Burnt Apple Pie

You can see the apple pie cooling off in the window. Your clothes are out to dry on the clothes line outside. A smooth breeze blows over the hillside and through your house and rattles the front screen door. You can hear your kids playing in the backyard. The bark of a dog off in the distance. No sounds of automobiles. No sounds of anything or anyone but people you wish to surround yourself with.

Humble. Peaceful. Your birth right. All in this simple ideal. Land. Liberty. Space. Having a secure area to raise your children and grow your vegetables.

I dream of this. I dream of having enough money to afford a home with a porch with a yard. I dream of finding this ideal and making it true. Of having my little piece of Americana that I can call my own. Apple Pie. White Picket Fence and all.

I dream of an economy that pays its workers enough to afford the simple pleasures of its ancestors. This is my birth right. This is your birth right. Seize it.