NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

Morning in the Free State

by Philip Denisch

I open my eyes and see the sun peek over the tops of the trees, flooding my bedroom with a warm yellow glow. The robin on the balcony sings its song giving the feeling of happiness and hope to the new day. I yawn and stretch, lounging in the soft hemp-woven sheets (purchased recently at reasonable cost from Sean and Shelly's Chic Sheet Shop). My perspective is one of contentment and anticipation. Contentment in that I am where I want to be, doing what I want to do and without feeling the guilt of unknown crimes lurking in every corner. Anticipation in that the day ahead is mine to make of it what I will and succeed or fail on my own merit on the tasks I chose. I say to myself, "Self, it's great waking up in the Free State."

I spin out of bed and go to make breakfast. I get an orange, (from Suzie's Citrus Stall, she grows them herself in a green house). Then some eggs (I trade Fred next door -- his eggs for my tomatoes) to make an omelet for myself. My choice of cheeses is as varied as it is delicious. Each cheese maker's goal here in the Free State is to out-cheese the other cheese-makers. They don’t spend their time like those across the river, genuflecting before a thousand government bureaucrats whose tenure consists of finding, or creating, violations of a legion of innumerable, conflicting regulations.

The eggs were cooking nicely, a slice of toast on the side with some apricot jelly (from Jerry and Jane's Jelly Jamboree -- now on Fifth St, they used to be on Elm Ave, but that's another story). Back to the 'fridge for some milk -- I think how much cheaper milk is here in the Free State. For some reason, I think it even tastes better. I think music in the morning is a good idea, so I put in Puccini's, "Turandot", you know, to get the day started on the right foot. I look out over the trees to where they stop at the river, standing like a barricade against the other world, the other universe, just across the river. I shudder when I think of those who stay there.

I clean the dishes and get dressed, feeling all dapper and comfortable in my clothes (thanks to the wonderful work at Tim's Textile Tailoring Tattersall). The clothes that I choose to wear are not always thought of as…usual. I know it won't matter to just about everybody I would meet that day, and that makes me comfortable. It's as if the content of my character actually was what they were going by (or my lack thereof). Even if they didn’t like my content, they let me have it anyway. I know there are those who chuckle or smirk when they see me, but knowing they won’t bother me if I don’t bother them is a great feeling.

As I get ready to leave for work, I realize I am not thinking about whether or not I'll be safe on my trip to town. The local paper purposely uses a whole page for their "police blotter", which is almost always blank. When there are entries, it really is something different. I guess the old adage about an armed society being a polite society, is true. Here in the Free State, many people are armed. I was a bit worried about that at first, but after being here a while, I feel better about it, even glad for it. When I first heard about some of the people who went around armed, I was at least glad there weren't any laws here in the Free State about not being able to buy a bullet-proof vest. Imagine, on the other side of the river, the number of different ways they are prohibited from protecting themselves, that really made me afraid. One person I was concerned about was Old Missus Moses, ("Grandma Moses" to some, and "Moses' grandma" to others). That was before I heard her story. She'd been robbed 3 times on the other side of the river and finally decided to buy a gun for protection. She got a gun, took some training and hasn’t been robbed since. I even hear she embarrasses a few of the firearms experts at the annual target competition. When I think how those across the river are huddling in their hovels, unable to protect themselves, in fear of any little would-be terrorist, I pity them. When I think of them also in fear of the militarized police who may, or may not, get the address right on a non-reviewed, barely evidenced, no-knock raid, I think how they got what they asked for. Maybe "land of the free" once, but now shackled by their own fear. I can still remember the feeling of relief and pride, when I realized how much safer I was after moving. Thinking about how most of the able-bodied men and women around me are armed and capable of defending their land, (and I admit, someone had to explain to me the true, original meaning of militia), made me feel safer here than if I were almost anywhere else.

The weather is pleasant, I decide to walk to work. I must confess though, that my curiosity about the newly completed road is a factor in my decision. The new road goes right past my place and up to the edge of town. It is an odd sensation, being welcomed to walk along the road. I'm reminded of the "No pedestrians allowed" signs along most of the larger roads on the other side of the river. The soft spongy walkway feels nice under my shoes (imported from Italy, duty-free, thanks to Dan's Dog-cover Depot -- still on Elm). The builders did a good job protecting us "walkers" from the "powered traffic". They devised a unique net-like fence, that I could see through but kept most of the smells, sounds and all of the possible projectile objects, off the pedestrian walkway. The price was reasonable, a call from the roadway service phone to Ron's partially retarded son, who worked as the toll collector, would include another trip on my monthly bill (from the Ranging Ron Roadway Company). The walkway is quite agreeable, and I am pleasantly distracted from time to time by educational nature signs along the way. It seems Ron's niece is somewhat of a nature fanatic and she's posted signs along the walkway pointing out interesting bits of nature. She has, it seems, a particular fascination with small birds. The nesting and eating habits of the Goldfinch being of special interest. This is where I should say, "How sweet."

