A Policeman in the Free State

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.

A Policeman in the Free State

by Tom deSabla

7:00 A.M. 2017 - I get out of bed energized to go to work. Why not? After all, I'm making 70K a year to do what I love - law enforcement. I give my sleepy wife a kiss as I prepare to dress for work. Noticing my work pants are still too tight, I sit down for a bowl of fruit and some coffee with no fat creamer. No way am I getting suspended for exceeding the body fat guidelines again. That was embarrassing as hell. Ten lousy pounds overweight and they suspend me without pay. Of course, I love my job; and it pays more than what cops make in the O49. Still, just like them, we take pride in how well we do our jobs. We do our jobs better, if you ask me. Our standards are so much higher, it's almost unfair to compare. It's not our fault the free state does things differently; in fact, that's why most of us came here.

After my distinctly unsatisfying breakfast, I hop in my car, radio the station, and take off. Driving down the interstate at a comfortable 95 mph, it's remarkable how polite everyone is about yielding to faster traffic. I chuckle at my recollection of the heated debate over the changes in our state traffic laws - changes that resulted in the lowest fatality rates ever; and brought sanity back to a deeply flawed process. Oh, how the statist judges and politicians screamed. Most of the people, however, came to realize that it made perfect sense for traffic laws to be refocused on protecting our rights, instead of mindlessly creating and enforcing violations.

Nowadays, every traffic ticket has a section where the officer must specify how the infraction impacted a specific other driver or vehicle. Faced with this new requirement, speed violations tumbled to record lows, leaving cops better able to catch true rights violations, such as blocking traffic, failure to yield, and running red lights in traffic. This resulted in a much more polite and respectful driving experience for everyone. And they got where they were going quicker than ever. When drivers see my vehicle this morning, they don't suddenly slow down, like they do in the O49; instead, they maintain speed, and stay to the right so as not to block me, or anyone else.

All except this one brown Lexus with Vermont tags, stubbornly cruising in the left lane at about 70 mph, with a line of 7 cars backed up behind it. I knew what this could lead to - impatient drivers pulling into the right lanes to pass, increasing the potential for a rush hour mishap. I pull in behind the Lexus and flash my lights. The driver pulls over on the left side of the highway with me behind, radioing in the stop and the tag # of the Lexus. I walk up to the drivers side, and a man dutifully hands me his license and registration, "What's the problem, officer," he asks. "I was only doing 70." "That's the problem," I inform him. "I pulled you over for blocking traffic."

He looks at me as if there were rutabagas growing out of my ears. "How can I be blocking traffic if I'm going the speed limit?" I explain to him that speed limits are only suggestions; and that he can be cited for impeding the flow of traffic, regardless of what speed he's traveling. I remind him to stay to the right if he wants to do 70 mph. I ask him if he understands the law now, he assures me he does. After reminding him that we have a warnings database, I issue him a warning. As he drives away, I notice an old, faded "speed kills" bumper sticker on the back of his car. Good old NHTSA. I sigh and continue on my way.

12:00 Noon - A turkey sub with light mayonnaise. Dry as a bone, but I wash it down with cola.

1:18 PM - I get called to a house in a nice suburb of Concord. Apparently, there's a man locked in a room, bingeing on cocaine. His wife is terrified, and wants the police to intervene. Hyper alert now, my brain racing, I remind myself that totally new strategies can be used - different from what I had learned years ago in training. The reason is that 18 months ago, in a very bitter debate, the state had courageously and completely legalized cocaine and narcotics in the face of federal threats and opposition.

Opponents feared that the new law would ensnare many more citizens into drug addiction; while proponents said it would reduce overall harm. This afternoon, this particular problem and the way it is handled will go a long way toward determining which group was right. I am dispatched to the Williams' home along with a two-man team in another cruiser.

