A small tool to view real-world ActivityPub objects as JSON! Enter a URL
or username from Mastodon or a similar service below, and we'll send a
request with
the right
Accept
header
to the server to view the underlying object.
{
"@context": "https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams",
"type": "OrderedCollectionPage",
"orderedItems": [
{
"type": "Create",
"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"object": {
"type": "Note",
"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1773105079483392000",
"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"content": "Happy Saturday All. 💚 ",
"to": [
"https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams#Public"
],
"cc": [
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1773105079483392000",
"published": "2025-05-24T20:06:33+00:00",
"inReplyTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1773102573739073536",
"source": {
"content": "Happy Saturday All. 💚 ",
"mediaType": "text/plain"
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},
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"content": "In Copper We Trusted<br />🇺🇸My first experience with money must’ve been the neighborhood park. Not a piggy bank, not a passbook, and not even first grade. Just me, that curious glint catching the sun, and a warm summer day under the monkey bars. One lone penny, half-sunk in the grass and dirt like it had tried to escape the economy and almost made it. I was maybe five, still young enough to believe the world was fair, bubble gum was a food group, and sidewalk cracks were not to be stepped on if you loved your mother. I picked up the penny, brushed it off and examined it in awe. I had my very own money!<br /><br />Back then, a lone penny had gravitas. You could march it right up to the corner store and make a proud choice from the bottom shelf treasure trove. Tootsie Rolls the size of your pinky, a wax bottle full of colored mystery juice, or those chalky little candy cigarettes that made us feel all grown up, until we actually tried a real one. You could buy a Bazooka Joe bubblegum, complete with a comic strip so corny it could make your grandpa snort coffee through his nose.<br /><br />If Aunt Alma had been by for her monthly visit, accompanied by the faint scent of Wind Song, and a roll of Lifesavers in her purse, I might be flush with a nickel or even a whole quarter. There was the real jackpot! You could ride that fortune clear up to the 2nd shelf where the Hershey Bars, Chick-O-Sticks, Rope Licorice, and Milky-Way's resided.<br /><br />By first grade, pennies weren’t just cash, they were curriculum. You learned to count, add, and trade like a tiny little capitalist in Buster Brown's. All us kids learned our math with Mom at the kitchen table and a sack of real coin. We stacked pennies like bricks and laid out nickels like silver stepping stones. Then by sixth grade science, every kid had made a potato battery using a copper penny and a zinc slug. It was magic.<br /><br />In high school, when cars came with half dozen ashtrays strategically placed around the interior, one of those ashtrays became your official emergency bank account. Every clink of coin into that little chrome tray could mean lunch money, Maybe jukebox change. Or just a gallon or two of gas to limp through the rest of the week. A paying of the piper for burning through your tank of gas cruising the gut with a hot date Friday night. At thirty-one cents a gallon, at least a tankful didn’t require an apology, or a co-signer.<br /><br />Mr. Lincoln was hit hard, along with the rest of us, when inflation roared through the door wearing waffle stompers and bad intentions during the Carter years. By the time I staggered out of college with mathematics on the brain, Emerson in my heart, and lint in my pockets, our poor penny couldn’t buy a wad of gum without calling in a few friends. Even the gumball machines had turned their backs in favor of the nickel.<br /><br />Still, retail wasn’t done with ol’ Abe. He found a second career helping stores psyop customers. Because .97 cents feels so much cheaper than 1.00, even though you know they’re just making change more annoying on purpose.<br /><br />Then in 1982, the government did the penny dirty. Quietly swapped his copper guts for zinc. No letter, no retirement party, not even a free Jell-O cup. Just hollowed him out, dipped him in copper-wash, and kept his face. Now when you drop a post-’82 penny on the counter, it doesn’t ring...it plops. Like it’s embarrassed.<br /><br />Our beloved penny has not let us down, it is we, who have let it down. We've allowed the whole damn system to deflate him into irrelevance. We let them shift the ground under our feet and didn’t say a word. You know, it wasn't that long ago, that a dollar was a day’s pay for a man with a strong back, and a penny had bite. Now it doesn't even cover the tax on a Snicker's Bar.<br /><br />Goodbye, Mr. Lincoln. America loves you. You were our first real treasure. A symbol of good luck, of bubblegum fortunes, and the great American childhood hustle. You stood tall in our pockets. You taught us to count. You lit up science fairs, fueled our card games, Levelled out the legs of the coffee table, and made a generation of kids feel rich just finding you lying in the grass. You taught us the value of what’s small, the benefit of thrift and saving, and how to dream modest but mighty.