under the café’s lamplight.

Vera brought coffee; farmers pitched in lumber. And Danny spoke plainly.

“We’ll fix this ourselves, slow but sure.”

No grand boasts, just sweat. By summer’s end, the mill creaked to life, grinding grain for the first time in years. Jobs trickled back, and Willow Creek breathed easier.

At the café’s harvest supper, folks toasted Danny, who blushed but stood tall.

“Didn’t promise the moon,” he said. “Just did what I could.”

Vera grinned, setting a plate of food before him. “That’s the meal that fills you, boy, words you don’t gotta choke down.”

 

On an Indian Summer morning in 1989, Ty and I turned a string of pack mules onto a trail that climbed among conifers and tumbled granite at the head of a canyon, high on the eastern rim of the Sierra Nevada wilderness. The air was thin but warm, pine needles crisp under hoof, and the sun cut the ridges in gold.

Ty rode steadily in the lead, reins loose in his hand, his hat weathered and shaped by years of use. He was a dozen years older than me, and it showed — not just in his gray whiskers but in the way he seemed to belong to the saddle, like the leather had molded itself around him. He didn’t so much ride a horse as exist with it, a single creature with four legs and a mind steady as stone.

“You’d think this view would never get old,” I said, twisting in the saddle to take in the canyon dropping away behind us.

“Don’t,” Ty answered without turning his head. His voice sounded like gravel and strong coffee.

The pack mules clinked along behind us, carrying tents, bedrolls, coffee pots, a cast-iron skillet, and enough beans to feed us for a month. Mules are honest company. They don’t gossip, don’t argue, and don’t brag. They just put their head down and climb.

Still, “honest” doesn’t mean “easy.” By midmorning, the October sun turned sharp and white, burning the canyon walls. Each thud of a hoof sent up tiny explosions of granite dust that sifted onto the shrubs and into our throats as we gulped the thin air at ten thousand feet.

Ty rode ahead, calm as a pine tree, while I fought to keep my mule from treating the trail like a buffet line. If there was a blade of grass or a scrap of lichen growing out of rock, my mule aimed for it.

“You’d think a mule would know the difference between a rock and a cliff,” I muttered, jerking the reins away from the edge.

Ty chuckled. “They know exactly which one’ll make you dance.”

Sure enough, the lead mule, a stubborn gray named Clementine, decided the middle of a switchback was the perfect place to sit down. The mules behind her froze. Packs shifted. Bells jingled like a tiny orchestra tuning up for a panic.

“Clem!” I barked, tugging the reins. She looked back at me with the serene disdain of a philosopher who had concluded long ago that humans are ridiculous.

Ty swung down slowly, unhurried, not scolding. “You’re too tense,” he said. “You’re arguing with the wrong creature.”

I glared at the mule. It didn’t blink. Ty leaned close, whispered something in her ear, and I swear she rolled her eyes before standing up, shaking off a ghost of dust.

He winked. “Sometimes the trail teaches patience the hard way.”

I huffed, adjusting my hat. “I’ll remember that when she dumps me in the canyon.”

The rest of the ride was quieter, Clementine smug in her victory, the others shuffling along as if they’d witnessed a coronation. Ty hummed a tune, steady as water in a streambed, while I chewed on both dust and humility.

We stopped at a spring midday, where cold water bubbled from stone. The mules dropped their heads, tails swishing, while Ty sat on a rock and unwrapped jerky from a brown paper sack. I dug out a half-smashed sandwich.

“Funny thing,” Ty said. “Down there in the valley, folks go on about luck, fate, or coincidence. Up here, it’s just common sense. Keep your canteen full, tie your knots right, and respect the trail. You do that, and you’ll be fine. Forget, and you’ll be sorry.”

I nodded, trying to decide if I’d just heard a rancher’s proverb or a sermon. Either way, it landed.

After lunch, we pushed on. The trail narrowed, squeezed between granite outcrops and thick pine. A chipmunk darted across the rocks, sending one of the younger mules into a snort-and-dance routine that nearly tangled the lead rope in my hand. I yanked, cussed, and tried not to tumble into the canyon. Ty never even flinched. He just kept moving, steady as always.

Later, the trail pitched upward into switchbacks carved so tight it felt like we were folding ourselves up the mountain. My thighs burned, my throat was dry, and sweat ran dusty streaks down my neck. Clementine marched on, ears flicking, satisfied she had already established dominance. I began to suspect she enjoyed watching me suffer.

By late afternoon, the air cooled, the shadows stretched, and the trail finally spat us out onto a granite plateau. A meadow spread beyond, rimmed with lodgepole pine and lit by the fading sun. The mules dropped their heads to graze what little grass clung to the ground, grateful for the break.