I arrive first; but resisting temptation, I wait for the two junior officers, Sanders and Pino, to pull up with their lights flashing. I walk up and ask them to turn them off,
"Hey, turn out your lights, will you? Yeah, listen, this guys supposed to be high as a kite, and I don't want to agitate him, ok?
I remind them that as far as we know, according to the laws of our state, he hasn't committed any crimes yet; so our objective should be to assess the situation, and basically either be of help to the family, or failing that, at least do no harm. Seeing the looks on their faces, I suggest what I had wanted to do from the beginning, "I'm pretty familiar with this type of situation, so how about you let me handle it, and back me up if I need it, ok?" They don't question how I got familiar with it; but they sure look relieved anyway.

I realize now that the situation is mine to deal with, for good or for ill. I walk up to the door with Pino ten feet behind me, and Sanders out at the car. A distraught woman immediately opens the door and motions for me to come in.
"It's my husband, he's locked in the basement."
"Is he doing drugs, ma'am?"
"I'm sure he's doing cocaine."
Even though I already know this, the implications still give me a chill of fear,
"How long has he been in there?" I query, trying to conceal my mounting sense of dread.
"Since last night."
"All night ma'am? How do you know that?"
"Well, he never came to bed, so I got up about 1:00 AM and went knocking on the door. He kept saying he'd be out in minute but he never did come out."
"He hasn't come out?"
"No - I'm scared, officer, I don't want him to die from that stuff. And he acts weird when he does a lot of it; sometimes he talks about suicide. I want him to stop; but I don't want him to go to jail. That would ruin his life - our lives. But it's legal now, right? So you won't take him to jail?"
"I won't arrest him unless he breaks the law, ok ma'am?
She nods her head and looks grateful.
"Has he threatened you?"
"No."
"Does he have a weapon down there?"
"Yeah, he probably has his pistol, and I think there's a shotgun down there too."
Swell, I'm thinking, now I've got to deal with a coked up Rambo. I ask her if she had ever seen him violent, and she said she hadn't. Nor did he ever talk about shooting other people. Somewhat relieved, I decide not to rush.
"Do you have any reason to believe that he's going to come charging up out of there with guns blazing, ma'am?"
"Well...no, I don't think so; he's only talked about killing himself. He's probably too busy with his drugs, anyway."
"Let me ask you something, what do you want me to do? I can't arrest him unless he breaks the law. You DID say that you didn't want me to arrest him, right?"
"I understand, but can't you do something? Can't you make him leave or something?"
"That's going to drive him out into the street with his stuff. Is that what you want?"
"Can't you take the drugs away from him?"
"Mrs. Williams, he could just get more. Besides, if I try to do that, he may become more dangerous than he is now. And, they are his drugs, his property. I have no right to take them away from him. Unless he was forcing them on others - then I could take the drugs away and lock him up. Has he done that?"
"Of course not," she says indignantly, "he would never do that."
"Ma'am, please remember, he's your husband. I don't know what he would or would not do. I'm depending on you to help me with that - ok?
"Ok."
"Now, what I can do, is try to talk to him a little. Maybe I can get him to stop. If he stops, he can go right up the street to the clinic if he wants. I could give him a ride if needed. They might be able to help him come down from the drug a little easier."
"Can't you make him go?"
"No ma'am, I cannot make him go."
"Why does he have to stay here?"
"Is this house partly his ma'am - doesn't he live here?
"Yes."
"He has a right to be here, as long as he isn't violating someone else's rights. Do you understand that, ma'am?"
Reluctantly, she nods her head.
"You know, Mrs. Williams, it might be safer for you to leave the house for a while."
She shakes her head and says "Officer, he's my husband and I love him; I won't leave him like this. I want to help."
I tell her I appreciate that, but I'm already thinking of what to say to this guy. I go over to the basement door and knock quietly.
"Mr. Williams? Mr. Williams? Can you hear me?"
After a pause, a thick voice answers, "Who is that? I'll be out in a minute..."
"This is Officer Paine, state police, Mr. Williams." I hear a sound like a glass pipe clinking and a chair squeaking, and then an alarmingly familiar metallic clicking sound.
"Now I'm not here to arrest you, Mr. Williams." I quickly say, trying to keep my voice low.
"That's right," his voice is stronger now. "I'm not breaking any laws, and this is my house. Why don't you leave me alone?"
"I respect your property rights Mr. Williams, but..."
"Doctor Williams - I'm a doctor." What a butthole.
"Yes, Dr Williams - I'm here because your wife has given me permission to come in. She's worried about you. She says you've been down there all night doing cocaine."
