Lift Up Your Hearts!

Debunked by Nature: How a Vegan-Chef-Turned-Regenerative-Farmer Discovered that Mother Nature Is a Conservative by Mollie Engelhart (Acres U.S.A., Inc., 2025)

When and where I first heard about Mollie Engelhart I no longer remember, but it is enough to realize that the foreword of this book is written by Joel Salatin, whose agricultural revolution I've admired for years.

I've been enjoying Engelhart's well-written columns for a long time, and have occasionally quoted from them here.  So I decided it was high time that I read the book in which she documents her journey from celebrated vegan chef to regenerative farmer, which is well-written, informative, and inspirational.  Once again I grew impatient waiting for either our library to acquire it, or Amazon to offer a good Kindle deal, and decided to support an author I admire by paying full price.  The Kindle version at this moment is $10, the paperback twice that—and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can read it for free.  I highly recommend it for anyone who cares about food:  its quality, its availability, where it comes from, animal welfare, and healing our land.

Quotations can't do the story justice, but here they are anyway.  You can expect more posts pointing to Mollie Englehart's work in the future, as I become more and more impressed with her life and thoughts.  

I came to Fillmore expecting a fight. What I found were Christian homeschool moms ordering from Azure Standard like I did, families raising their own food, people committed to health and freedom. There were Trump signs, sure—but the people weren’t villains. They were kind. They were showing up for their land, their kids, and their neighbors. The story I’d believed about who these people were just didn’t hold. (pp 8-9)

The deeper I got into the land, the more the noise fell away. Mimi’s death cracked me open. The soil kept me grounded. And the community I once feared became a family I didn’t know I needed. I thought I’d lost everything. But that loss was actually the beginning of the life I was always meant to live. (p 10)

Then we moved to the farm, and everything flipped. That city idea—men as optional—fell apart the second we stepped into real work. Fillmore wasn’t a place for theories; it was dirt, sweat, and survival. My husband’s hands started shaping the land—planting orchards, installing irrigation, turning rocky soil into something alive. I’d design the layout of where everything would go—from animals to compost piles to gardens and greenhouses—and he’d dig the trenches, haul the pipes, and make it happen. I could plan, nurture, and hustle, but when it came to raw strength—to holding the line against nature’s chaos—I saw what he brought. It wasn’t optional—it was the backbone. (p 25)

Nature doesn’t mess around. When it hits, you don’t debate. You need strength, action, someone who’ll step up. My husband did, and does—every day, not just in floods. He’d butcher a sheep when dogs tore through it and process it for the community, while I’d just freeze up. He’d fix things when they break and haul hay when the animals needed it. I’d plan the feed, but he moved it. I’d birth kids at home, nurture them, keep the rhythm; he’d plant the orchards that fed us.

Back in LA, I’d have bristled at this—at 36, I’d have said, “I don’t need that.” But at 46, on the farm, I’m grateful. Grateful for my marriage, for my four kids, for serving my husband and family in ways I once didn’t understand. Suffering doesn’t come from embracing womanhood—it comes from fighting it. We’ve got to stop outsourcing masculinity, pretending it’s optional just because we can order groceries online. It’s not toxic—it’s essential—a balance to femininity.

If you think men don’t matter, ask yourself: in a disaster, would you want only women and kids around? If no, you already know the truth. We need men—strong men—not just one, but a whole society of them. Without that, we can’t stand. (pp 25-26)

Standing in the field with my cow, I know she belongs here. And I belong here—we belong together. She’s not a pollutant; she’s a partner. ...  My cow’s cycle is clean; an electric car’s is a shell game. We don’t need more tech—we need less arrogance and more scaling up of regenerative agriculture. We need more mimicking of what nature already does. Grazing cattle mimic bison herds, cover crops shield the soil, and microbes do their work. It’s not sexy, but it’s real, small-scale energy. ... With my cow I feel it—we’re part of this, not above it. Farmers who swap Big Ag for living soil aren’t just feeding us—they’re healing what we broke. It’s hard work, not a get-rich scheme—that’s why it’s sidelined. My cow and I will return to the earth. The wind turbines will rust in heaps. The real fix isn’t coming out of some factory—it’s under our feet, in the living soil. (p 41)

That radical faith, trusting the path, is what’s missing today. We don’t trust each other, ourselves, or God, so the government steps in—telling us how to eat, raise kids, run businesses. Have we let this happen because we’re disconnected from the sacred, from nature? If we could quiet the noise and hear God’s whispers, maybe we’d finally know what to do.(p 47)

It’s time to reconnect—with nature, with our food, with each other. Start small: herbs on your stoop, a market haul, a meal with no factory fingerprints. Ask where it’s from. Grow something—anything. Link up with neighbors; swap what you’ve got. We must start somewhere—plant a garden or a small orchard, get a flock of chickens, have a couple of milk goats, and trade with your neighbors. We must start depending on local food. We must start creating local food. This is a national security imperative.  (pp 57-58)

