Restore The Constitution, Guilford Courthouse

Some thoughts on my first rally, the RTC event at Guilford Courthouse Battleground Park, Greensboro, NC...

Easily the most entertaining speaker was Bubba, from What Bubba Knows.  If you expect sensitivity and tolerance, Bubba does not mind shaking your sorry ass up.  I like that.

We arrived a little late, and I'd complain about the sparse signage for road names and numbers, or the repeated instances of signs hidden by foliage overgrowth, but I'd be afraid more so-called stimulus funds would get earmarked for pruning services.

Judging from how far away we had to park, I was thinking the attendance would be over 1,000.  I believe it was more like 500-700.  Still a good turnout, considering the weather, but who belonged to all those cars?  My guess is that many of those vehicles were parked there by the passive resistance crowd: Park in the way...walk off to other parts of the park...discourage attendance?  If so, it certainly didn't work, because there were lots of attendees parked further back from us, who walked (and limped) farther to and fro.

My radar was on alert for trouble, but there was none.  At least, there was no obvious blatant trouble.  There were some curious characters, but even the few that I mentally pegged as such were applauding the same speakers and at the same times as was I.

Whether you had the full re-enactment uniform (which was way cool), or the tie-dye t-shirt, or shirt & tie, or the Veteran's hat (thanks, by the way) or the boonie hat, I was glad to see you and glad you're on the right side.

I wasn't so glad to hear some of you, and that was my only major gripe regarding the event.  If you were there to schmooze or carry on your own agenda, you should have the common decency and regard to set yourself up at a little table on the periphery, or even the entrance, and blather on to your heart's content.  If you were sitting or standing near me or someone else who gave a shit what the speaker had to say, as a manner of learning what the speaker was all about or to perhaps glean some wisdom, have the good sense to shut the fuck right up.  There were some things said that I'd heartily endorse, and some things that knitted my eyebrows, and some things that I missed because I was distracted by your soliloquy.

Especially if you were one of those speakers.  There were at least five of you who felt no qualms about being out in the crowd before or after your speech, showing little regard for the one at the podium and droning on and on about the golden friggin corral, or how hot it is, or the epic saga of how you came to acquire this particular firearm.  Point one is there's a time and place.  Point two is never miss an opportunity to shut up and listen.

And a note to the organizers of the next one: The distrubution of pamphlets and such needs to be limited to the entrance/exit areas to minimize the associated distraction therein.  And, if there was a published cast of characters (list of speakers, with maybe a bare-bones bio for each), I missed it.  If there wasn't such, make a note of having one for the next rally.  I'll be there.

Note to the law enforcement personnel:  If you're hiding behind a wall, you appear as if you expect to be a target.  On the other hand, those listening to and applauding the speeches are apt to be sorted into the "friendlies" column.  Listening has a multitude of benefits.  Hiding has comparitively few.

All in all, I enjoyed the rally, and was glad I went.  Plus, I wished I'd have planned enough time around the event, before and after, to suitably appreciate the historical markers.  Coming soon hopefully, a photo-essay field trip to King's Mountain.

We were there.

III

Regarding Skookum's Malignant Narcissist Under Pressure

If a story-teller is only as good as his stories, then I'll always be looking up to Skookum.  His tales, which I believe are always first-person, factual accounts, are constantly magnificient in grandeur and moral.

Skookum makes his living as a horseman in Southern California, but longs to return to the Peace River country of his youth, the setting for the stories he contributes to Flopping Aces.  And those stories make me yearn for the same thing, or an adventure very similar.

If, like me, you get addicted to Skookum's stories, you'll soon see that he knows more about horses and trapping and hunting (and by extension, people), not to mention literature, philosphy, theology, and politics than the most well-rounded folk you've ever met.