<br /><br />Now they’re taking you away. Not because you failed, but because we stopped paying attention. You didn't lose value. We lost our sense of what value is. The penny didn’t vanish. We just got too distracted to bend down and pick you up. Too quick to trade substance for swipe cards, phantom dollars, and prices that always round up. But some of us still remember. Some of us still hear that familiar copper ping echoing off the monkey bars, kitchen floor, ash trays, and that special jingle in a jeans pocket.<br /><br />My first coin.<br />You will be sorely missed.<br />And truth be told, I’d rather find a real copper penny in the grass than trust a Cheshire cat-looking banker with an imaginary Bitcoin to sell me!<br /><br />Have a great Memorial weekend and remember those who gave their last measure, so that we could live our lives in freedom.<br /><br />-SourdoughSam 🇺🇸💚🇺🇸",
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"published": "2025-05-24T19:56:36+00:00",
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"content": "In Copper We Trusted\n🇺🇸My first experience with money must’ve been the neighborhood park. Not a piggy bank, not a passbook, and not even first grade. Just me, that curious glint catching the sun, and a warm summer day under the monkey bars. One lone penny, half-sunk in the grass and dirt like it had tried to escape the economy and almost made it. I was maybe five, still young enough to believe the world was fair, bubble gum was a food group, and sidewalk cracks were not to be stepped on if you loved your mother. I picked up the penny, brushed it off and examined it in awe. I had my very own money!\n\nBack then, a lone penny had gravitas. You could march it right up to the corner store and make a proud choice from the bottom shelf treasure trove. Tootsie Rolls the size of your pinky, a wax bottle full of colored mystery juice, or those chalky little candy cigarettes that made us feel all grown up, until we actually tried a real one. You could buy a Bazooka Joe bubblegum, complete with a comic strip so corny it could make your grandpa snort coffee through his nose.\n\nIf Aunt Alma had been by for her monthly visit, accompanied by the faint scent of Wind Song, and a roll of Lifesavers in her purse, I might be flush with a nickel or even a whole quarter. There was the real jackpot! You could ride that fortune clear up to the 2nd shelf where the Hershey Bars, Chick-O-Sticks, Rope Licorice, and Milky-Way's resided.\n\nBy first grade, pennies weren’t just cash, they were curriculum. You learned to count, add, and trade like a tiny little capitalist in Buster Brown's. All us kids learned our math with Mom at the kitchen table and a sack of real coin. We stacked pennies like bricks and laid out nickels like silver stepping stones. Then by sixth grade science, every kid had made a potato battery using a copper penny and a zinc slug. It was magic.\n\nIn high school, when cars came with half dozen ashtrays strategically placed around the interior, one of those ashtrays became your official emergency bank account. Every clink of coin into that little chrome tray could mean lunch money, Maybe jukebox change. Or just a gallon or two of gas to limp through the rest of the week. A paying of the piper for burning through your tank of gas cruising the gut with a hot date Friday night. At thirty-one cents a gallon, at least a tankful didn’t require an apology, or a co-signer.\n\nMr. Lincoln was hit hard, along with the rest of us, when inflation roared through the door wearing waffle stompers and bad intentions during the Carter years. By the time I staggered out of college with mathematics on the brain, Emerson in my heart, and lint in my pockets, our poor penny couldn’t buy a wad of gum without calling in a few friends. Even the gumball machines had turned their backs in favor of the nickel.\n\nStill, retail wasn’t done with ol’ Abe. He found a second career helping stores psyop customers. Because .97 cents feels so much cheaper than 1.00, even though you know they’re just making change more annoying on purpose.\n\nThen in 1982, the government did the penny dirty. Quietly swapped his copper guts for zinc. No letter, no retirement party, not even a free Jell-O cup. Just hollowed him out, dipped him in copper-wash, and kept his face. Now when you drop a post-’82 penny on the counter, it doesn’t ring...it plops. Like it’s embarrassed.\n\nOur beloved penny has not let us down, it is we, who have let it down. We've allowed the whole damn system to deflate him into irrelevance. We let them shift the ground under our feet and didn’t say a word. You know, it wasn't that long ago, that a dollar was a day’s pay for a man with a strong back, and a penny had bite. Now it doesn't even cover the tax on a Snicker's Bar.\n\nGoodbye, Mr. Lincoln. America loves you. You were our first real treasure. A symbol of good luck, of bubblegum fortunes, and the great American childhood hustle. You stood tall in our pockets. You taught us to count. You lit up science fairs, fueled our card games, Levelled out the legs of the coffee table, and made a generation of kids feel rich just finding you lying in the grass. You taught us the value of what’s small, the benefit of thrift and saving, and how to dream modest but mighty.\n\nNow they’re taking you away. Not because you failed, but because we stopped paying attention. You didn't lose value. We lost our sense of what value is. The penny didn’t vanish. We just got too distracted to bend down and pick you up. Too quick to trade substance for swipe cards, phantom dollars, and prices that always round up. But some of us still remember. Some of us still hear that familiar copper ping echoing off the monkey bars, kitchen floor, ash trays, and that special jingle in a jeans pocket.\n\nMy first coin.\nYou will be sorely missed.\nAnd truth be told, I’d rather find a real copper penny in the grass than trust a Cheshire cat-looking banker with an imaginary Bitcoin to sell me!\n\nHave a great Memorial weekend and remember those who gave their last measure, so that we could live our lives in freedom.\n\n-SourdoughSam 🇺🇸💚🇺🇸",