In today’s society, discomfort is treated like a plague—something to dodge, medicate, or banish. We’ve convinced ourselves that unease is a danger signal, a threat to our peace, rather than what it really is: a spark for growth, a rite of passage, a sacred call to rise. This comfort fixation has wormed its way into everything—parenting, work, relationships—and it’s left us fragile, cracking under the lightest load. We’ve forgotten how to see discomfort as a guide, not a foe. (p 59)

Real life doesn’t coddle either. Farm life is blunt. The cows don’t care if you’re spent—they need feed. The beans don’t wait for your mood—they need water. Parenting’s no different. I’ve breastfed for ten years straight, my body a lifeline for my kids. I’ve changed diapers daily for a decade—thousands. I’ve been pregnant six times in twelve years: four births that remade me, two losses that tore me open. There’s no pause, no “self-discovery” jaunt to Bali. It’s relentless, holy service—raw, draining, radiant. I wouldn’t trade it. (p 60)

We’ve conditioned young women to see their bodies as tools for personal gain—sex, power, looks. But nothing prepared me for the gorgeous, total annihilation of self that motherhood demands. It’s not easy—nights of tears, mornings of doubt—but it’s the richest reward I’ve known. We need to train our girls for that, to be comfortable with discomfort, because those holy moments—birth, nurturing, sacrifice—demand it. I want my daughters—my two-year-old with her muddy boots and my seven-year-old with her sharp mind—to get this. Their bodies are sacred, not just because they’re theirs, but because they tie them to something bigger: their families, their babies, their communities, their husbands. That’s not oppression—it’s a gift, a sacrifice, a blessing all at once. (p 63)

Discomfort is how we grow. Trauma’s real, but it doesn’t have to rule us. Animals show us—after a predator scare, a goat will shake, shedding the fear, then graze like it’s nothing. We humans cling. We replay the hurt, weaving stories around it. I’ve had trauma—sexual assault in my music industry days. Men with money and power wanted access to my body, and so they took it by force. It was wrong. It cut deep. It left marks. But I chose not to carry it forever. I understand what it is to have compassion for young men filled with testosterone, lacking wisdom, trying to find their way in the world. I did dumb things when I was young as well. It doesn’t take away what they did, but it gives me the power to shake it off. I felt it, faced it, let it go—not because it was small, but because I wouldn’t let it define me.

I know folks wrecked by less. A hand grazing their bottom at a bar, a crude remark—they’ve turned those into lifelong weights. They carry more trauma from that than I do from being violated. Why? They were never taught to sit with discomfort, to process and release. They were told every unease is a wound, every slight a scar. I’m not dismissing their pain—their pain is real. But I’m reclaiming our power. What happens to us isn’t who we are. How we respond is. (pp 63-64).

Embracing traditional ways of living—hands in the dirt, food from the field, life close to nature—led me to a truth that hit like a thunderclap: we belong here. Not as intruders, not as a blight, but as part of this earth, woven into its fabric.

Yet there’s this creeping idea out there, whispered in classrooms and shouted through policies, that it’s fine for us to be poisoned—that it’s no big deal if male sperm counts have crashed 50 percent in forty years or if fertility struggles shadow every developed nation. The modern green movement often runs on a quiet engine: humans are the problem, a species to be culled or contained. They don’t say it outright—not usually—but the vibe seeps through: we’re a plague, a stain on the planet, better off walled away from nature so it can limp back to health without us.

That’s the ugliest lie I’ve ever heard.

We belong here. We’re not separate from the whole—we’re in it, of it. Sure, we’ve messed up. We’ve scarred the soil, fouled the water, choked the air—I won’t pretend otherwise. But the fix isn’t to shrink back, to abandon nature like it’s a museum exhibit we’re banned from touching. The real power, the truest union, comes when we step into nature with respect, with understanding—using our brains, our hands, our science to amplify the beauty in God’s design.

We’re not helpless—we’re potent, brimming with potential. But when we buy the lie that we’re a plague, that there’s too many of us, we crumple. Fear takes over, apathy sets in, and we stop doing what’s right. We let the poison flow unchecked. (p 65)

[R]eal diversity isn’t just tolerating difference; it’s wrestling with it. It’s sitting across from someone who sees the world upside-down from you and choosing to listen anyway. In a culture that’s quick to cancel, that’s radical. It’s taught me patience, sharpened my arguments, and kept me humble. ... And that’s the real test—can you stay close with people as your life changes, as your views change, and as you see the world differently?

