There is a house on our morning commute whose owner has anointed himself as the neighborhood prophet. Sort of like a block parent, for those old enough to remember the concept, only with creepier signage and no milk and cookies.
No, in true prophetic fashion, this person doesn’t ask for permission and he certainly doesn’t make apologies. He simply reportsinterprets the news. And he’s been doing this a longs as we’ve lived in Stockton. There is a pickup parked down the street with similar declarations, only bigger, on whitewashed plywood and festooned with American flags. As a service to you, dear reader, I’ll find out the pickup prophet and the prophet of El Dorado Street are one in the same. I hope to make his signage a semi-regular offering here on I Write The Blogs.
In the meantime, enjoy these gems.