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"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1773102573739073536/activity"
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"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"content": "Happy Weekend! 🙏",
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1770392810198687744",
"published": "2025-05-17T08:28:58+00:00",
"inReplyTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1770389018724032512",
"source": {
"content": "Happy Weekend! 🙏",
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"content": "When the Storm Breaks...<br />Storm’s been howling most of the night. One of those last-gasp tantrums Ma-Winter throws when she realizes the sun is climbing in the sky and her grip is slipping. Poor old cabin timbers give a groan now and then when the wind really winds up. Pretty sure the outhouse door slapped clean off its hinges around three a.m. I’ll find it out in the sagebrush somewhere downwind come morning, no doubt.<br /><br />I’m sitting here wrapped up in my buffalo-plaid woolie, sorta like a pale Chief Joseph. Okay, more like a skid-row Santa Claus trying to convince the stove it’s up to the task this morning. Outside, snow is driving sideways. A furious, hard white ice that scrubs the skin right off your face if you’re willing to offer it bare. But inside, this morning, there’s this flicker. A stubborn little flame that says this is the last one. Winter’s final act. Ma’s still out there throwing dishes, but I can tell she’s almost out of steam. Somewhere beneath the racket, the thaw is gathering itself. Quiet and certain.<br /><br />Hard to see it now, but something always waits under the snow and the ice. Something small. Patient. Growing.<br /><br />When spring finally breaks, she’ll tiptoe down the rocks like baby goats testing the cliff face. Polite and sure. By the end of the month, it’s a raucous roaring chaos racing down the hill at break-neck speed. Nature's gone wild and you’d best not be standing in the way.<br /><br />I used to mark the seasons by the chores needing done. When to plant. When to stack. When to patch fences, when the vet needed to come ‘round for everybody. These days, I find myself measuring time by more personal signs.<br /><br />The ache in my knees when I get up too quick.<br />A birthday that slips by without a card in the box.<br />The names I don’t hear much anymore, except in my own head.<br />And those first spring crocus so delicate, braving the melting snow.<br /><br />But even so, there’s a comforting rhythm underneath all this. Still steady. Still moving. The world turns whether we watch it or not, and spring always shows up. Sometimes a bit late. Sometimes with a limp. But she gets here just the same.<br /><br />When this storm passes, we’ll open the door and step into whatever’s coming next.<br />It might not be what it used to be. Might not be what we hoped.<br />But it’ll be real, and that’s enough.<br /><br />Because truth doesn’t always come wrapped in comfort.<br />Sometimes it doesn't say a word. Just shows up muddy and cold. Do you still recognize it? Will you still believe in it?<br /><br />So here’s to what comes after the howling.<br />To what waits patient beneath it all, unseen but sure.<br />To the next green thing brave enough to push through, even if the wind still bites.<br />To the stubborn truth that keeps showing up in this world, against the odds.<br /><br />Take care out there.<br />And when the door creaks open, breathe deep.<br /><br />It’s spring, my friend. You made it.<br /><br />—SourdoughSam 💚",
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1770389018724032512",
"published": "2025-05-17T08:13:54+00:00",
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"content": "When the Storm Breaks...\nStorm’s been howling most of the night. One of those last-gasp tantrums Ma-Winter throws when she realizes the sun is climbing in the sky and her grip is slipping. Poor old cabin timbers give a groan now and then when the wind really winds up. Pretty sure the outhouse door slapped clean off its hinges around three a.m. I’ll find it out in the sagebrush somewhere downwind come morning, no doubt.\n\nI’m sitting here wrapped up in my buffalo-plaid woolie, sorta like a pale Chief Joseph. Okay, more like a skid-row Santa Claus trying to convince the stove it’s up to the task this morning. Outside, snow is driving sideways. A furious, hard white ice that scrubs the skin right off your face if you’re willing to offer it bare. But inside, this morning, there’s this flicker. A stubborn little flame that says this is the last one. Winter’s final act. Ma’s still out there throwing dishes, but I can tell she’s almost out of steam. Somewhere beneath the racket, the thaw is gathering itself. Quiet and certain.