The importance of loving people we don’t agree with is immeasurable. We must be able to separate the being—the expression of God in front of us—from the ideas that being holds true. We are not our ideas. I’m the same person I always was, and yet this entire book is about how my ideas shifted drastically over the years. (p 103)

Unfortunately, much of the equity conversation is pushing us further apart rather than closer together. The ever-moving goalposts should always be a warning. When I was younger, equality meant fair treatment—same rules, same chances. Then it became equity: different rules to level the playing field. Now it’s something else entirely—reparations, dismantling systems, rewriting history. Every time we think we’re close, the goalposts move again. It’s like chasing a mirage in the desert: the closer you get, the farther it slips away. (p 104)

I’ve come to understand this: Nature allows for movement within the limits of structure. The birds don’t migrate in chaos. They follow patterns—routes that are shaped by weather, food, season, and survival. And when a food source is threatened, animals defend it. When a species is vulnerable, it retreats inward to protect itself. This is not cruelty. It’s wisdom. It’s instinct. It’s order. ...[A] secure border isn’t unnatural. In fact, it may be one of the most natural things a nation can do. (p 109)

Here’s the hard truth: the southern border is not secured by the United States government. It’s secured by the cartels. Every person crossing is paying $10,000 to $13,000—often more—to make the trip. They are pre-scheduled to be robbed en route, and often extorted again once they arrive. The cartels run a billion-dollar operation, and we fund it every time we eat inexpensive produce picked by someone who had to cross illegally to get that job. And we do need that labor. Desperately. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn’t run a restaurant, harvested a field, or worked in a meat packing plant. We’ve raised a generation of weak-bodied, weak-minded young people who believe hard work is beneath them and discomfort is a trauma. Our economy is addicted to the labor of immigrants—but our policies pretend we’re not. And that dishonesty is killing people. (p 110)

Here’s the truth we have to face: we need the labor. A border is not racist. A wall is not racist. I have a fence around my property—not because I hate my neighbors’ cows, but because I don’t want them eating my grass. And yet, this is a constant issue. My neighbor’s cows get through my fence. They eat my grass. I fix the fence. It’s not because I dislike their cows. Their cows are beautiful, majestic beings, just like mine. But I don’t want to feed them—unless, ultimately, they are going to contribute to my family’s life at the end of their own. In the same way, we want people in this country who want to contribute to this country. And we must create a pathway for those who want to come, work, and then go home to their families.

That's why I've proposed a ten-year low-skill work visa. It would allow people to work, pay taxes, visit home, and live in dignity. It would protect women from rape, children from trafficking, and all migrants from murder and extortion. It would give people a legal alternative to risking their lives and their bodies. Applicants would need a clean criminal record. They’d be required to stay employed. The visa could be renewed once, but would never lead to citizenship—not even through marriage. The best case might be a green card. The goal is contribution, not permanent relocation. There would be a fee of $10,000 per person—meaning that same amount of money people currently pay the cartels would go to the US government instead. The grip of those cartels on society would be weakened. Unlike our current system, it would allow people to keep connection with their home—so they’re not forced into a forever exile from the people who raised them. It would dismantle the business model of the cartels overnight. It would allow people to fly directly into the cities where work is needed—no more desert crossings, no more smugglers, no more horror stories. Just honest labor for honest pay. (pp 111-112)

We’re not all called to be regenerative farmers, though I’ll admit I sometimes wish everyone could feel the dirt under their nails the way I do now. I feel happier (and, I think, even look happier!) as a cattle rancher than I ever did as a vegan chef. We’re not all meant to leave our lives behind, abandon the cities, and go live off-grid in the wilderness with nothing but a tent and a prayer. That’s not the point. But we are all here, at this specific moment in time, for a reason. Modern life pulls us away from that reason—distracting us with the endless chase for money, status, fleeting recognition, the next promotion, the next shiny thing. It’s a treadmill we can’t step off, a noise so loud it drowns out the quiet voice inside. Yet, in those rare moments when we do step away—when the phone’s off, the screens are dark, and the world hushes—we sense it. A stirring. A knowing. Something calling us back to what’s real.

For some, that calling might be to tend the soil, to grow food, to provide nourishment for others. I felt that pull when I left Sage Vegan Bistro behind and sank my hands into the rocky earth of Fillmore. For others, it might be to nurture something else—a marriage through the hard seasons, a family through the chaos of raising kids, a community through the small, unglamorous acts of showing up. It could be as simple as growing herbs on a windowsill in a cramped apartment, watching those green shoots defy the concrete jungle outside.

These acts matter. They’re not trivial. They tether us back to what has always sustained human life: food, family, faith, and community. They’re threads in a tapestry we’ve let fray, but they’re still there, waiting to be picked up. (pp 122-123)

[E]ven if your path doesn’t lead you to a farm, you’re still being called to tend to something. That’s the universal thread—we’re all stewards of something, whether we recognize it or not. ... [H]ow do we reconnect? It’s not about grand gestures—it’s about small, deliberate steps. (pp 124, 126)

Porter discovered a YouTube channel called Mentour Pilot, and we both quickly became fascinated.

Petter Hörnfeldt, a well-credentialed airline pilot, uses this channel to inform both fellow pilots and ordinary airline passengers about aviation practices, procedures, and safety, mostly through exploring spectacular aviation accidents: what caused them, how they were handled, what was learned from them, and what changes were then made.

