Paging Mr. Scopes
The hot topic in the letters-to-the-editor page in our esteemed local newspaper: denying evolution. Sheesh. You'd think they'd at least get some new arguments beyond misdefining the word "theory." Bonus letter: Our sheriff is good because he says grace before eating fast-food fried chicken.
To the Boneyard
One of my favorite gothic/pretentious aspects of my father's family is its private cemetery. I'm on my way there now, but don't worry, it's just to meet a landscaper.
Our graveyard doesn't have any great epitaphs on the stones, although we could have taken my father literally and inscribed his with "I told you I was sick," and one New York cousin swears his is going to read "Caught Dead in Greensboro."
The art of writing for tombstones has declined sharply from centuries past. Here's one I remember from the grave of an ancestor of my friend Andrew Norton in Connecticut:
We only know that thou hast gone/
And that the same returnless tide/
That bore thee from us still flows on/
And we who mourn thee with it glide.