\n\nHard to see it now, but something always waits under the snow and the ice. Something small. Patient. Growing.\n\nWhen spring finally breaks, she’ll tiptoe down the rocks like baby goats testing the cliff face. Polite and sure. By the end of the month, it’s a raucous roaring chaos racing down the hill at break-neck speed. Nature's gone wild and you’d best not be standing in the way.\n\nI used to mark the seasons by the chores needing done. When to plant. When to stack. When to patch fences, when the vet needed to come ‘round for everybody. These days, I find myself measuring time by more personal signs.\n\nThe ache in my knees when I get up too quick.\nA birthday that slips by without a card in the box.\nThe names I don’t hear much anymore, except in my own head.\nAnd those first spring crocus so delicate, braving the melting snow.\n\nBut even so, there’s a comforting rhythm underneath all this. Still steady. Still moving. The world turns whether we watch it or not, and spring always shows up. Sometimes a bit late. Sometimes with a limp. But she gets here just the same.\n\nWhen this storm passes, we’ll open the door and step into whatever’s coming next.\nIt might not be what it used to be. Might not be what we hoped.\nBut it’ll be real, and that’s enough.\n\nBecause truth doesn’t always come wrapped in comfort.\nSometimes it doesn't say a word. Just shows up muddy and cold. Do you still recognize it? Will you still believe in it?\n\nSo here’s to what comes after the howling.\nTo what waits patient beneath it all, unseen but sure.\nTo the next green thing brave enough to push through, even if the wind still bites.\nTo the stubborn truth that keeps showing up in this world, against the odds.\n\nTake care out there.\nAnd when the door creaks open, breathe deep.\n\nIt’s spring, my friend. You made it.\n\n—SourdoughSam 💚",
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"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1770389018724032512/activity"
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"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"content": "It's May!!! 💐🎐💧🌸🐦🐇🐝🌱",
"to": [
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1765217587107225600",
"published": "2025-05-03T01:44:28+00:00",
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"content": "It's May!!! 💐🎐💧🌸🐦🐇🐝🌱",
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"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1765217587107225600/activity"
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"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
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"content": "Old Timbers Don't Lie<br />I had a friend once, a city girl, bless her heart, who said old houses gave her the creeps. Claimed she could feel the walls watching her, like the place was judging her choice of throw pillows. Told me she liked things “fresh”, I suggested she try sleeping in the garden. That was many years ago, hopefully, she found her happiness and that brand new house.<br /><br />I've always been the opposite. To me, the older the place, the more alive it feels. Not alive like folks bustling around and kids underfoot, but like the spirit of time itself has settled into the cracks. Quiet, yes, but certainly not empty. I’ll take a house with a few stories soaked into the floorboards over some drywall box that still smells like carpet glue and bad decisions.<br /><br />I never was one to pine for living in ancient Rome or dancing it up in some medieval ale hall. Those times were rough, and I like my coffee hot, and my boots dry, thank you kindly. But don't you love the feel of the past? The smell of sun-baked wood, the grit of windworn stone, the song of a rusty hinge swinging on memory. It’s not so much about wanting to go back, as it is about stopping to listen to what the past has whispered into things.<br /><br />There’s a funny thing time does. It takes what man makes, our straight lines, fresh paint, square walls, and turns it into something nature might've dreamed up herself. She doesn’t ask permission. She just grows over it. Moss on brick. Rust on nail. Ivy up barn walls finding a sunny, welcome perch to thrive on.<br /><br />You build yourself a shed, and it’s just a shed. But leave it in a mountain hollow for a hundred years, let rosevine climb the walls and wasps nest in the eaves, and gradually, it’s not just yours anymore. It belongs to the wind, the rain, the bugs, and the raccoons. In that surrender back to nature, it becomes a real, living part of the earth.<br /><br />Man builds with intention. Nature loves to wreck it with style. And time, well, time’s the instigator that bonds them together. Lichen climbing the mailbox. The silver in the old split-rail fence. The silence that hangs thick in the air after the axe stops ringing.<br /><br />So when I sit on my porch, mug in hand, watching the mist roll through the trees, I don’t wish for new paint or straight lines. I thank the Creator and his good earth for wear, wind, and weather. For the way it softens the hard edges that man seems so obsessed with building into everything, each other included.<br /><br />Truth is, I trust an old house far more than a new one. Old timbers don’t lie. How many of these half-million-dollar, cardboard-and-staple boxes they sell as houses today can remain standing as nature applies her remodels? Will they even make it to the end of their first mortgage? A century? Yeah, right.<br /><br />Happy weekend and a blessed May from my house to yours.<br /><br />-SourdoughSam",