You might think that learning the details about mostly gruesome aviation events would make people afraid to fly at all, but I find that it actually demonstrates why flying continues to be an exceedingly safe mode of transportation. These videos have greatly increased my admiration for pilots, air traffic controllers, and flight attendants. (Contrary to popular opinion, the flight attendants are not chiefly on the plane to serve us drinks.) Not to mention they've given me more respect for the safety rules and procedures that I tend to respond to with a mental, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard all this a zillion times; just let me get back to my book."

Most of the stories are long and detailed, as they must be to provide any substantial information, but to whet your appetite, here's a short (two-minute) video that highlights why the airlines are so particular about lithium batteries. (Plus it gives you the opportunity to hear his delightful Swedish accent.)

Naturally, having a pilot in the family makes these videos of particular interest to us, but any airline passenger could enjoy and benefit from them.

Someone on Facebook captured the hippocampe ailé (winged seahorse) in the winglet of an Air France jet. That's what Porter was trying to get while we were flying from Paris to Florence. Instead, the emblem is completely missing, and all you see is a large, white dot.

But that's not the strangest part of this photo.  You beautiful Italian countryside, you see the winglet—but where's the wing?

It's time to stop half-staff flag abuse.

I've nothing in particular against Dolly Parton, but the decision to lower flags to half mast when she died prompted me to write about something that's been irking me for quite a while.

Flags are so frequently flying at half-staff nowadays that my reaction has been reduced to a guessing game, with all the impact of an emoji: I wonder who died now.  If we lowered our flags every time someone we think important dies, they'd never be flying high and free.

There's nothing wrong with being sorrowful when people die, nor for honoring those to whom honor is due.  But half-staff flag honors should be few and far-between.  If everyone is special, no one is special.  (This is not exactly what Dash said in the movie, The Incredibles, but it's what he meant, and how it's generally remembered.)  

Curious about what the official flag rules are, I asked Claude; here is his response (specific citations removed for clarity).

The rules live in the U.S. Flag Code (specifically 4 U.S.C. § 7), and there's an important distinction to start with: it's the law for government buildings, but only etiquette — advisory, not enforceable — for private citizens. Government buildings must comply with proclamations, but homeowners are encouraged, not required, to follow half-staff orders. So nothing here is legally binding on you personally at home, though most people who care about flag etiquette follow it anyway.

Who can order it: the President, a state governor, or the mayor of the District of Columbia can order flags to fly at half-staff. A 2007 amendment also extended this: when a governor proclaims half-staff to honor a member of the Armed Forces who died on active duty, federal facilities within that state must follow the state's proclamation too — so a governor's order can now bind federal buildings, not just state ones.

Fixed durations set by law, upon death:

• President or former President: 30 days
• Vice President, Chief Justice (or retired Chief Justice), or Speaker of the House: 10 days
• Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, a Cabinet secretary, a former Vice President, or a state/territory Governor: from day of death until interment (burial)
• Member of Congress: day of death and the following day only

Recurring annual observances, fixed by law regardless of proclamation:

• Memorial Day — half-staff until noon, then raised to full staff for the rest of the day
• Peace Officers Memorial Day (May 15), Patriot Day (September 11), and Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day (December 7) — though if Peace Officers Memorial Day falls on the same day as Armed Forces Day, that exception is waived

Discretionary/other deaths: for other officials or foreign dignitaries, it's done according to presidential order or established custom, not a hard rule

The correct mechanical procedure, regardless of occasion: the flag should first be hoisted briskly to the very top of the staff for a moment, then lowered to the half-staff position — and at the end of the day, raised back to the peak briefly before being lowered entirely. Skipping straight to half-staff without that initial full hoist is a common mistake.

One clarifying note on terminology, since you may see both used interchangeably: "half-staff" refers to a flag on land (a flagpole), while "half-mast" technically refers to a ship's mast — the position is identical, just different vocabulary depending on where the pole is.

I love almond paste. It was a late-in-life acquired taste, introduced to me by my mother-in-law, who fed us marzipan in several forms at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Marzipan is great, and almond paste, which is not as sweet, is even better.

While making almond paste spirals (a type of pastry) this afternoon, I decided to query about the nutritional value of almond paste. This is the answer I received—I assume from Leo, as I was using the Brave browser.

Almond paste offers significant nutritional value, particularly as a dense source of healthy fats, protein, and essential micronutrients.

Macronutrients and Energy: Almond paste is calorie-dense, providing approximately 458 calories per 100 grams (or about 130 calories per 1 oz serving). It is composed primarily of healthy fats (around 28–59g per 100g depending on the source), which are beneficial for heart health, and provides a notable amount of protein (9–19g per 100g). It also contains carbohydrates (48–47g per 100g), including dietary fiber (4.8–11g) and natural sugars (36–82g).