"So what? I'm not hurting anyone. If you come in here, I'll kill myself." His wife gasps and begins quietly sobbing.
"Why would you do a thing like that, Dr Williams?"
"I just want to get high right now. I just want to be left alone."
"Dr Williams, do you love your wife?"
"Yes..."
"Sir, you've been locked up in the basement all night, your wife is very upset. You do realize that something is wrong here, don't you sir? Something IS wrong, isn't it sir?"
"I know, I know, but I can't stop right now, I just can't. I'll stop in a little bit."
"Ok, Dr Williams, let's reason this out, ok? We can do that, can't we? I'm not busting in there, and you're not committing a crime. So...it doesn't hurt to talk, does it?"
"I guess not."
"You got this coke from a pharmacy, correct? So, you can always get more, right?"
"Yes."
"How much coke did you buy sir?"
"Two ounces," Jesus Christ, two freakin ounces?! That's enough for one guy to stay high for two weeks. In other words, enough to kill himself with.
Trying not to show my concern, I ask him "How much did you spend on it, sir?"
"120 dollars."
I note this admission with guarded relief. After all, the more money someone blows on drugs, the more despondent and suicidal the user becomes. $120 isn't going to break this guy.
"Ok, so you have most of it left then, right sir? You've only used what, a couple of grams?"
"I don't know, an 8th of an ounce, maybe."
"Dr Williams, I know, and I think you know too, that it's going to be very difficult for you to stop doing the coke. You have a very good chance of killing yourself if you stay in there long enough. You don't really want to kill yourself, do you, doctor? I mean, what about your wife?"
"I don't want to die, but if I let you in here, you'll take it away, and you'll put me in jail."
"I won't do that Dr Williams, but I'd like you to, at the very least, take a break."
"You're telling me that if I just stop for while, and come out, you won't take my stuff, or lock me up?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." Now an idea was coming to me, a little unorthodox, but it might work.
"I'll make a deal with you, Dr Williams, I'll hold your coke for you, while you take a pause. My only condition is that that pause is at least one hour. I'll give you my pager number, and when you page me, I'll drop it off. Also, if you want to go down to the clinic, I'll be glad to take you down there. I'll still hold your coke for you."
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"It's not a crime for you to possess the coke, so it isn't a crime for me to possess it either. If it'll get you out of that basement for a while, it's worth it to me."
"Swear to God that you're not lying to me. If I give you my stuff - you promise to give it back?"
"I promise, but you have to stop for one hour, and you ought to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
I snicker to myself upon hearing this - of course he wasn't hungry - he's coked out of his mind. But still, if he eats, he may get tired, and maybe quit. I decide to go for broke.
"Dr Williams, you have to eat; that's part of the deal. You stop for at least one hour, and you eat something. Then, if you still want to keep destroying yourself and your marriage, I'll drop off your stuff for you."
"I'm going to want it back in an hour, officer, I'm sorry."
"Ok. If you want it back, I'll bring it."
"I'm going to do one more hit, and then I'm coming out."
"Dr Williams, please don't do that." We hear the noise of a torch being lit coming through the door. She looks at me helplessly, silently asking me to break in and stop him. My mind is swirling, but I realize that I can't do it because he hasn't committed a crime. I'm also remembering that metallic clicking sound, and hoping he'll come out voluntarily. I turn to her and speak quietly and quickly "Mrs. Williams, you love him, right? When he comes out, have some food ready, and stay very loving with him." I lean close to her, "Ma'am, I'll deny that I ever said this, but if you want him to stop, feed him, and then try to get him into bed. If you can do that, however you do that, he may be able to go to sleep."
She looks at me quizzically for a second; then she understands and nods her head.
"I understand. I sent the kids to the neighbors; they can stay there the rest of the afternoon," she confirmed.
"Dr Williams? You ready?" No answer for a couple of seconds. I'm getting worried. Finally his thick voice answers, "Ok, I'm coming out." I breathe a prayer of thanks. But, "You aren't armed, are you Dr Williams?"
Panicked now, "What, are you all out there getting ready to shoot me? Oh my God, I'll kill myself first."
Damn, this is going south in a hurry.
"No, Dr Williams, there is no we, I swear it's just me and I'm not going to shoot you. I'm trying to help you. My gun is in my holster, isn't it Mrs. Williams?"
"Walter, honey, he's telling the truth," she immediately supplies, to her credit.
Williams wants to make sure; "You swear you'll give me back my stuff in one hour?"
"I swear." I just got another idea, "Dr Williams, I'm going to slide my pager number under the door. You can call it from down there, right? You'll hear it go off when you call. I'm not lying to you sir, I promise."