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"published": "2025-05-03T01:30:04+00:00",
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"content": "Old Timbers Don't Lie\nI had a friend once, a city girl, bless her heart, who said old houses gave her the creeps. Claimed she could feel the walls watching her, like the place was judging her choice of throw pillows. Told me she liked things “fresh”, I suggested she try sleeping in the garden. That was many years ago, hopefully, she found her happiness and that brand new house.\n\nI've always been the opposite. To me, the older the place, the more alive it feels. Not alive like folks bustling around and kids underfoot, but like the spirit of time itself has settled into the cracks. Quiet, yes, but certainly not empty. I’ll take a house with a few stories soaked into the floorboards over some drywall box that still smells like carpet glue and bad decisions.\n\nI never was one to pine for living in ancient Rome or dancing it up in some medieval ale hall. Those times were rough, and I like my coffee hot, and my boots dry, thank you kindly. But don't you love the feel of the past? The smell of sun-baked wood, the grit of windworn stone, the song of a rusty hinge swinging on memory. It’s not so much about wanting to go back, as it is about stopping to listen to what the past has whispered into things.\n\nThere’s a funny thing time does. It takes what man makes, our straight lines, fresh paint, square walls, and turns it into something nature might've dreamed up herself. She doesn’t ask permission. She just grows over it. Moss on brick. Rust on nail. Ivy up barn walls finding a sunny, welcome perch to thrive on.\n\nYou build yourself a shed, and it’s just a shed. But leave it in a mountain hollow for a hundred years, let rosevine climb the walls and wasps nest in the eaves, and gradually, it’s not just yours anymore. It belongs to the wind, the rain, the bugs, and the raccoons. In that surrender back to nature, it becomes a real, living part of the earth.\n\nMan builds with intention. Nature loves to wreck it with style. And time, well, time’s the instigator that bonds them together. Lichen climbing the mailbox. The silver in the old split-rail fence. The silence that hangs thick in the air after the axe stops ringing.\n\nSo when I sit on my porch, mug in hand, watching the mist roll through the trees, I don’t wish for new paint or straight lines. I thank the Creator and his good earth for wear, wind, and weather. For the way it softens the hard edges that man seems so obsessed with building into everything, each other included.\n\nTruth is, I trust an old house far more than a new one. Old timbers don’t lie. How many of these half-million-dollar, cardboard-and-staple boxes they sell as houses today can remain standing as nature applies her remodels? Will they even make it to the end of their first mortgage? A century? Yeah, right.\n\nHappy weekend and a blessed May from my house to yours.\n\n-SourdoughSam",
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"content": "How did I not know this??<br />While digging into some plant histories for a writing project, I stumbled onto something that blew my mind. I had no idea that Cabbage, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Kale, Brussels Sprouts, Collard Greens, and even Kohlrabi all trace back to the same wild plant: Brassica Oleracea, better known as Wild Cabbage, a scrappy little flower that grows wild along coastal wetlands.<br /><br />Over a few thousand years, generations of farmers selectively bred different parts of this tough little plant: leaves, buds, stems, and flowers, to create the vegetables we know and love today. 💚<br />",
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"content": "How did I not know this??\nWhile digging into some plant histories for a writing project, I stumbled onto something that blew my mind. I had no idea that Cabbage, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Kale, Brussels Sprouts, Collard Greens, and even Kohlrabi all trace back to the same wild plant: Brassica Oleracea, better known as Wild Cabbage, a scrappy little flower that grows wild along coastal wetlands.\n\nOver a few thousand years, generations of farmers selectively bred different parts of this tough little plant: leaves, buds, stems, and flowers, to create the vegetables we know and love today. 💚\n",
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"content": "Happy Friday!<br />",
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"content": "Happy Friday!\n",
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"content": "Wow! Can you believe we are already on the last weekend of March! Hold on to yer hats, April is out for delivery! 🙏❤️",
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"content": "Wow! Can you believe we are already on the last weekend of March! Hold on to yer hats, April is out for delivery! 🙏❤️",