Vitamins and Minerals: It is exceptionally rich in Vitamin E, providing up to 90–205% of the Daily Value per 100g, which supports immune function and skin health. It is also a good source of Magnesium (32–70% DV), Calcium (13–30% DV), Iron (9–20% DV), and Potassium (7–15% DV). Additionally, it contains minerals like Selenium, Zinc, and Copper, contributing to overall metabolic and cellular health.

Health Considerations: While nutrient-dense, almond paste is high in sugar and calories, so it should be consumed in moderation. It contains zero cholesterol and is naturally low in sodium, making it a heart-friendly option when portion-controlled.

"Portion-controlled." Aye, there's the rub.

It hurts to have your name stolen.

I'm not talking about identity theft, horrific as that is, but something deeper, more personal. I think of all the Kevins in Europe, where "Kevin isn't a name; it's a diagnosis." All the women whose parents innocently named them "Alexa." My own husband, Porter, whose name precludes calling for him in an airport or train station.

And heaven help the many lovely people I know named "Karen."

Recently, heaven got a little assistance from Mikayla Hedrick, in her article "Get me the manager: In defense of Karens." Well worth the short read, and maybe sending the article to a beleaguered Karen you know.

The Millennial and Gen Z generations who adopted the term grew up with a “Karen” as their elementary school teacher, or the mom down the block, or, like me, as their aunt. Now, those Karens are middle-aged women, a thankless season in the lives of females everywhere, and the pejorative is hurled upon them ceaselessly.

They’ve been accused of racism, of being too quick to call the police, of caring too much about their neighbor’s lawn, and of being a causeless nag at a perfectly good restaurant.

And because I was not a Karen...I said nothing.

No one came to defend our mothers, aunts, or middle-school teachers. They were early victims of rising wokeness, and most of us fed them to the wolves without thinking twice. Conservatives who would later reject the labels of DEI culture said nothing while their wives subliminally imbibed the idea that to be a middle-aged woman who cared enough to join the PTA may subject them to internet bullying and character defamation: all hidden behind the label “Karen.”

That ends now.

Rather than perpetuating the stereotype that a “Karen” is a nuisance whose behavior should be avoided, it’s time to admit that it’s Karens who make the world go round.

While working diligently to resurrect a sense of perpetual racial tension, the label “Karen” has cunningly inflamed prejudice, not against women of a certain race, but against all women of a certain age.

It’s the rightful role of the middle-aged woman to guard her community — to ensure its safety, cleanliness, and standards. But standards aren’t cool anymore. If you care too much about such things, you’re mocked with the air of a middle-school bully taunting you for doing your homework.

And the middle-aged woman is the personification of standards.

She is the mother who has known you since birth and can tell you’re slacking off, even when no one else can. She is the neighbor who is tired of you driving into the cul-de-sac blasting loud music when you know good and well that the babies are sleeping.

She is no longer the gullible maiden you can charm with sweet words. She is a matriarch in training and can see right through your BS.

That’s her job in the neighborhood, and that’s her role in the country.

Don’t try to push Democratic Socialism on a real Karen. She will remind you that you still haven’t paid her back for that window you broke as a kid. Don’t expect her to toe the line on your new pronouns. And definitely don’t let her catch you looting a Walgreens in the name of “justice,” because she will personally escort your butt to prison.

She’s not here to play.

And that’s why she’s demeaned. Because she is a vanguard in a culture that wants to get away with everything.

No thank you.

I’ll take safe streets, good service, and the ladies keeping it all together for the rest of us.

When people call for the Fed to fix housing inflation, I often smile because the Fed is a prime cause of housing inflation (and inflation generally). It may have been with the best of intentions, but that’s just reality. Relying on the arsonist to put out the fire is rarely effective. — John Mauldin

Emphasis mine.

For most of my voting life I've been reluctant to talk about for whom I have voted. Even when I've discussed politics, I believe so strongly in the value of a secret ballot that I would almost never admit which lever I had actually pulled. (Even though almost none of my subsequent votes have involved voting machines and levers, that was my first experience with voting and I still think of it that way.)

So it remained for half a century of voting, until the political situation became in my eyes so dire I could not fail to pay attention, and felt an obligation to speak up. But don't worry, this is not going to be a somber political post. 

But I simply cannot resist revealing one of the votes I cast in today's primary election. It was for our county school board, and I proudly cast my vote for...

Antonio Pizza!

I mean, who could resist?

The school board elections are non-partisan, but I think pizza belongs at all parties, don't you?

When we moved to Florida more than 40 years ago, the heavenly smell from an orange juice factory frequenly wafted over our new house. As we drove around we frequently encountered citrus groves, and just outside of our neighborhood a farm stand sold Page oranges. Technically a Page orange is not an orange, but a cross between a clementine and a tangelo, thus 3/4 tangerine and 1/4 grapefruit. But these small, round orange-colored glories are by far my favorite citrus fruit, now nearly impossible to obtain. In the image below, the juice on the right is the best unpasteurized, non-adulterated, not-from-concentrate orange juice I could buy from the grocery store, and the juice on the left was squeezed from Page oranges.

