She is our modern Joan of Arc, dressed in black leather chaps, hunting camo or fishing boat slicker, unafraid to mount her steed, whether a Harley or a snow machine. She is a woman, bloody hands, capable of any man’s task — even that Holy Grail of politics with which no woman has ever been entrusted.
Unlike sister St. Joan, Sarah does not pass herself as a man. She can do any man’s work, without ceding an ounce of her gas station pin-up babe good looks.
But in most else, she shares with sister St. Joan. Driven by visions from God and destined for sainthood by way of a burning at the stake, Sarah is misunderstood here in her own lifetime.
Elsewhere: I was cruelly hacked yesterday.