Victor Davis Hanson In a much-heralded Washington Post column, David Ignatius recently called for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris not to run again. But to justify such a Draconian call, he first reviewed their tenures and concluded of Joe, “In sum, he has been a successful and effective president.” Consider the logic: the more successful […]
Victor Davis Hanson At that last dare, in the style of my dad, I began firing everyone over the next hour. José their patriarch? “You are fired.” Herlinda? “You’re fired too.” The boyfriend, “You’re out.” The daughter and son, ditto. I had turned from an unemployed Classical language Ph.D. failure into a stark raving madman
Victor Davis Hanson It was now 1976. My grandfather died suddenly in the bed where he was born in 1890, in the room of his grandmother’s and where I sleep today nearly a half-century later. His departure left my 86-year-old grandmother and Lila alone in the big house—and no one to run the ranch. My
Victor Davis Hanson Hilario was different altogether from either Burt or Rodrigo. He reminds me even today, nearly a half-century later of Mapache (“thief”) of The Wild Bunch, played by the illustrious Mexican actor Emilio “El Indio” Fernández—an admittedly brave general, but crazy, corrupt, a drunk—and unpredictable. For that matter, as I look back now,
Victor Davis Hanson Still stranger occurrences were to come. An ample penny bucket in our unlocked porch, where everyone threw their change, disappeared. How did that happen? During a party, two or three of the Lopezes would just show up in our yard and begin eating. Rodrigo, Sr. himself was said to be freelancing, using
Victor Davis Hanson My grandfather continued, “Rodrigo Lopez is his name. Came with good word from all who knew him. And he’s got a family too—five kids and a wife. Family man. And he’ll be lots of help.” In an instant, I kept fixating on the glory days of Joe, Manuel, and my uncle renting
Victor Davis Hanson As long as my grandfather had been still hale in his 60s and 70s, his presence rippled out throughout the farm. All of us tried to emulate his singular Roman agrarian morality. So, it was a hectic, wonderful time, full of visitors and loyal and skilled workers who respected “Mr. Davis,” largely
Victor Davis Hanson Oddly, as I said, for a lifelong farm laborer, Burton knew almost nothing about mechanics, indeed nothing about anything other than trying to do the physically impossible—like lifting 200-pound plum stumps or throwing up on the truck bed two-foot sections of three-foot diameter concrete irrigation pipe. I think he was the strongest
Victor Davis Hanson Burton was at least 6’5’’. He may have been about 55 years old—although he was one of those strange people who were ageless and could have been either 40 or 70. What was not ambiguous was his strength. He was made of solid muscle. Burt, as he wished to be known, was
Victor Davis Hanson There are many attractions—open spaces, beautiful farmland, central location, “diverse” peoples, middle-class traditionalism—in the Central Valley outback. But I am not quite yet a complete fool: there are real costs to being able to run with the redtails and foxes. Dangerous people live out here. There always were such characters, but nothing