Nearing town, I couldn't help but notice a particularly amazing example of the nesting habits of a creature named Homo Sapiens Sapiens. This certain nest belonged to a certain, Jason Rockleigh Langhorn Wildabrandt, the third (as if you didn’t know). The building of which employed a large portion of the town for quite a while (as well as the services of the Capacious Construction Corporation) The home looks magnificent, all spires and towers with gardens and ponds all around. He had a great house-warming party when it was finished and invited everyone in the neighborhood. Since I arrived after it was built I never did get to see the inside. I've been told he hasn't let anyone inside since.

Another interesting site along the way, a feeding habit of sorts, the feeding of knowledge to the next generation. My eyes behold all the glory that is The Non-Home Home-School. OK, it's just a regular building. The glory part is in the attitude, of the students and the parents. The people involved sure are proud of what they're doing. The espirit de corps in that place seems more genuine and more sincere than any I'd ever seen on the other side of the river. It is a co-op of sorts, where you pay to share teaching resources with others. There are a few combined classes with experts and they take field trips and the like, but the main purpose is to share equipment. I guess they can buy a much better microscope if everyone pitches in. I wondered whether or I not I would have been better served in that kind of atmosphere. Although here in the Free State, if there's anything we have it's the freedom to choose. Just on the other side of town stands the crisp clean lines of the Aristotlian School of Reason. I've never been there, but I understand it has a, how shall I say it…"stricter" learning environment. I guess it all depends on the type of child. I'm just glad that all of the children aren't squished into the same mold and told to think the same way. I sure don't want musicians taught the same way as engineers. If your child wants to participate in sports, you can do that too, and again the choices are plenty. There's Paul's Pugilistic Palace, Harry's House of Horse-racing (next to Jerry's Jousting Joint), Bob's Baseball Boarding School, and although there is some objection to it, Connie's College of Cockfighting, (right next to Charlie's Chicken Chantry--"Best legs this side of Helen's").

As I get close to the town center, I can hear the voice of "Old Bill". In a town of unique people, this guy was a giant. He's never hurt anyone, and most people try to enjoy his rather peculiar brand of proselytizing. It seems he thinks aliens, you know, the green, bug-eyed type, started life on this planet long ago and are now watching how we grow and act. He does a great job on small engine repairs and rebuilding so his "unique outlook on life" is overlooked by most. Today he is standing just under the freshly polished statue of Ludwig Von Mises, ranting and raving about how we'd better be on our guard, etc. (against the invasion that's sure to come). I glance up at the statue gleaming brilliantly in the morning sun, and remember my childhood on the other side of the river and how most of the statues there involve heroes of some war. A smile slowly spreads across my face as I realize most of the statues I see around the Free State are of heroes of peace. Heroes of thought, heroes of building, heroes of creating. I surely won't debate here which type of hero has done more for the world, but to say that the burnish on Ludwig's statue put there by those who understand, far exceeds the tarnished, ordure-covered carvings of some politician's general.

I'm almost to the office by now and, after glancing at the artwork adorning Helen's Hall of Harlots, I stop in to say "Hi!" to Manny the Muckraker, proprietor of a local newspaper. It's a fun place with everyone smiling (except the political reporter). The things they print are true. The biggest difference between this paper in the Free State and those across the river, are the labels. If something is a true opinion -- they label it as such. If something has been found to be an objective fact, then it is labeled as such. Rumors are called rumors, gossip is stamped gossip (my favorite is Gus's Gossip Gully). Manny even goes so far as to identify the political leanings of the reports (most of us chuckle at the articles by Carl the Communistic Curmudgeon). We have a number of other newspapers, a few religious, a few business journals and even a secret Marxist pamphleteer. There's a bet around town on who the Marxist is, and whether they're serious or not. I pay my 2 Porcs for the latest copy of Manny's rag and chuckle again at the picture of Gail Wynand in the "Employee of the Month" picture frame.

I say "G'Day" and head back out to the sidewalk, (kept immaculately clean by Stu's Sidewalk Sweeping Service - never was on Elm). I walk the couple of blocks to the large red door with a sign that reads: "Enter at your Own Risk!" (lovingly crafted at Susie's Sign Service). There really wasn't anything especially dangerous inside, but it was a reminder, and a joke, at the expense of those on the other side of the river -- at least the boss had a sense of humor. I sit down in my chair, turn on the computer, and start to look at the project before me. On the outside of the file it reads: "Free State Project: A History".

Also see: Afternoon in the Free State