2:28 PM - A bedraggled and zombie-eyed man opens the door with two bottles in his hands, looking frantically around like a wild animal. "Ok, I'm taking your word on what you said; here's my stuff, now will you leave?"
"I have permission from your wife to search the basement to make sure that you keep your word."
"Oh, great honey, thanks a lot."
"Walter, please..."
"I left more down there. I'll go get it." Screw that, I'm thinking, I quickly block his way. Technically, this is a rights violation, but I felt justified.
"No, No Dr Williams, you stay up here like you promised. Tell me where it is, and I won't have to search for it."
"I can't believe this crap."
"Please, Dr Williams, let's just both of us follow through on our word, ok?" I'm a little bit scared now, because this whole plan depends on his voluntary cooperation. If he craps out, there would be little I could do, absent the commission of a crime. Seconds pass, though they seem like hours. Finally...
"It's in the bottom drawer of my toolbox."
"All of it, Doctor?"
"Yes, but you promised all of it back."
"I know, Doctor. I'll keep it all safe 'till you page me."

Five minutes later, the smell of bacon wafts through the house, as Sanders, Pino, and I prepare to leave. The basement is clean of coke, as far as I can tell, and Williams is sitting in the kitchen with his wife fussing over him. She looks up at me with a tight little smile that speaks volumes. As we walk out to our cars, the two officers both start talking at once.
"Jeez, Paine, are you freakin nuts? I can't believe you're going to carry this guy's dope around with you."
"Paine, you are one crazy mother. Did you really tell him you'd give him his stuff back?"
"Sure I did, why not?"
"What are you going to do if he pages you while you're on a call, you're just going to run his stuff over to him?" Worried now, afraid they've been party to something improper.
I stop and lay it out for them. "Look you guys, first off, I'm not going to drop everything and run the guy's stuff back to him. He'll probably page me in an hour; then I'll call him back in another ? hour, telling him that I'll be by in ? hour to 45 minutes. Meanwhile, his wife is going to be feeding him and keeping him in bed. By the time I finally DO get by there, it'll be at least 3 hours from now, by which time I'll bet the guy will give up the binge, and hopefully tell me to throw his stuff away."
This seems to impress them somewhat; but then Pino says, "I would have just busted in there and taken the guy's stuff. You had the wife's permission, why didn't you just do it that way?"
I then tell them what I'd just seen in the basement: A loaded automatic pistol and a loaded shotgun, and a suicide note wadded up and thrown in the trash. I remind them of all the cocaine suicides in the O49.
"He was ready to shoot himself, guys. If I had busted in, he might have done it, or shot me. This way is better - less risky."
Sanders persists "You don't think he's going to just wait for you to bring back his stuff and start all over again?"
"Maybe, but look at it this way, that family is better off than when we came there. And we did no harm. I mean, if the guy's going to be a stupid cokehead, in the end, there's not much we can do about it anyway. At least he didn't spend his whole paycheck on it like I used to do. Talk about wanting to kill yourself."
They look at me wonderingly, and seem to understand a little.
"I can't believe he's a freakin' doctor," says Sanders.
"I know! Some doctor he is, I don't want him working on me," Pino adds.

4:45 PM - As I head in to the station for end of shift, I reflect on the Williams situation. Sure enough, one hour after I left his house, Williams had paged me. I called back ? hour later, and his wife answered. "He's right here," she said in a husky voice. There was some fumbling and whispered argument, and then he came on the line and said, "Just throw the stuff away, will you Officer Paine? I don't want to do any more right now. I'm going to the clinic when I wake up tomorrow. And thanks for what you did."

