[Madame Dufarge]

The press may not cover us but the effort never really goes unheeded. We have our occasional victories but they just don't print their losses on the front page. At least never in a way that admits their moments of defeat.

At the risk of sounding Pollyanna-ish, I think we're slowly gaining ground. Sometimes it seems we're running in place, since there's so much to be reclaimed.

Mainstream newspaper readership is tanking, Fox News has cracked the door open, Free Republic continues to grow, I'm sure as hell not getting any less cranky and vocal and don't intend to. Don't think any of the rest of us will either and I see the ranks growing.

Who could have predicted any of this a mere 25 or so years ago?

[Mercuria]

25 years ago, I doubt we'd have predicted some acts and laws that have recently been passed that have the potential to cause so much harm.

Still...

I'm sure as hell not getting any less cranky and vocal and don't intend to.

...amen to THAT, Madame! **g**

[AnnaZ]

At the risk of sounding Pollyanna-ish, I think we're slowly gaining ground.

 

As do I, sister, as do I.

 

Since it's Christmas, and December, I think it's time for some Frost.

 

 

ROAD LESS TRAVELED

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

 

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.