Ty unpacked them with patient hands, pulling ropes, shifting leather, setting each bundle where it belonged. I fumbled along, still learning the rhythm.

“Don’t fight the knots,” he said when he caught me yanking at one. “Work with ‘em. They’re like people — pull too hard, and they just get tighter.”

Camp came together slowly. The tents, pitched on the flattest ground we could find, a fire pit, cleared, and water, hauled from the spring, and by the time the fire popped to life, the canyon had gone quiet but for the low shuffle of hooves and the soft hiss of wind through pine.

We sat side by side, chewing beans from tin plates, the smoke curling skyward into a night already dusted with stars. My body ached in places I didn’t know existed, but my head was clearer than it had been in months.

“You were right,” I said at last. “The mules don’t complain about the view.”

Ty chuckled, eyes glinting in the firelight. “The trick is not to be the fool who does.”

I leaned back, letting the stars spill across the black sky. The rhythm of the day — hoof, dust, sun, stubborn mule, laughter, silence — folded around me. For once, I didn’t need to name the feeling in my chest. It was enough.

Clementine flicked an ear in the firelight, her silhouette cut sharp against the meadow. She had tested me, embarrassed me, and maybe even taught me something. Out here, even the mules were philosophers.

And I was beginning to learn the language.

I sat next to a woman at a memorial service, as we were both there to remember a mutual friend, a good man, who was too soon gone.

Memorials are odd gatherings—half solemn, half reunion. You hug people you haven’t seen in years, and you tell each other you’ll keep in touch, though you won’t.

You also end up noticing little things about the crowd you wouldn’t think to anywhere else. This particular woman noticed something right off: the number of people I greeted.

She said, “You seem to know everybody.”

I chuckled because I knew where this was going. The woman had recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd—local radio folks, those who spend their bantering on-air about traffic jams, weather forecasts, and which celebrity is currently embarrassing themselves.

She watched me say hello to them, smile, offer a handshake, and then get brushed off like lint on a jacket. Not rudely, but with that polite disregard that feels like you’re part of the “unimportant” pile.

Finally, she leaned over and asked, “Why are they like that?”

Now, you could write a whole doctoral thesis on why people in the media act the way they do, but I didn’t want to turn the memorial service into a Sociology 101 course. So I gave her the best answer I had, “I don’t play the popularity games they do.”

That’s all I said, and she nodded like I’d just handed her the missing piece of a puzzle.

Popularity is a funny kind of currency. It buys you attention but spends quickly. It’s also exhausting.

You’ve got to constantly polish it, like silverware you’ll never actually use. And the folks who live in that world know the game is fickle—they’re only as “somebody” as their ratings or their retweets.

Now, I don’t fault them for it. We all find our ways to matter to others.

Some earn it through applause, while others do so through acts of kindness. Some try to earn awards, while others stack up memories, but one way or another, we’re all out here trying to be noticed before our ride is over.

Still, I gave up on popularity a long time ago. When I was younger, I thought it mattered—thought if I got invited to the right parties or knew the right people, life would somehow roll out smoother, like a freshly paved road.

It turns out that it’s more like walking a balance beam over a pit of alligators. Miss a step, and suddenly the crowd you thought adored you is leaning over the rail, waiting for the splash.

The woman sitting next to me laughed when I explained it that way. “So you’d rather not play?” she asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “I’m not even sure there’s a prize.”

And the truth is, once you stop caring about who’s keeping score, life gets a whole lot lighter. You start noticing things—like how comforting it is to sit quietly next to someone who gets it, or how the smell of coffee in the church hall kitchen can cut through the heaviness of loss like a friendly wink.

At the end of the service, those same radio people who barely glanced at me went right back into their bubble, catching up with each other, laughing loud enough to make sure everyone heard. That was fine by me.

I wasn’t there for them. I was there to remember a friend, shake a few honest hands, and carry home a story worth telling.

On the way out, the woman turned to me and said, “You know, not playing their game—that might be the most popular move you can make.”

We both laughed, because the joke landed where it should–in the sweet spot where humor meets truth.

And maybe that is the prize. Not applause, not recognition, but walking away with your peace intact and your dignity unscratched.

Because in the end, no one remembers who was most popular at a memorial. People only remember who showed up and who sat beside the hurting when the silence feels too heavy to hold alone.

I was at the grocery store the other day, when I grabbed a cart and headed toward the produce section. You know, apples, lettuce, and that one package of something I tell myself I “need” but usually forget by the time I get to the checkout.

