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The state showed up at Joel Salatin's farm and told him selling chickens to his own neighbors was illegal. He was stunned. "I'm a voluntary farmer. They're a voluntary buyer. We're neighbors. What do you mean? We can't butcher a chicken here and sell it to them?" Their reasoning? The air was unsanitary. "If one fly enters your processing area, then it's an adulterated chicken and inedible." They said his windows had to be covered with fly-impregnable mesh. One problem. He processed outdoors, with no walls. "It doesn't say I have to have a wall," Salatin told them. That sentence became the crux of the showdown. "They were going to eliminate our farm." He pulled in his senator, his delegate, and an attorney. Three months later, he won. In the living-room meeting, a legislative aide looked at the regulators and asked: "Gentlemen, is it possible that somebody in Richmond created these rules who could not have conceived of a place like Polyface?" They had to say yes. And here's the thing. A microbiology lab had just swab-tested his birds against store-bought chicken. The store-bought birds had been through 40 chlorine baths. His had no antimicrobials at all. The store-bought chicken averaged 3,600 colony forming units of bacteria. His averaged 133. That's 27 times more bacteria in the government-approved bird. "So if it's clean, who cares if it's outside, inside, in the kitchen? If it's clean, it's clean," Salatin said. The regulator's answer? "Well, that's not all we're concerned about." The standard was never cleanliness. It was compliance.

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James was 4 years old, sitting on his dad’s lap, when he said something no child should be able to say. His father had just hugged him. “You are such a good son.” And the boy looked up and answered: “That’s why I picked you. I knew you would be good parents.” Cute thing for a kid to say. So his dad played along and asked where he found them. “A big pink hotel in Hawaii.” “What were we doing when you picked us?” “You were having dinner on the beach at night.” His father went pale. Five years earlier, before James was even conceived, he and his wife had celebrated their wedding anniversary at the Royal Hawaiian, a coral pink hotel in Honolulu. They had dinner on the beach. At night. They had never once spoken about that trip in front of James. And that was just the beginning. Because at 2 years old, James had started waking up screaming the same words: “Airplane crash, on fire. Little man can’t get out.” He told his parents he had been an American pilot, that his plane was shot down by the Japanese. Then the details got specific. He named the carrier he flew from: the USS Natoma Bay. He named a fellow pilot on the ship: Jack Larson. He named the man who died: James McCready Huston Jr. His father, a skeptic by nature, started digging to prove it wasn’t real. Every name checked out. James M. Huston Jr. was a real World War II pilot who really flew from the Natoma Bay, was really shot down by the Japanese, and really died. Then James repeated a private nickname Huston had used only for his sister. Huston’s surviving family confirmed it. These weren’t a toddler’s bad dreams...

Epoch Health

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