Issue 442 | The Sun Magazine

October 2012

Readers Write

Role Models

A pair of Nunn Bush dress shoes, a newspaper route, a game of Crazy Eights

By Our Readers
The Dog-Eared Page

excerpted from
The Slaughterer

Yoineh Meir no longer slept at night. If he dozed off, he was immediately beset by nightmares. Cows assumed human shape, with beards and side locks, and skullcaps over their horns. Yoineh Meir would be slaughtering a calf, but it would turn into a girl.

By Isaac Bashevis Singer


Country things are the necessary root of our life — and that remains true even of a rootless and tragically urban civilization. To live permanently away from the country is a form of slow death.

Esther Meynell

The Sun Interview

Sowing Dissent

Lunatic Farmer Joel Salatin Digs In

A farm should be aesthetically, aromatically, and sensuously appealing. It should be a place that is attractive, not repugnant, to the senses. This is food production. A farm shouldn’t be producing ugly things. It should be producing beautiful things. We’re going to eat them.

By Tracy Frisch
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Camel

I grew up in a village in southern Lebanon a few years after World War II, the “Big War,” as we called it. In that place nothing came between us and the world we lived in, and in that world there was always blood, lots of it. We slaughtered the animals we ate.

By Anwar F. Accawi
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


Our father was blind for five days. He pawed the walls as he felt his way around the house. The television stayed turned up loud, as if the chemicals that had burned his eyes had also scorched his hearing.

By Doug Crandell
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The First Year

Largely because of a dog named Fred, who despised hats and joggers and anything that his unknowable mind deemed suspicious, Mateusz and I rented a farmhouse north of Toronto in the summer of 2010.

By Karen Vogel

It’s Hard To Know What You Need

I’m at my mother’s funeral, as I have often been before in dreams and waking musings, though this time she is really dead, and here I sit, an addled orphan at an age where she and I might well have just decided we would continue along together till the end.

By Linda McCullough Moore

At Home On The Range

When I met Randy Livingston in 2000, I was making the long drive from California back to my home state of Minnesota and had stopped in the mountains of Utah to go for a run. On a quiet gravel road three miles from the highway, I found myself face to face with a cowboy on a horse and a couple of dogs trailing behind. He invited me back to his small camper trailer for a cup of coffee.

By Robert Meyer

Selected Poems

from “Reading Lu Yu in Winter” | I wonder how he was able to bear the cold of China, / Traveling the rivers and outpost roads. / The fires he wrote about were always small, / A few willow twigs or scraps of bark.

By Robert P. Cooke