On Thanksgiving Day, I stopped by the palatial home of my longtime friend and lawyer, E. Hobart Calhoun, a fellow Mensa member, bon vivant, and part-time oenophile. He was burning leaves in his front yard. I jumped out of my reconditioned hybrid Ford Falcon and raced to stomp out the flames, feverishly checking for any sign of the EPA death squads routinely patrolling our neighborhoods these days.
“Have you lost your mind?” I asked E. as I stepped out of my rugged Duluth steel-threaded overalls, which had caught fire in spite of Duluth’s guarantee that they were flammable or inflammable, whichever word is right.
“Relax,” E. said with his characteristic intelligent chuckle. “You’re standing on hallowed ground. I’ve declared my estate to be a Sanctuary Home.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how these cities around the country have pronounced themselves Sanctuary Cities, and therefore not subject to the laws of the State or Federal governments?”
“Sure. It’s in all the news.”
“Well, I’ve done the same thing with my home.”
“You mean…?”
“That’s right. I’ve filed affidavits at the court house. Now, nothing is illegal here on my property,” he said, lighting up his favorite crack pipe and blowing the blue smoke into the lower troposphere. “In fact, as soon as I finish raking and burning leaves, I’m going to wash my Escalade in my driveway and let all of the sudsy water run off into the storm drain to commingle with the nation’s water supply.”
“My God, E.,” I said, grasping the enormity of the concept. “The EPA can’t do anything to you if you live in a Sanctuary Home.”
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