Sadly, a series of devastating freezes in the mid-1980's drove the citrus industry out of Central Florida, as the owners of our local orchards were faced with the expense of replanting their entire crops—or selling out to developers who were eager to obtain the land on which their dead trees were sitting.

One of our first projects at our new house was to plant a Marsh white grapefruit tree. We nursed it through the freezing time, and for years it provided some of the best grapefruit I've ever eaten. After our local source of Page oranges disappeared, we doubled our "citrus grove" by adding a Page orange tree, and we enjoyed its fruit for many years.

The unusually cold weather of the 1980's moderated, sparing our trees, but the troubles of Florida's citrus industry were far from over. Production peaked in the 90's but the turn of the century brought one deadly attack after another: the Mediterranean fruit fly (Medfly), citrus canker, and several hurricanes that destroyed trees and spread disease and pests all over the state. The pressures of growth and development swallowed many struggling groves. And then in 2005 came citrus greening, a vicious bacterial infection spread by the invasive Asian citrus psyllid, which came to us from China through Mexico. That absolutely devastated Florida's groves, taking our own two trees with them.

The bridges don't fall down immediately. — Bret Weinstein

It's been 20 years since citrus greening came to our state, and the full effects accumulated slowly. Other than the deaths of our own trees, I didn't realize the extent of the damage until about a year ago when I picked up a carton of orange juice from the grocery store. Our favorite brand had long been Florida's Natural, which was reliably not from concentrate, guaranteed squeezed from Florida oranges. But that day I stood there in the middle of Publix, staring at a container of orange liquid that was neither natural nor from Florida: it was made from concentrate, and from Brazilian oranges. Keeping the Florida's Natural name took a lot of chutzpah.

For more of the story, including some out-of-the-box efforts being made to keep the industry alive while searching for a permanent solution, you can read the informative article from which I have pulled a few quotes (emphasis mine).

Florida harvested a record 244 million boxes of oranges during the 1997–1998 season. This year, the Department of Agriculture estimates that Florida will produce only 12.2 million boxes, a stunning 95 percent drop in a little less than 30 years.

Occasional freezes, catastrophic hurricanes, and an on-and-off, decades-long battle with the citrus canker disease proved to be frustrating setbacks for many orange growers, but the destruction of Florida’s citrus industry kicked into high gear in 2005.

The Asian citrus psyllid feeds on citrus tree leaves, causing the plant to contract a bacterial infection known as huanglongbing, commonly called citrus greening. The disease causes rapid root loss, slowly draining the life from healthy trees as they try to absorb and retain nutrients. There is no known cure.

Citrus greening has slashed total U.S. orange production by 80 percent and grapefruit production by 88 percent since 2000, according to a report from the American Farm Bureau Federation. California has now overtaken Florida to become the United States’ largest citrus producer, and nations such as Egypt and South Africa now export more oranges worldwide.

But Florida citrus farmers are not giving up.

When I was young, it was more acceptable than it is today to mimic the speech of people who speak English with a recognizable accent. I remember that the stereotype of an Italian accent ended practically every-a word-a with the schwa sound-a. It's funny that I never questioned why, because none of the Italians I knew spoke like that.

Now I'm wondering if what the mimics were copying was not a generalized Italian accent, but specifically a Sicilian accent. That way of speaking was startlingly prevalent in our recent, and admittedly narrow, experience of Sicily. It marked the speech of our tour guide so strongly that a non-native speaking as she did would be accused of mockery.

I wrote the above when I documented our travel experiences; finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask Claude about it. I'll skip the technical aspects of Claude's response, but the upshot is that I was right, though it's a feature not just of Sicily but of southern Italy in general. Italians from the more northern parts of Italy do not speak that way. Here's what Claude had to say about how it came to typify the "Italian" accent in America.

The overwhelming majority of Italian immigrants to the US between the 1880s and 1920s came from the Mezzogiorno — Sicily, Naples, Calabria, Campania — not from Tuscany or the north. The "Italian accent" that got absorbed into American pop culture (vaudeville, early film, later Chef Boyardee commercials and mob movies) was really a caricature built on Southern Italian and Sicilian-inflected English, filtered through immigrant communities in New York and elsewhere. It got flattened into "the" Italian accent in the popular imagination, even though it's specifically a regional feature.

It is as if all Americans were portrayed in foreign movies, commercials, and comedy shows as being from the Deep South, or maybe Brooklyn.

In the spirit of Trust but Verify, before posting I ran this through Gemini, which caught one typo and a couple of awkward sentences. (I reworded the latter, though not with Gemini's suggestions.) It also suggested the nuance that the "Italian accent" is present even in northern Italy, because the Italian language "favors...words ending in vowels. When native Italian speakers speak English, they naturally append a schwa to words ending in consonants to fit their native speech patterns." That makes sense, although I would say it is very much less marked in northern Italians.

