Wednesday is supposed to be “Pages Past” day, the day I repost stuff from the past. I’ve gotten out of the habit (garden) but was looking around at May 2015 and found this. Enjoy!

I came upon this at Instapundit.com last evening. I’m just now getting around to it. Here’s what I thought last night before I spent the day tilling and picking bricks out of the garden:

~~

I’m not okay with being included in the “we” beginning in the third sentence on the second paragraph.

We here at the Farm have books to propagate our values.

Example #1: From a book I picked up “on second thought” when I was told that the books in the Friends of the Library $1 room were 3/$1– and I only had four.

From the Year-Round Holiday Cookbook by Suzanne Huntley (1969) in the discussion of July– Independence day and picnics:

A lovely picnic can be composed of a “loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou . . . .,” though a little cheese for the bread would be a pleasant addition and “thou” might really prefer something heartier.

Seriously? Omar & Independence Day. How much more culture and many more books do you want? Have you even read this blog? Do you not know that I have an original New York Times review of someone famous at the time reading the Rubaiyat on stage? And the recording itself? 

And that we share all of this? By the way– Good Ol’ Omar played a role in the calendar. Did you know that? Yes. Yes you did because you read this blog and you become interested in interesting things like calendars.

I finished that book about Andrew Stiles. I don’t know math all that well at all so I really don’t have anything more to say other than that it was interesting.

My point is, don’t include me in your “we.” I’m really getting tired of that. We are doing the best we can. We. Read. Books. Even Missy reads books. Think about that. Out here in the middle of Mississippi there’s someone so illiterate and ill-read so as to think she can blog about a couple of talking dogs, one of whom– of the dogs– fancies herself an intellectual. (Rocky thinks words should mean something and since the only one he’s ever found that meant anything to him was, ruff– r-u-f-f– , that’s all he ever says.)

So don’t include me or Missy or Rocky– or Mr. Big Food or Miss M or Daughter C or Kat or Tony or any of the rest of us associated with the Farm in your “we.”

We. Read. Books.

We know.