That’s when I noticed it. The front-left wheel of my cart was doing a little jig. Not a polite, civilized jig, either. It was the kind of wheel that had dreams and no intention of sticking to the plan. Every few feet, it would catch on the tile and make the whole cart veer sideways like it had somewhere far more exciting to be than the broccoli aisle.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I’d had too much coffee, or the world tilted slightly to the northeast. But no, that wheel had opinions, and it made them loud.

I tried the polite approach. I nudged the cart, I gave it a little tap, I whispered encouragement like it was a timid puppy: “Come on now, let’s go straight. Just straight. You can do it.”

The wheel ignored me. It spun off on its own, toward the bread aisle, dragging a half-empty box of crackers like it was leading a parade.

Other shoppers began to notice. Some stepped aside, cautiously watching my battle with this rebellious grocery device.

One lady shook her head at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for toddlers attempting to build a sandcastle with wet cement. I considered explaining the situation, but it seemed easier to let the cart have its moment of glory.

By the time I reached the canned goods, the wheel had developed a complete personality. I swear it was plotting.

It wasn’t just wobbling anymore; it was pivoting, spinning, and occasionally getting caught on the seam between two tiles with a loud clang that echoed down the aisle. I could hear the faint laughter of my vegetables, or maybe that was just my imagination.

I found myself talking to it like a horse I was trying to train. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t care if you’ve got somewhere to be, but we’re shopping. We stick together, or we don’t go anywhere.”

For a moment, I thought it understood. Then it swung me hard into the pickle display. I will admit, the pickles were remarkably resilient. A few jars wobbled dangerously but didn’t fall, which I took as a small victory.

After five more minutes of this circus act, I realized the cart wasn’t my enemy. It taught me patience, humility, and the importance of being mindful of where I step in a grocery store.

I started adjusting my stance, leaning just so, letting it guide me when it wanted and nudging it when I needed. Slowly, we developed a rhythm—me and the wild, untamed wheel.

By the time I made it to checkout, I had half the items I’d planned, a mild bruise on my shin, and an odd sense of accomplishment. I even patted the wheel. “Good job,” I said. “We made it. Together.”

And for a brief, glorious moment, it stopped wobbling entirely, like it understood that we were partners now.

As I pushed the cart toward the exit, I noticed the security camera blinking above. I imagined the footage later: a lone shopper battling a rogue cart, vegetables flying, crackers scattered like confetti.

Somewhere, a grocery store employee would tell a coworker, “You should’ve seen that one. Pure chaos.”

And I’d smile quietly to myself because sometimes, chaos teaches you more than a perfectly smooth ride ever could. I left the store that day lighter in spirit, if not in the wallet, and somewhere behind me, a wheel spun freely, dreaming of its next adventure.

Granny didn’t go looking for trouble, trouble usually found her, but this time it came in the form of a baseball. It was a bright Saturday morning, the kind where the air smells like freshly cut grass and something sweet from the bakery down the street.

The neighborhood kids were out, including her grandson Tommy, tossing a baseball back and forth in the park. Granny, of course, was sitting on the bench, knitting and pretending she didn’t care.

“Hey, Grandma!” yelled Tommy, “Wanna try?”

Granny squinted, knitting needles frozen mid-air. “Try what?”

“The bat! You never know, you might hit one outta the park!”

Granny gave a slow smile. “I haven’t swung a bat since ’42, and even then.”

The kids laughed, but Tommy was persistent. “C’mon, Grandma! Just one swing!”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Granny took the bat. She stepped up, feet planted, and gave a nod that made it seem like she’d been training for years in secret.

The ball came flying. Granny swung. CRACK!

The baseball soared higher than anyone expected. The kids’ jaws dropped. It landed on the roof of old Mr. Henderson’s shed. For a second, the world held its breath, and then Granny—the very picture of calm and cunning—walked over to the shed, tapped the ball down with the bat, and handed it back to Tommy.

“I think that counts,” she said, dusting off her hands. “And I think it’s about time someone bought me a lemonade for encouragement.”

Tommy laughed so hard he nearly dropped the ball. “Granny, that was amazing! You hit a home run! You’re like a superhero!”

Granny shrugged, knitting needles returning to action. “Don’t make a fuss. You don’t want everyone thinking I can still do everything I did when I was your age. Some secrets are better left to the imagination.”

The kids ran off, talking excitedly about Granny’s legendary hit. Granny leaned back on the bench, sipping her lemonade, and smiled.

Sometimes, she thought, it’s not about skill. It’s about surprising everyone—including yourself.

