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$LAYYYTER
Stranger Things
will byers stan first human second
Claire Keane
noise dept.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Misplaced Lens Cap
@theartofmadeline
Xuebing Du
if i look back, i am lost
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
cherry valley forever
YOU ARE THE REASON
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Kiana Khansmith
PR's Tumblrdome
Sade Olutola
seen from Switzerland
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@the-olebloke
Why am I here on Tumblr? I just want to make some friends and have fun. I'm not here to pick up. I am married after all. If we hit it off, that's great and I'll cherish the friendship. I do have a very close dear friend here and I'm grateful for that. I love a good joke. I love a fun flirt too! Tumblr is my escape from daily stresses and for that I thank you for making me smile.
The first time I saw the fence wire cut, I reached for my gun. The second time, I reached for my pliers. But by the third time, I simply brought a jug of cold water.
My name is Silas. I’m 75, and I work the same scorched, stubborn acreage in New Mexico that my father did before me. It is a lonely existence, filled mostly by the drone of the wind and the fiery rhetoric of the talk radio in my truck. For years, I listened to the warnings about "the threat" at the border. My fence—a simple, four-strand barbed wire barrier—was more than property to me; it was my duty. It was the line between "us" and "them."
Every Tuesday morning, I’d find it: a clean snip in the wire near the dry creek bed at the edge of my land. The first time, I was livid. I sat on my porch with my rifle across my knees until midnight, watching the shadows for "invaders." I saw nothing but the moon.
The second Tuesday, I grumbled my way out to the site with my heavy toolbox. I spent an hour under a punishing sun, sweating and straining to staple the wire back into place. I cursed their lack of respect for my land.
Then came the third Tuesday. I was out on the ridge checking on a sick heifer when I pulled out my binoculars. I scanned the mesquite trees beyond the break in my fence and stopped.
Huddled in the meager shade were a man—young, his shoulders slumped with a bone-deep fatigue—and a small girl, no older than six. She wasn't crying or playing; she was just incredibly still. The man was holding an empty plastic bottle, staring at it with a look of absolute defeat.
The voices on my radio called them an "invasion." But through my lens, I just saw a father and a daughter. And they were dying of thirst.
Something in me shifted—a quiet, heavy break in my own resolve. I drove back to the house, grabbed a gallon of fresh water from the fridge, and went back to the ridge. I didn’t fix the wire. I just tucked the water into the shade on the other side of the fence, as if I’d accidentally left it behind.
The Silent Exchange
The next morning, the jug was gone. In its place, the two ends of the cut wire had been carefully, almost reverently, tied together with a strip of blue fabric from a shirt.
It became a silent conversation. Every few days, I’d find the wire cut. I’d leave something: a bag of oranges from my tree, two sandwiches wrapped in foil, or a pair of my grandson’s old boots. I stopped fixing the fence immediately; I’d wait a day or two. When I returned, the food would be gone, and the wire would be tied back together. Once, I found a small pile of smooth river stones on the fence post. Another time, a single desert lily was woven into the barbs.
One night, a massive monsoon hit. The wind was a roar, and the dry washes became lethal rivers. I sat in my kitchen, listening to the rain hammer the roof, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about my crops. I was worried about a father and a child.
The next morning, the ground was a sea of red mud. I drove to the ridge, my chest tight. The fence had been flattened by the storm. In the mud, I saw two sets of footprints leading away, toward the north. Next to the fallen post, someone had traced a large, simple heart into the wet earth with a stick.
I never found the wire cut again.
The Echo of Kindness
Three months later, an envelope with no return address arrived at my local post office. Inside was a small, blurry photo of that same little girl, clean and smiling, holding a box of crayons in a classroom. On the back, in neat, practiced script, were three words:
"Gracias. Por todo." (Thank you. For everything.)
The world is full of people screaming about building higher walls and drawing harder lines. But a wall cannot stop desperation, and a line on a map is invisible to a hungry soul.
We are told we have to pick a side. But I’ve learned that kindness doesn't have a border.
In the end, the most powerful thing you can do isn't to defend a fence. It’s to leave a gallon of water in the shade, giving dignity a place to catch its breath.
* * *
You are on a horse, galloping at a constant speed. On your right side is a sharp drop off, and on your left side is an elephant traveling at the same speed as you. Directly in front of you is another galloping horse but your horse is unable to overtake it. Behind you is a lion running at the same speed as you and the horse in front of you.
What must you do to safely get out of this highly dangerous situation?
Get your drunk ass off the merry-go-round! 😝
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Notre Dame de Strasbourg, France.
Excellent question!
You're absolutely right there @im-perfectly-unique ... Why?
Ya think you have enough bacon?
That'd be way too much for me. I'd be 🤢
OMG 😱...he's a Zombie!! Run for your lives!!!
Looking at the news papers, this is definitely a news agency in Australia 😁
Snoopy got it right
He definitely did 🙂
Freedom is NOT Free! 🤔
May we never take our freedom for granted. Other countries envy us because we are FREE. Let’s never forget that others fought for us so we could be free.
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Simplicity at its finest