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"content": "Keeping Your Cool When the Lights Go Out<br />When the power cuts out, and sooner or later it will, the first thing most folks fret over is the fridge and freezer. You can almost hear the groan echoing across the hills as folks picture a heap of spoiled meat and wasted harvest. But here is the truth: it just takes a little know-how and prep. Modern freezers are tougher than they look, and your fridge can be too if you play it smart.<br /><br />First things first. Get yourself a good thermometer for each box. Cheap stick-on ones are fine, but I prefer mercury for accuracy. Don’t play the guessing game or rely on the old hand-on-the-lid trick. Knowing your temps is the difference between staying calm and spiraling. Put them in today, not after the lights go out.<br /><br />First, the Freezer<br /><br />Most freezers, left closed, will hold that sweet spot of zero degrees for two to three days without power. That is plenty of time to ride out most outages. Even stretched past that, most will stay under twenty degrees for more than a week. At those temps, your food is very safe.<br /><br />So, leave the lid closed. Say it with me now. LEAVE THE LID CLOSED! Every time you open it, you trade cold for curiosity. And curiosity is not worth a freezer full of spoiled meat.<br /><br />If your freezer is only half full, you will lose cold twice as fast. The fuller it is, the longer it holds. I'll keep frozen jugs of water if there is empty space. Old milk jugs, juice bottles, whatever is handy. Sometimes I freeze odds and ends right into the water just to make use of the space. (Good place for credit cards and silver coins. You cannot spend them until you thaw them.)<br /><br />Every ten pounds of solid ice will buy you about another twenty-four hours of holding time. One gallon jug is about eight pounds. If you have an upright freezer, stack those ice blocks on the top shelves. Cold air sinks, and warm air sneaks in from above.<br /><br />Here is a bit of freezer wisdom worth remembering. Freezing does not kill germs, it just puts them to sleep. If you freeze something already turning, it will pick up right where it left off when you thaw it. Lesson being: freeze food while it is still fresh, not when it has been sitting around a few days.<br /><br />On re-freezing: if your meat or poultry still has ice crystals or has stayed fridge-cold, it is safe to refreeze. It might not be quite as pretty when you cook it, but it will be safe to eat. Anything that has been swimming in raw meat juice and is not heading straight to the cookpot? Best to toss it. Do not take chances.<br /><br />Do I Need Backup Power?<br /><br />Between us, I find backup power more useful for the refrigerator. The freezer will hold for days, a week if you leave it alone. But the fridge is not so generous. Left shut, most fridges hold safe temps for about a half-day. Open it once or twice and the cold vanishes fast. With no power, it will not come back.<br /><br />One trick that buys time is ice. Put a pair of one-gallon jugs of frozen water on the top shelf. That will stretch you another half-day,maybe a little more, just from the cold mass alone, as long as you do not open the door.<br /><br />If you want an easy backup power setup, a lithium solar battery, sometimes sold as a solar generator, is about as simple as it gets. Brands like Jackery, Bluetti, and others all make them. If you shoot for a half-day on battery and a half-day holding temp, you have got a 24-hour cycle. Need more? recharge the battery while the fridge is coasting the next half day.<br /><br />These lithium packs are sold by watt-hours. A 1,000-watt-hour unit will cover the half-day shift and runs about 800 to 1,000 dollars. A 1,500 to 2,000-watt-hour unit will push you to a full day and costs around 1,800 to 2,000 dollars. You are definitely paying for convenience. Set it beside the fridge, plug it in, and you are running. After that, it is just a matter of keeping it charged.<br /><br />If you do not mind getting hands-on, here is how to do it on the cheap. For the same half-day cycle, you need is a 100-amp-hour lead-acid RV battery and a 2,000-watt inverter. While the fridge is holding, you recharge the battery for its next shift. As of April 2025, a setup like this runs about 300 to 500 dollars.<br /><br />Truth is, 90 percent of outages will resolve well within your appliance’s holding times. If you want to cover the rest, a half-day battery on the fridge with a way to recharge makes a lot of sense, no matter how you do it.<br /><br />Charging for Extended Outages<br /><br />If you are planning for more than a day down, you will need a way to recharge your backup battery.<br /><br />Yes, I live off-grid. <br />No, I would not rely on solar panels for this. They are too slow, and let's be honest, the sun does not always shine when you need it. Do you really want to risk your fridge of food because it is cloudy today?<br /><br />Here is a practical note. Solar panels do about 80 percent of their work between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. Outside those hours, they do not offer much help.<br /><br />If you have read this far, I will bet you already own a small generator, or two. In a pinch, jumper cables and a pickup truck will work just fine too. I have put the battery in the truck and charged it on the way into town. I spent a summer up in the boonies running on a pair of batteries this way. One on duty, one in the truck charging.<br /><br />Final Word<br /><br />At the end of the day, don't let a power outage steal your peace. A little preparation and you will be just fine and keep your cool. The next time the lights go out, you will be sitting by the stove, coffee in hand, smiling because your hard-won provisions are safe and sound.<br /><br />— SourdoughSam",