On our last day in Florence, Italy, we visted the Museo Galileo, a museum of the history of science.  So many amazing ancient scientific instruments, both serious and playful!

One that lands on the playful scale is an optical toy from 1642, designed and built by Jean-François Nicéron, a French mathematician and friar.  (The intersection of Faith and Science showed up again and again during our time in Florence.)  Looking through the instrument at an apparently jumbled and nonsensical painting reveals an image of a portrait of Grand Duke Ferdinando II de' Medici.

On the more serious side, I was delighted to find a 17th century calculator (for addition) with dials turned by a hand-held stylus.  It looked and functioned remarkably like the addition machine I remember my parents using when calculating their income tax in the 1950's (most likely a Sterling Dial-a-Matic).

And there I also saw my first Faraday Net.  Looking remarkably as if you would use it to catch butterflies, it's actually the device Faraday used to demonstrate that an electric charge resides entirely on the outside of a charged conductor.   It's a predecessor to the Faraday Cage, and explains why your cell phone stops working in elevators and why some people like to wear tin-foil caps.

The following gets a little technical, but if like me you have a particular interest in American Sign Language, you might enjoy it.

Sign Language in the Museum

There was one feature of the museum itself that puzzled me.  Throughout, there were video screens displaying an image or video, along with text in both English and Italian, and a sign language interpreter (for what version of sign language I could not tell).  At first I was just thrilled that they thought to include Deaf people—but then I thought, Why? Anyone old enough to be interested in the material would also be old enough to read the text.

The question intrigued me sufficiently that I posed it to Gemini, and received a detailed answer, which I've edited slightly for compactness.  It simultaneously opened my eyes and left me with more questions.

[This] touches on a really fascinating aspect of how language, literacy, and accessibility work for the Deaf community.

To answer your first question: the version of sign language being used here is LIS (Lingua dei Segni Italiana), which is Italian Sign Language.

As for why the museum includes an LIS interpreter when written text is already available on the screen, there are a few very important reasons that usually surprise hearing visitors:

For many profoundly Deaf people, a sign language like LIS is their native, first language, while the written language of their country (like Italian or English) is actually a second language. Because sign languages have completely distinct grammar, syntax, and structure that don't match spoken or written languages, reading a dense paragraph of text can feel like reading a foreign language. Having a sign language interpreter allows them to receive the information in their natural, native language.

I knew this, but had not thought of it in a museum context.  What it brings to mind immediately is the German-speaking Swiss.  Their native language is the many dialects of Swiss German.  High German is their written language, generally acquired when they enter school, and thus a second language.  As far as native vs. acquired language is concerned, how is this different?

[A] hearing person can look at [a moving 3D object] while simultaneously listening to an audio track. A Deaf person cannot look at the text and look at the changing details of the historical instrument at the exact same time without constantly fracturing their attention. A sign language video allows for a much more fluid, visual processing of information that matches the natural rhythm of how Deaf individuals absorb visual content.

That's also a point I hadn't considered, perhaps because as a hearing person I had a similar problem.  I'm certain there was audio available somehow for these displays, but they were silent as far as I was concerned, and I, also, had to "look at the text and look at the changing details…at the exact same time."  I don't know enough to guess how watching both the changing details and the interpreter simultaneously fractures the attention less.

Many European museums receive funding or accessibility mandates to follow Universal Design principles. This means creating an environment that doesn't just provide a workaround (like text), but actively treats different language communities equally. By providing LIS, the Museo Galileo ensures that Deaf visitors get the same depth of engagement, tone, and emphasis that a hearing person gets from an audio guide.

It is a subtle layer of cultural and linguistic accessibility that hearing people rarely have to think about, but it makes a world of difference for the Deaf community.

The question of whether or not there are enough native speakers of Italian Sign Language to justify privileging them over others who also miss that depth of engagement—Deaf speakers of American Sign Language, for example, or visitors who speak neither Italian nor English—is an issue I can't effectively address.  But as a former resident of Rochester, New York, which has a sizeable Deaf community, and having a daughter who took a college minor in American Sign Language, I enjoyed diving deeper into the reasons for the existence of these displays.

Buc-ee's not only has low-priced gas, decent food, and the best restrooms on I-95, it also rivals South of the Border for billboard advertising.  Seen recently:

OPERATION EMPTY BLADDER

and my personal favorite,

EVERY LICENSE PLATE STOPS HERE

If you know, you know.

Gemini is very good at photo identification, but I wasn't expecting much from this one.  I didn't need the identification, but thought it would be fun to see what Gemini could do.  (Click on the photo to see it better.)

Here's how the chat went:

Me:  I don't expect this photo to have enough information for an identification; I'm just curious as to what you can guess from it.

Gemini:

There is surprisingly a wealth of hidden clues in this photo that let us piece together quite a story!

