Keturah Lamb Doesn't Exist
Girl plays tag with the mighty state Leviathan
Finds shelter with the Amish, dumpster dives at Aldi’s
A 4th-generation ghost decides to be a person rather than a number
Three years ago, at the height of COVID, I organized the only substantial Fourth of July public gathering in the State of Montana. It made the papers as an “anti-government demonstration.” But those who attended witnessed no violent displays. It was instead the beginning of something quite sweet: a newfound community emerged through picnics, open mics, music, and literature. I didn’t bother to read the news, nor do I seek to take a side in most current disputes. I campaigned for my father, who was running as a Libertarian, and visited nearly 30 churches to get to know my community better.
Shortly after the Fourth of July event, a friend asked me, “Are your family domestic terrorists?”
After being shocked into laughter, I was forced to ponder how my place in society might appear to the general populace. I am a fourth-generation, native-born yet “undocumented” American. We do not …
Giants in the Earth
Krist Novoselic speaks
Bass player for Nirvana, Flipper, and 3rd Secret lives in Naselle, cuts the grass at the local cemetery
Keeps weird animals in his backyard, turns local creamery into a recording studio.
There was once a boy who fell to earth.
He was delicate and small, his hair was blond, his face was smudged, and he was born nowhere — but he had an unusual talent for writing songs that remind listeners of the Beatles, with lyrics that were a strange combination of puns and jokes and pure misery. He sang like he was in pain, which was real and came from his stomach, and which he tried to dull with everything from heroin to hot tea. He played the game of being hip and wasted like the pro that he became, but at the same time there was a part of him that stayed pure and reached for something that only he could touch. Also, he loved turtles. He had a big turtle tank in his cramped apartment, which stank like turtle water. He built the turtle tank himself.
The story of Kurt Cobain’s mythic life and death is well known by now, thanks to biographies by Michael Azerrad and Charles Cross; there is no point …
Lithium
Meet the human price of ‘environmentally friendly’ electric car batteries
We’ll put a 500-foot-deep pit in your barn
45-day supply of bottled water if your well goes dry
Corporate mining giant Piedmont Lithium Inc. fails to meet Chad Brown’s definition of a good neighbor
In the summer of 1991, I was five years old and living in my grandfather’s American dream. Together with my mother, we spent the warm season in China Grove, a farm town 35 miles northeast of Charlotte, North Carolina, fixing up a white one-bedroom house with a red-brick porch and a Rose of Sharon bush out front. For my grandfather, it was a homecoming. He was raised in the old white farmhouse, and when he married my grandmother — “that little hillbilly,” he’d called her, before their love blossomed — he tried for a while to make a home with her in a back building she insulated with newspaper clippings advertising farm-supply stores and White Lily flour. When The Great War was over, he came back to her and their new daughter in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. For half a century, he dreamed about the fertile North Carolina soil. He always thought he’d make it back there for good, but he never did.
Besides …