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"content": "Keeping Your Cool When the Lights Go Out\nWhen the power cuts out, and sooner or later it will, the first thing most folks fret over is the fridge and freezer. You can almost hear the groan echoing across the hills as folks picture a heap of spoiled meat and wasted harvest. But here is the truth: it just takes a little know-how and prep. Modern freezers are tougher than they look, and your fridge can be too if you play it smart.\n\nFirst things first. Get yourself a good thermometer for each box. Cheap stick-on ones are fine, but I prefer mercury for accuracy. Don’t play the guessing game or rely on the old hand-on-the-lid trick. Knowing your temps is the difference between staying calm and spiraling. Put them in today, not after the lights go out.\n\nFirst, the Freezer\n\nMost freezers, left closed, will hold that sweet spot of zero degrees for two to three days without power. That is plenty of time to ride out most outages. Even stretched past that, most will stay under twenty degrees for more than a week. At those temps, your food is very safe.\n\nSo, leave the lid closed. Say it with me now. LEAVE THE LID CLOSED! Every time you open it, you trade cold for curiosity. And curiosity is not worth a freezer full of spoiled meat.\n\nIf your freezer is only half full, you will lose cold twice as fast. The fuller it is, the longer it holds. I'll keep frozen jugs of water if there is empty space. Old milk jugs, juice bottles, whatever is handy. Sometimes I freeze odds and ends right into the water just to make use of the space. (Good place for credit cards and silver coins. You cannot spend them until you thaw them.)\n\nEvery ten pounds of solid ice will buy you about another twenty-four hours of holding time. One gallon jug is about eight pounds. If you have an upright freezer, stack those ice blocks on the top shelves. Cold air sinks, and warm air sneaks in from above.\n\nHere is a bit of freezer wisdom worth remembering. Freezing does not kill germs, it just puts them to sleep. If you freeze something already turning, it will pick up right where it left off when you thaw it. Lesson being: freeze food while it is still fresh, not when it has been sitting around a few days.\n\nOn re-freezing: if your meat or poultry still has ice crystals or has stayed fridge-cold, it is safe to refreeze. It might not be quite as pretty when you cook it, but it will be safe to eat. Anything that has been swimming in raw meat juice and is not heading straight to the cookpot? Best to toss it. Do not take chances.\n\nDo I Need Backup Power?\n\nBetween us, I find backup power more useful for the refrigerator. The freezer will hold for days, a week if you leave it alone. But the fridge is not so generous. Left shut, most fridges hold safe temps for about a half-day. Open it once or twice and the cold vanishes fast. With no power, it will not come back.\n\nOne trick that buys time is ice. Put a pair of one-gallon jugs of frozen water on the top shelf. That will stretch you another half-day,maybe a little more, just from the cold mass alone, as long as you do not open the door.\n\nIf you want an easy backup power setup, a lithium solar battery, sometimes sold as a solar generator, is about as simple as it gets. Brands like Jackery, Bluetti, and others all make them. If you shoot for a half-day on battery and a half-day holding temp, you have got a 24-hour cycle. Need more? recharge the battery while the fridge is coasting the next half day.\n\nThese lithium packs are sold by watt-hours. A 1,000-watt-hour unit will cover the half-day shift and runs about 800 to 1,000 dollars. A 1,500 to 2,000-watt-hour unit will push you to a full day and costs around 1,800 to 2,000 dollars. You are definitely paying for convenience. Set it beside the fridge, plug it in, and you are running. After that, it is just a matter of keeping it charged.\n\nIf you do not mind getting hands-on, here is how to do it on the cheap. For the same half-day cycle, you need is a 100-amp-hour lead-acid RV battery and a 2,000-watt inverter. While the fridge is holding, you recharge the battery for its next shift. As of April 2025, a setup like this runs about 300 to 500 dollars.\n\nTruth is, 90 percent of outages will resolve well within your appliance’s holding times. If you want to cover the rest, a half-day battery on the fridge with a way to recharge makes a lot of sense, no matter how you do it.\n\nCharging for Extended Outages\n\nIf you are planning for more than a day down, you will need a way to recharge your backup battery.\n\nYes, I live off-grid. \nNo, I would not rely on solar panels for this. They are too slow, and let's be honest, the sun does not always shine when you need it. Do you really want to risk your fridge of food because it is cloudy today?\n\nHere is a practical note. Solar panels do about 80 percent of their work between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. Outside those hours, they do not offer much help.