Recently, the global financial landscape has entered what many analysts refer to as the “melt-up” phase. It is a period during which asset prices surge dramatically, not due to economic strength, but because of extensive currency devaluation.

What we are witnessing is not prosperity but the final act of a global monetary experiment that has stretched far beyond its limits. The so-called “debasement trade,” now celebrated across financial media, is nothing less than the deliberate erosion of the value of money itself.

Currency debasement occurs when governments and central banks increase the money supply, diluting its purchasing power. It is often masked by rising stock markets, booming real estate prices, and surging commodity values, but these are symptoms, not signs of health.

Fiat currencies, including the dollar, the euro, and the yen, are being sacrificed to maintain a debt-based system. Each new round of stimulus or monetary easing transfers wealth away from savers and wage earners to those closest to the source of new money: large financial institutions and governments.

Throughout history, civilizations have faced this moment before. When paper promises lose credibility, people return to what has always represented real value: sound money.

Gold and silver are not relics of the past; they are anchors of stability in a sea of financial manipulation. Unlike fiat currency, governments cannot print sound money endlessly.

Today, as spot gold and silver charts break through key resistance levels, they signal not technical strength, but that fiat currencies are weakening. Gold’s rise is not a function of its increasing worth. The metal itself remains unchanged, but rather the falling value of the currencies used to price it. It is why a $10 trillion Zimbabwe note cannot buy a loaf of bread, and why inflation silently robs workers of their hard-earned purchasing power.

We must not mistake market exuberance for genuine growth. The soaring numbers on Wall Street are simply reflections of a shrinking dollar.

True wealth lies not in the nominal value of assets but in their real, lasting purchasing power. As governments and central banks advocate for greater digitization, the introduction of central bank digital currencies (CBDCs) and stricter capital controls raises the risk of diminishing financial sovereignty. The new systems promise convenience but risk turning money into a tool of surveillance and control.

The solution lies in reclaiming individual and community resilience. It means holding sound money, like gold and silver, building local systems of barter and production, and developing practical skills that retain value regardless of monetary policy. It also means educating others, helping them see that the “debasement trade” is not progress, but plunder.

If even a small fraction of the world’s population understands and acts on this truth, real change is possible. Together, we can reject the illusion of fiat wealth and stand for financial integrity, personal freedom, and intergenerational stability. It is not too late to reclaim our power, but time is running short.

In the quiet of dawn, when the wind still carried the night’s last whispers, Sequem White Moccasin sat upon the red earth and closed his eyes. In the stillness, a vision came upon him like the beating of a distant drum.

He saw a land, open and without end. Across it thundered great herds—not of flesh and blood, but of iron and fire. They were Mustangs, their hides shining with sparks, their breath the sharp cry of lightning.

They ran with no hunger and drank no water. Their hooves touched the ground without sound, yet the earth trembled beneath them.

These Mustangs roamed far and free, chasing the horizon with no fear of hunters or hunger. Yet, always, when the circle of days grew full, they turned back to the place from which they had come. There, one by one, they sank upon their four legs, as if bowing to the dust, and never rose again.

In time, Sequem saw the earth grow pale. A white powder lay thick upon the ground, as though the very bones of the land had been crushed and scattered.

Long before, the great Cats of the earth—those that dig and claw with iron teeth—had torn the soil open. Now the scars bled out in white, and the ground carried the taste of old wounds.

Even the Broncos of the Cowboys, lit with the same fire, could not escape this fate. They too returned to the hidden land and wasted away, their sparks gone cold, their frames silent.

Sequem’s eyes followed them beyond the edge of the sky. There, behind the great shield of the Sun, he saw where the dead Mustangs and Broncos gathered. They stood in endless lines, waiting, wasting, their power spent, their purpose forgotten.

When the vision faded, Sequem White Moccasin opened his eyes. He placed his hand upon the earth and whispered, “Even what runs without breath must one day return to dust. The herds of the future are not forever. Their thunder is loud, but their bones will be wasted behind the Sun.”

And so his people remembered, and they told the vision as a warning:
The land does not forget that the soil carries memory, and that all things—whether of hide or of iron—must bow again to the earth.

For centuries, gold has served as a barometer of economic health, as a haven in times of uncertainty, and a hedge against inflation. When investors lose confidence in currencies, markets, or governments, they flock to gold. The timeless pattern appears to be repeating itself today, and it’s flashing a warning signal that the U.S. economy is heading for rough waters.

The recent surge in gold prices isn’t just another market fluctuation. It reflects deep-rooted anxiety about the stability of the American financial system.

