in·con·gru·ous \(ËŒ)in-ˈkäŋ-grÉ™-wÉ™s\adj. : having a quality similar to that experienced while spending a road trip reading Cory Doctorow‘s Little Brother as your kids are listening to Laura Ingalls Wilder‘s Farmer Boy.


The cold nipped Almanzo’s eyelids and numbed his nose, but inside his good woolen clothes he was warm. I moved down the corridor lightly and sprightly, keeping my gait even and measured for the gait-recognition cameras. They were all made from the wool of his father’s sheep. His underwear was creamy white, but Mother had dyed the wool for his outside clothes. These had been installed only a year before, and I loved them for their sheer idiocy.

Butternut hulls had dyed the thread for his coat and his long trousers. Beforehand, we’d had face-recognition cameras covering nearly every public space in school, but a court ruled that was unconstitutional. Then Mother had woven it, and she had soaked and shrunk the cloth into heavy, thick fullcloth. So Benson and a lot of other paranoid school administrators had spent our textbook dollars on these idiot cameras that were supposed to be able to tell one person’s walk from another. Not wind nor cold nor even a drenching rain could go through the good fullcloth that Mother made. Yeah, right.