\n\nIf you have read this far, I will bet you already own a small generator, or two. In a pinch, jumper cables and a pickup truck will work just fine too. I have put the battery in the truck and charged it on the way into town. I spent a summer up in the boonies running on a pair of batteries this way. One on duty, one in the truck charging.\n\nFinal Word\n\nAt the end of the day, don't let a power outage steal your peace. A little preparation and you will be just fine and keep your cool. The next time the lights go out, you will be sitting by the stove, coffee in hand, smiling because your hard-won provisions are safe and sound.\n\n— SourdoughSam",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship<br />Cold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.<br /><br />I settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.<br /><br />Now the gears begin a slow turn.<br /><br />Been thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.<br /><br />Whether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.<br /><br />I think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.<br /><br />Then there’s the other sort.<br /><br />A while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.<br /><br />I have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.<br /><br />I want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.<br /><br />Friendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.<br /><br />So these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...<br /><br />If I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.<br /><br />And if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.<br /><br />Last sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.<br /><br />Here’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. <br /><br />Take care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.<br /><br />--SourdoughSam 💚",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship\nCold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.\n\nI settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.\n\nNow the gears begin a slow turn.\n\nBeen thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.\n\nWhether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.\n\nI think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.\n\nThen there’s the other sort.\n\nA while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.\n\nI have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.\n\nI want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.\n\nFriendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.\n\nSo these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...\n\nIf I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.\n\nAnd if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.\n\nLast sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.\n\nHere’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. \n\nTake care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.\n\n--SourdoughSam 💚",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship (Long Read)<br />Cold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.<br /><br />I settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.<br /><br />Now the gears begin a slow turn.<br /><br />Been thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.<br /><br />Whether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.<br /><br />I think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.<br /><br />Then there’s the other sort.<br /><br />A while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.<br /><br />I have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.<br /><br />I want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.<br /><br />Friendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.<br /><br />So these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...<br /><br />If I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.<br /><br />And if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.<br /><br />Last sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.<br /><br />Here’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. <br /><br />Take care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.<br /><br />--SourdoughSam 💚<br />",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship (Long Read)\nCold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.\n\nI settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.\n\nNow the gears begin a slow turn.\n\nBeen thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.\n\nWhether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.\n\nI think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.\n\nThen there’s the other sort.\n\nA while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.\n\nI have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.\n\nI want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.\n\nFriendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.\n\nSo these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...\n\nIf I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.\n\nAnd if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.\n\nLast sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.\n\nHere’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. \n\nTake care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.\n\n--SourdoughSam 💚\n",
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