New from FPR Books
Spirits of Place
John Gatta is the William B. Kenan Jr. Professor of English at Sewanee: The University of the South. He’s the author of...
Smiling Prophet of Tape and Glue
If you watch a regional sportscast on TV, or some similar out-of-the-way cable fare, you’ll eventually see a commercial featuring a smiling,...
Avoiding “A World Without Women,” or Porches
A common and often valid critique of many families in the homeschooling movement is that, because of a lingering obsession on, and...
Instability and the Noonday Devil
In a lecture on monastic stability delivered at the 2015 Front Porch Republic conference, Benedictine monk Gerard D’Souza noted that the idea of...
On the Costs and Rewards of Planting Trees
I have just planted two apple trees from what my local nursery calls their “Posterity Collection,” heritage varieties grafted onto a slower-growing but durable and...
Yellow Vests Run Out of Gas
When asked to share my thoughts on the recent yellow vests protests, I initially demurred, stating that is was simply another case...
Local Identity and Cities In-Between
2018 has been a busy year for those of us who aspire to--or are...
The Appeal of a Well-Simmered Life
It’s 9 a.m. on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, which seems like a reasonable, civilized time to make apple butter. Yet in my mother-in-law’s farmhouse...
Whose Nostalgia? Which Liberalism? Reflections on “Faith and Democracy in America”
In early December, the Acton Institute and Calvin College’s Henry Institute for the Study of Christianity and Politics co-hosted a conference ambitiously titled “Faith...
From the Archives
The Founders on Taxation, Redistribution, and Property
Hidden Springs Lane. As the Fiscal Cliff looms, as Red States and Blues States stand more divided than ever, as the gap between the...
The New “Freedom”
Claremont, CA. Becka flew into my office, so excited that she was out of breath. "Professor," she asked, "have you heard about freedom?"
I couldn't...
Death of a Farmer
He traveled the three miles to the mill 63 times during the 87th harvest of his life, his old International pulling the wagon my uncle filled with beans or corn. I don't know why he counted the trips; perhaps it helped pass the time and focus his wavering mind on something other than the pain. He said to my father that he wanted to bring in one last crop. He almost did, clearing the beans but only getting halfway through the corn before he swallowed hard and told my uncle that they had better hire another man.