Chalk up one for the good guys, I think to myself. It's a good thing that this little episode happened in the Free State. Had Mrs. Williams' call for help been answered in the O49, someone would have likely been shot or sent to jail, or both. But not today, not in the free state, and not on my shift, I affirm with pride. Maybe I'll splurge on a rib dinner tonight. I've earned it.

Back to Essays

New Kid on the Block

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.

New Kid on the Block

How to make the move easier for everyone
(from lessons learned the hard way)

by Eric Swegle

In my 42 years of life I have moved from one town to another 16 times. That's an average of once every 2½ years! It's also an average which gives me a unique perspective on what it takes to pull up stakes and transplant oneself in surroundings which are very different from what one may be accustomed to.

So what do you do when you find yourself in unfamiliar territory? It's a question many FSP participants will be asking themselves fairly soon.

Many of us will be urbanites who, for the first time in our lives, will be living in a state which has fewer people than the city we just left behind. Even if we move to a town which has a population equivalent to that of our former home, we may find that regional differences stop any other comparisons cold. It's a fact that must be dealt with. Smaller communities are fundamentally different from larger ones, and they have a whole differerent set of "rules". And moving under any set of circumstances always brings about new challenges.

I offer the following suggestions to all FSP participants in the hopes that they will be able to learn from my experiences. By doing so we can go a long way toward making our presence more acceptable to our new neighbors in a manner as painless as possible for all of us. You may not like some of the following, but trust me – these observations can absolutely can save you some heartache and hassle.

1. Think of yourself as a guest – one who is on probation.

   Swallow that pride. Yes, you may be important wherever it is you are now. But you know what? Your new neighbors really don't care, so don't try to impress them. Mind your manners. You must not give the locals any fuel for the fire of suspicion that will be inherent. It will be the obligation of all FSP participants to set an exemplary standard of behavior. If we fail to gain respect the whole project may fail. It really is as simple as that.

2. Learn the Art of Patience – and practice it vigilantly.

   Lots of things will be different in your new home, including some things which seem so routine now that you take them for granted as universal. A good example of this is how we drive our vehicles. In small towns, for example, people tend to drive more slowly. When I moved from Baltimore to a small town in Kansas, I was enraged at how slowly everyone drove. In many small towns it is not unusual to see people traveling in opposite directions suddenly stop their cars in the middle of the street to chat. Resist the urge to flip them off! Chances are good that if the offending drivers are not your banker and barber, they are at least related to them – and the word will get around. Just wait patiently, or slowly and politely drive around them.

3. Adjust your Life Clock – not just your time zone.

   What the heck is a Life Clock? It's a term I use to describe the sense of time and urgency that varies from one locale to another. It's more than an old adage that time passes more slowly in a small town – it's a fact! People in small towns are not always governed by the clock as rigidly as you may now be. Rather than complaining about how sloppy and causal everyone else is, try instead to recognize that you are simply wound too tightly and really need to relax! If something doesn't happen exactly when and how you want it to, accept the fact gracefully and move on. Never forget that you are the newcomer.

4. Observe and respect vernacular ways.

   Are you ever annoyed by the thoughtless cell phone user in a restaurant? Believe it or not, you may appear just as crass to the locals when you fail to conform to their way of doing things. People in big cities tend to talk more loudly (and quickly) than small town people. Like it or not, this can offend people. I don't mean to suggest that you need to acquire a fake accent. Just use common sense and be aware of how you communicate, when out and about. It's simply a matter of trying to be more conscientious than usual about routine behavior when in unfamiliar territory. It won't take long before you get the hang of things. The little extra effort you need to begin with, will pay off in the long run.

5. You are highly visible!

   At the risk of sounding patronizing, I can't emphasize enough the importance of truly understanding your new context. In an urban area, we regularly encounter people every day who we will never see again in our entire lives. It isn't like that in a small town. The people you see today are the same people you will see tomorrow and the next day. And they are seemingly all related to one another! Put more thought than usual into your interactions with others. Tip the waitress – even if she is slow, error-prone and preoccupied. She'll remember if you don't. You may feel invisible, but more than likely you are sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb.