Historically, gold tends to rise when trust in paper money declines. During times of economic strength and low inflation, investors tend to favor growth assets such as stocks and real estate. When the economy weakens, inflation tends to rise, and debt levels increase, the attractiveness of gold, as a tangible store of value, significantly increases.

In the U.S., several forces are converging to push gold higher. The first is persistent inflation. Even as official inflation numbers moderate from their pandemic-era peaks, the cost of living remains high.

Groceries, rent, and energy prices have risen far faster than wages for many Americans. It erodes consumer purchasing power and sparks fears that the Federal Reserve’s tools to control inflation may no longer be as effective as they once were. As a result, investors seek protection in assets immune to monetary manipulation, namely gold.

Another factor is government debt. The U.S. national debt has surpassed $35 trillion, with annual interest payments alone now exceeding the entire defense budget.

Markets are beginning to question how long the government can continue borrowing at such a pace without triggering either a fiscal crisis or a surge in money printing to cover its obligations. In both scenarios, default or debasement, gold tends to shine. Its price rises not because it becomes more valuable, but because the dollar becomes less trustworthy.

Geopolitical instability is also contributing to gold’s ascent. Conflicts in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia increase global uncertainty, while rising tensions between the U.S. and China threaten supply chains and trade relationships. In times of war or political turmoil, investors worldwide turn to gold as a universal form of security. The more uncertain the world becomes, the stronger gold’s appeal grows.

Historically, spikes in gold prices have often preceded or coincided with major economic downturns. In the 1970s, gold soared amid stagflation and oil shocks.

Before the 2008 financial crisis, it began a steady climb as the housing bubble inflated and cracks appeared in the banking system. Today’s surge is sending a similar message: that the underlying health of the U.S. economy is weak.

In short, gold is not just a commodity. It’s a psychological indicator of fear and mistrust.

When investors rush to buy it, they’re not betting on prosperity; they’re protecting themselves from loss. The higher the gold climbs, the louder the warning grows.

If history is any guide, the current rise in gold prices says that the next major economic storm is already on the horizon.

The sun hung low over the valley, casting a golden glow over the cornfields. Jeb Tatum sat on his porch, whittling a cedar stick, his hound Blue asleep at his boots.

Across the dirt road, young Sammy Porter kicked at a fence post, his face sour as a green persimmon. Jeb squinted. “Boy, you look like you’re chewin’ a grudge. What’s eatin’ ya?”

Sammy, barely eighteen, scuffed his sneakers. “Pa says I gotta work at Miller’s feed store to pay for that busted truck window. Ain’t fair, Jeb. I was just tossin’ pebbles, not aimin’ to break nothin’.”

Jeb chuckled, his knife pausing. “Life don’t care ‘bout your aim, son. A fence can’t be made stronger with white wash, and a mistake don’t get fixed by blamin’ the wind.”

Sammy frowned, but Jeb waved him closer. “Lemme tell ya ‘bout my cousin Earl. Back in ‘73, Earl borrowed a tractor from Widow Jenkins. Swore he’d plow her field, but he got drunk, ran that tractor into a ditch, and busted the axle. Earl painted the thing shiny red, thinkin’ it’d make up for the damage. Jenkins wasn’t fooled—called him out in front of the whole town. Earl’s name took a bigger hit than that tractor.”

Sammy kicked another rock. “So what’d Earl do?”

“Swallowed his pride,” Jeb said. “Worked Jenkins’ fields by hand all summer. Blisters and all. By fall, folks quit whisperin’ ‘bout his foolishness. A good name’s heavier than gold, Sammy. You gotta earn it back with sweat, not excuses.”

Sammy nodded, slow-like. Next morning, he showed up at Miller’s store before dawn, stacking feed bags till his shoulders ached.

Mr. Miller, a gruff man with a soft spot for effort, watched quietly.

By week’s end, he clapped Sammy’s back. “You’re square with the window, kid. Keep showin’ up like this, and I might keep ya on.”

Word spread through the valley. Old ladies at the diner quit cluckin’ about Sammy’s wild streak.

Farmers tipped their hats when he passed. Even Blue wagged his tail when Sammy scratched his ears.

One evening, Sammy plopped on Jeb’s porch, a soda in hand. “Reckon you were right, Jeb. Workin’ it off felt better than gripin’.”

Jeb grinned, whittling a new stick. “Ain’t about the window, boy. It’s about what folks see when they hear ‘Sammy Porter.’ Paint don’t hold a fence together, and talk don’t hold a life. Build it strong with what you do.”

The crickets sang as the stars blinked on, and Sammy smiled, the weight of his name a little lighter.