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Self-made, by the Glow of Our Brows

This is not, you know, exactly the land of milk and honey.  

 Sometimes, in the Promised Land--perhaps always in the Promised Land--there will be those who got there before we did, and if you do not, as the Chosen People of the Lord almost always do, take such measures as will cleanse the Promised Land of the people who think they got there before you, you will discover that they put up yard signs, and driveway signs, and other signs that you are Deluded Scum:  part of the 47%.  

 Being part of the Deluded Scum, undeniably new to the neighborhood, and being pointlessly curious about what the hill was after which the nearest main road was named--El Camino del Cerro--I decided to drive up to the end of the camino to see the hill.  

 It is a trailhead; that is to say, there is a parking lot there, and if you do truly believe you are one of the Chosen People who do not sweat, you can park your car there and slog off into the dry heat.  You will sweat, of course, but you do not have to admit it.  You can finesse it, as a purported Victorian saying from the 1950s says, by calling it something else:  "Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow."

 You cannot, though, finesse how unwanted you are by the Philistines who moved here to get away from you in the first place.  "Get Lost!"

 (Read absolutely nothing into the use of the name, "Philistines".  I do not care who owns or swabs the tomb where the baby Jesus was assuredly not born, nor who leaped up into heaven from which particular rock.  I am only amused at how preceding generations of immigrants howl and bellow at the succeeding generations of immigrants.)

 "Get lost!" the sign says, right next to the trailhead.  It is a tired chant.  The weeds grow over it, but the sentiment is sharp in mustard and catsup colors.  

 It is a sad way to live.  It is road rage at the end of a dirt road.  But what can be done about it?  Not much.  About all we can do is to open a bank account in the Caymans, or maybe Switzerland.  They will love us for whom we are:  won't they?  

 Unless they got there first, of course.  

 Pay no attention to them.  They are horses' somethings.  They sweat.  

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