6. Be a friend and neighbor – even if they don't do it first.

   It's natural for small town people to be curious about newcomers. Especially if you come rolling into town with exotic out-of-state plates. Don't be hurt if they don't run over with a freshly baked pie right off the bat. You are on probation, remember? If they do, that's great. Use the opportunity to open up and get to know them. Look for little ways to be a friend. Help push their car when stuck in the snow. Carry their mislaid newspaper to the door. It doesn't take much to express respect and friendship. You don't want to meet your new neighbors for the first time by advising them that their dog is spending too much time in your yard.

7. Resist the urge to change everything all at once!

   It may be the Free State to you – but your neighbors still think things are the same as they were before you got there! Remember, change happens slowly over many years. Like it or not, you will have to change yourself before you can make substantive changes around you.

8. Join a group – but consider your motive carefully.

   Joining a social club or community group can be an excellent way to begin the sometimes arduous process of acclimating and "fitting in". However, in doing so, it's important to not lose sight of that very fact; that your goal is to fit in and be accepted – not to alienate them.

   Let's say you join the local Historical Society and they're planning a promotional window display in an empty storefront. Unless they specifically ask for your help, it is probably best to initially put aside your 15 years experience as the Senior Window Dresser for the biggest upscale retail store in Philadelphia. The fact is, Eileen Snodgrass has been in charge of such things for the Historical Society for almost as long, and she likes doing it. So be a sport and recognize the fact. Yeah, you could do it better – a lot better in fact, but that's not the point. The point is to demonstrate a willingness to support the community. If helping Eileen create an amateurish window display will do that, then that is what you must do. If you prove yourself in this way, you will slowly earn the kind of respect you had back home and eventually your skills and opinion will be sought out. But not right away.

These suggestions are by no means comprehensive, but I think they convey something about the delicate cultural situations that are inevitably confronted when we move from one type of community to another. The most important thing of all, I think, is to make a conscious effort at anticipating potential hot spots and doing our best to respect existing conditions.

Personally, I look forward to the challenge of learning about the existing Free State vernacular!

Back to Essays

This is Not the Country

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.

This is Not the Country

By Kat Dillon

This is not the country I once thought we lived in This is the country where Wars of aggression fought for reasons undisclosed Prisoners of wars tortured, humiliated Any can be named terrorist, locked up, no recourse This is not the country I once thought we lived in This is the country where Davidians and their children burned alive Little old ladies handcuffed, tasered The ill imprisoned, the crime: drugging their pain This is not the country I once thought we lived in This is the country where The president makes laws, just like a king Land, property taken by force of arms The Constitution now a living, ignored document This is not the country I once thought we lived in This is the country where Young girls are strip-searched for drugs Children are taught of world sovereignty Whatever feels good is right, proper This is not the country I once thought we lived in This is the country where Forgotten are Henry's brave words, liberty or death None remember Washington's battle valor Freedom's sacrifice, neither recalled nor appreciated This is not the country I once thought we lived in Is that country forever gone?

Back to Essays

Ode to the Free State Project

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.

Ode to the Free State Project
by Philip Denisch

By politics I have been shipwrecked, living for the statist prefect, scarce the freedoms did I detect, inside thinking, "Free State Project". Living here the life of deject, by the nanny-state am henpecked, socialism they try to infect, but me wanting, "Free State Project". Many taxes they do collect, but no grievance try to correct, with their bayonets all erect, my soul screams out for "Free State Project". Politicians smug from elect, bathing me in lots of neglect, we know their morals as a defect, where, oh where, is "Free State Project". Freedom is the only object, liberty for all to inspect, every franchise we will protect, forging now the "Free State Project". From the states we'll gladly eject, don't you dare call me a 'subject', across the land we'll all have trekked, to make a home - "Free State Project". Each of us not like an insect, freedom in the state we'll inject, working hard to make it perfect, soon to be the "Free State Project". Some may try our course to deflect, on the goal we all must reflect, to fix the state that we will select, onward to the "Free State Project". All the info we must prosect, facts to find and always rechecked, faulty data shall be suspect, wisely chose the "Free State Project". Living free I fully expect, from this path I shall not inflect, servitude I fully reject, come of age the "Free State Project".