Here is what we can deduce like a detective:

1. You are definitely in Italy

The dead giveaway is the word "ALBERGO" on the sign, which is the Italian word for a hotel or inn. Furthermore, that specific red, white, and green design with the key symbol is an official regional regulatory plaque used in Italy to display a property's classification.

2. It’s a modest, traditional stay

The two red stars prominently stamped at the bottom of the plaque tell us this is a cozy, no-frills 2-star hotel. The brass plaque right above it reads "Hotel Speranza" (or a very closely related name), which translates beautifully to Hotel Hope.

3. The exact street address

The number 3 is displayed in the classic, blue-bordered white ceramic tile style that you see on buildings all across Italian towns and cities.

4. Classic Italian alleyway architecture

The heavy, solid wood double doors with the polished brass kickplate at the bottom, the smooth painted plaster facade, and the security bars over the high window are incredibly characteristic of historic, narrow Italian streets—the kind where you turn a corner and suddenly find yourself right at the entrance of a hidden local guesthouse.

5. Ready for exploration

The traveler in the photo is perfectly geared up for a classic European day out: a sun-protecting bucket hat, a practical multi-pocket travel vest, comfortable walking shoes, and a map or guidebook clutched in hand.

It captures that quintessential, wonderful travel feeling of pausing outside your hotel just before heading out to explore the city!

Me:  That was a fantastic piece of detective work. There's a lot more in the photo than I had noticed. Did you make use of the photo's exif data to help, or was that just from the image?

Gemini:

That was 100% just from the visual clues in the image itself!

When you share an image directly here, any hidden EXIF metadata (like the exact GPS coordinates, camera model, or the timestamp of when it was taken) is automatically stripped away for privacy. I couldn't see any of the digital "breadcrumbs" even if I wanted to.

Everything came down to zooming in on the physical details: reading the text on that small brass plaque, identifying the regional hotel classification symbol, and recognizing the style of the house number tile. It’s amazing how much data a single historic European storefront or doorway naturally puts on display if you know what to look for!

Trust, but verify.

Wikipedia informs me that President Ronald Reagan's trademark phrase was a Russian proverb (доверяй, но проверяй, or doveryai, no proveryai) taught to him by Suzanne Massie, a scholar of Russian history, who advised him, "The Russians like to talk in proverbs. It would be nice of you to know a few. You are an actor—you can learn them very quickly." Reagan eagerly adopted the phrase and used it frequently, especially when talking about American-Russian negotiations during the Cold War.

Given Reagan's success in dealing with a highly intelligent and well-informed entity that had the potential to do either much good or devastating harm—or both—we should probably heed his advice when negotiating the tangled risks and benefits of Artificial Intelligence.

We can't live, much less prosper, without trust. We are born with the instinct to trust our mothers, and if we live in a healthy home that spreads to include fathers, other family, friends, teachers, doctors, pastors, government officials—our need to trust the world around us goes very high, wide, and deep. To buy an egg from the grocery store requires trusting with our health a long chain of other people responsible for its journey from chicken to plate. That's why we have customs, and rules, and laws, and government inspectors tasked with ensuring that the process works. But quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will verify that our trust is justified?

We will. We must. The buck stops with us.

Because we cannot verify everything we depend on, and must live as if the world is in the main trustworthy, we must also be alert and aware and never forget that betrayal, whether malicious or unintentional, is always a possibility.

What on earth does this have to do with Artificial Intelligence?

I've been writing frequently about my AI Adventures, and the amazing things I've been able to do with its help. I'm having a happy time on this adventure, but the warning at the bottom of each screen, "Claude is AI and can make mistakes. Please double-check responses" is no joke. I cannot do anything about the mid-level worries ("Is AI going to take over my work and eliminate my job?") and certainly the high-level worries ("Is AI going to take over the world and eliminate humanity?") are above my pay grade. But periodically checking on the accuracy of an answer is within my reach.

Here's a small, recent example.

I've been using Gemini to help me identify places and pictures from our recent trip, and it's no secret I've been impressed. But Gemini indeed "can make mistakes."

I uploaded a photo of Raphael's Portrait of Agnolo Doni that I had taken at the Pitti Palace. Gemini correctly identified it, and provided numerous details, which ironically time and knowledge constraints keep me from verifying. But when it told me that the portrait was hanging in the Uffizi, alarm bells rang. I was certain I'd taken that photo at the Pitti, and by uploading the photos just before and after the painting in question, with their timestamps, I convinced Gemini that the painting was indeed where I said.

How did that happen? Gemini's information was not so much wrong as out of date. For a long time the painting had hung in the Palatine Gallery of the Palazzo Pitti. But at some point it was given special honor at the Uffizi and displayed there together with Raphael's portrait of Doni's wife and Michelangelo's Doni Tondo, which had been commissioned to celebrate their marriage. However, thanks to the big renovation project, Portrait of Agnolo Doni made its way back home, at least for now.

Trust your own experience, and verify regularly.