Here's an excerpt from his most-recent tale:

The weather that fall was terrible; well actually, it was just a little worse than normal. We were in a hunting camp in the mountains about one hundred miles North of the Peace. There were three guides with three hunters. Knarley Manners my best friend had a nice quiet hunter that was serious about hunting and wasn’t worried about the cold, miserable conditions. I had one of a pair of hunters from Chicago: the two of them had won the hunting trip through a company contest and they were as different from each other as two men can be: my hunter was a former small game hunter who had grown up on a farm in Illinois, this was the trip of a lifetime for him and he wanted to have a successful hunt. The other hunter was a huge man, he stood at least 6 foot 6 and weighed way over three hundred pounds: he was as out of place in the mountains as a person can be and never stopped complaining or telling us of his personal accomplishments. Hunting was not his way to have fun; but he won the trip and was determined to take advantage of the prize, even though he hated every minute he was there.


He was quite proud of himself to the point of being arrogant. He would have taken over the whole camp and passed out orders to everyone, except in these conditions, he knew nothing, I was in charge and I wasn’t about to relinquish control over to this arrogant giant who tried to convince us that he knew everything. Since he couldn’t give orders, he made do with complaining about the weather, the food, his saddle, the fact that we had not seen game (that’s why they call it hunting), the sleeping arrangements, and his horse. I used the biggest pack horse we had, Ol’ Moose, because our favorite hunter – who became known as Mr. Big – couldn’t ride a lick and I didn’t want him hurting one of the smaller horses. Because of the constant complaining, I put him with John Belcourt; John was a Chips Indian and a good sized giant himself. John was always cheerful and would never let this guy’s attitude get to him. Neither would John be intimidated by the size of the surly one, for if there was a guy who could wrestle a Grizzly bear, it was John. He was as strong as 4 or 5 strong men and could move like a cougar.

The value of the story is eclipsed only by the value of its lesson.

Tell me, is Skookum a racist per today's popular definition...simply based on who & what he criticizes?

Jeff
III

Weekend adventures

I awoke Friday morning with the first symptoms of what I'll call the Flying Pig Flu. So named because I never get sick...as often as pigs fly...and reminiscent of the recent health scares they've been warning you about: the bird flu and then the swine flu. In spite of a sore throat, I finished a new project for a new client (woo-hoo!) then got out and did a very pleasant trail ride from near the house.These first three pix are a semi-panorama from above and behind (about 700 yards) mi casa. Click for enlargement.

The leaf colors are just beginning to change, and should really be popping into all their fall glory in the next 3-4 weeks.

Our ride was to Barrett's Mountain, which is about 90 degrees clockwise from this view. My grandfather used to take his family, which included my Dad's family of six and my aunt's family of six for a tractor ride (pulling a flatbed sled for all of us to ride on) every summer...before there was any pavement on the mountian. Actually, I'm not sure the youngest of my siblings and cousins ever got to make this ride, since Pa passed away when I was about 9. I barely remember it, myself.

I'm pretty sure we took a watermelon or three. I definitely remember Pa, though, and how much he loved it. I can see his big smile now, like it was yesterday.

Speaking of family, on Saturday we got to spend the day helping to make molasses. On the trailer there, you'll see some very juicy sugar-cane. So juicy, in fact, that we had a hefty surplus after getting the boiler full. See if you can identify the "Cane Boss" in the above photo.

The molasses as it begins cooking.

Cane Boss-in-training studies the nuances of cane-steam...mesmorized by their hypnotic dance. Photographer mesmorized by cane-boss-in-training.

Dont' ask when it's ready. The cane will tell you when it's ready.

The dinner-bell rang for some venison-shoulder stew. Best ever. The cook is an absolute master.

It's been said that unless you spill some (over-heat and boil it over the top), that it won't be any good. Well, we had a tiny amount of spillage, but no over-boil. Gas heat is the way to go. Used to be, cooking with a wood fire below the vat, if you got it too hot and it boiled over, you'd have to "pull the fire out", and in a by-god hurry. Many a caner got scorched by the overflowing lava of molasses.

One-quart jar of the finished product...talk about a cure for what ails ya...