Morning in the Free State by Bryan Stevenson

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 Bryan Stevenson

I wake up with the sun, not suddenly, but quickly. Within 60 seconds I am wide awake. I take a moment to enjoy the stillness of the house and to look over at my wife and thank God for her, my children, and the blessings of liberty.

Ten minutes later I head out for my morning workout. I pass my Ruger Security 6, 357 Magnum hanging in its holster by the door as I head out. I jog down the mostly typical suburban street, but I notice again some of the distinctions that make this place home. The lots are larger and more spread out than most, and the houses vary in style and size, with yardwork and other accoutrements proclaiming the personality of the occupants. Within minutes I have reached my destination.

The community fitness center is the result of a collaborative effort among 22 of the neighborhood's families. We bought a centrally located lot and proceded to build a small gym to house fitness equipment, everything from free weights to aerobic machines. The cost was extremely affordable and we were able to get it built in under one month thanks to the fact that there are no property taxes, and no city permits or building inspections are required, although we did hire Solomon's Builders to inspect it, just to be safe. The building received their Gold Seal, which is only given to about 2% of all the buildings they inspect! We now have over 50 families participating and we have been able to add a racquetball court, two tennis courts, and we are planning for future expansion.

I jog back home the long way, reflecting on the conversation in the gym. In between the strain of bench pressing and inverted crunches, a few of us got into a debate about the best elementary education options in the area. Some supported homeschooling, others religious schools, while others preferred the new curriculum-based school which catered course work for each student based on their strengths and interests. All three of my children were in the catered school, and my youngest was already working on basic internet technologies at the age of six, while my oldest, who is twelve, was getting ready to display some of his work at the art exhibit.

I arrive at my house, out of breath, and still thinking about my kids and the success they have had pursuing their dreams, even at such a young age. My wife sees me through the front window and signs that she loves me and asks what I'd like for breakfast. I sign back that I was planning to make some of my famous honey-wheat waffles. I have to do something around the house, afterall, my wife is superwoman. Not only does she manage the three children, and the house, but she also works part-time at the school teaching ASL (American Sign Language) as a foreign language, and she volunteers at the church with their "basic skills" classes, teaching reading and writing to new students who were recently attending public schools in another state.

The morning passes quickly. I make breakfast, and the family eats together in the dining room. We talk about the recent visit from Doctor Wong, which is always exciting for the kids (that guy has a real gift).

We were able, as a state, to opt out of all the federal health care requirements, so it was a simple matter for our community to sign a contract with Doctor Wong. He visits each family every six months to make sure everyone is healthy and happy. Granted, every community and neighborhood is different, but with all of the young families here, it makes sense for us to pool our resources, and anyone is free to opt-out if they choose to.

I get the kids dressed after breakfast, encourage them to work hard during the day, and assure them that we'll have a huge watergun fight when they get home. I walk them out to the school van and strap them all into the seats which are custom made for their size. The driver, who is licensed by Jehu's Driving School, waves as he drives off at 35 mph. My wife gets a much better kiss as she heads off to the church for her volunteer work. She double checks her purse making sure all the necessities of life are available, makeup, cash, credit card, ample supply of cotton balls (I still have no idea what those are for, and I'm afraid to ask), her employer issued id card, and of course the 9mm Beretta she carries with her everywhere (yes, it's a large purse).

I stand outside of my garage, waving to my wife. A small cloud passes in front of the sun. The American flag on my front porch catches my eye as it sways slightly in the breeze. I smile as I realize that one of those 50 stars now truly stands for liberty and freedom.

Well, the daily grind awaits, enough daydreaming. Thank God that my home office doesn't have to meet OSHA requirements. I can't be bothered to run those cables under the house, and who screws in all the mounting screws on a computer rack? In any case, today is beautiful. I think I'll just sit out back by the heated pool with my wireless laptop and a nice cold protein shake. Ok, now that I'm settled in, let's get to work.

Back to Essays