By Justin Isherwood

My nephew, of whom I have spoken, is a gigantic lad, as some of you might appreciate, he of Menzel DNA. I have instructed my nephew, who is a believing sort (he did vote for Trump), that things are more complex than simple answers. Politicians thrive on one-liners, politics doesn’t.

I did sorta raised my nephew, he was my sister’s youngest, a big bumbling boy sent to the farm every summer for his uncle to tend. In his father’s words, my mission was to put some meat on the lad.

To admit I have a bias when it comes to kids, believing what most kids need is a couple summer semesters of farm life, farm chores, farm air, farm dirt, farm time, farm food, farm space, farm injury, farm grease … if I have missed a few indexes here, you catch my drift. These chores, these adventures are what is necessary to convert an over-sized and otherwise useless city kid into something mildly survivable, Menzel DNA or not.

I should have started earlier. Probably soon after his cord was cut, but motherhood has long been resistant to turn their darlings loose to warrior brothers even if for the betterment of mankind. So my nephew’s proper education was delayed until his eleventh year which is a tad late for genuine molecular reorientation. My nephew never did complete the standard course on dirt, meaning being comfortable with dirt. He still thinks civilization starts with a hot shower in the morning, and another one before bed. Myself I’ve never been that dirty.

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