I was not born a “coal miner’s daughter,” but I might well have been.
Dad died at age 35 and left Mom and six kids. In the Depression, Mom raised us. The rent on our tar paper house was $5 a month. There was a pitcher pump over the kitchen sink, an outside toilet, wood stove for Mom to cook on, and a pot-bellied stove for heat. This was in Pennsylvania.
We walked to school in the winter in tennis shoes, and walked the railroad tracks with my sled gathering up chunks of coal for our pot-bellied stove.
All four of us boys served in the military. My oldest brother was killed.
My view on sanctuary cities is just about facts, not scorn. On both sides, taxpayers lose business, property values go down, taxes go up. Can you see their side?
Wouldn’t it be nice if the homeless did their share? Take a bath, clean up after themselves. Wash the merchants windows, sweep his sidewalk.
This is a two-way street. Responsibility rests on us all. No scorn intended.
I’m still going to keep my hip boots. I’m not moving to California. I’m not leaving Sebring.