srj641

America is paralyzed by fear. We have elected a President who has masterfully played the race card, attaching this ugly consideration to virtually every aspect of life, and we are shrinking into the night, setting aside reason along the way. Biden and the Democratic Party have created the perfect storm, and fear is the lead ingredient in this debacle. First, let’s address fear.

On the 20th of November, 1943, 18,000 US Marines stormed ashore in a tilted battle to capture a sliver of coral in the Pacific named Tarawa. Low water, causing them to step out of landing craft and cross an expanse of water to get to an exposed beach, covered by immaculately prepared Japanese defenses, caused our troops to cower behind the bodies of their fellow soldiers for protection against withering fire. Before this fight was over, some 76 hours later, our magnificent Marines lost 1,009 dead and 2,101 wounded against the Japanese losses of 4,690 dead. We also owned the island and it’s coveted airstrips. You can bet that every Marine that stormed ashore knew fear at levels we can only imagine. They conquered this fear and won a tremendous victory. They fought and died to protect an American way of life that our current Administration is hell bent on destroying. The threat to our culture has never been greater. Our enemy is within, the Biden administration. The Marines conquered their fear but we, today, have not.

We are afraid to confront folks who destroy our cities and subscribe to the mythical “systemic racism” that has become the battle cry of the Biden Cartel. We are afraid to challenge the full frontal attack on the institution of policing. We allow big men with small minds like LeBron James control the narrative and directly threaten a police officer for doing what he was trained to do. We listen, without comment, as various members of the Cartel threaten to eliminate qualified immunity for our police officers. We listen silently as Biden challenges our court system suggesting that police officers get a better deal than civilians. His Cartel believes that bullets know the difference between dark skin and white skin in deadly force situations. He has no concept of the reality that police officer’s relatively rare reliance on deadly force is designed to place the officer between a bad actor and a citizen. We are afraid of taking a position on these happenings for fear of being labeled a racist. We permit mentally challenged US Representatives to suggest there needs to be more “confrontation’” in the streets, indeed suggesting harassment for folks with a different view of today’s situation by challenging them when eating in a restaurant. How does she get away with this? She is black and we don’t dare risk being labeled a racist for being critical of such ignorant utterances, when skin color should not even be a consideration. We express selected outrage as the Biden Cartel has welcomed the criminal element across what used to be our border and flood America with folks who can be depended on to vote Democratic when they are finally granted privileges that are unearned. Yes, the Cartel attaches the race card to this influx and God only knows why they are committed to this strategy. Our fear is driving this train. We have allowed corporate America to hijack the “systemic racism” myth, a giant hoax on a scared America. The airlines need federal dollars to survive so they jump into bed with the Cartel. The issue is no longer the event, rather it is the color of the skin of the actors in the event. Why? Because of fear.

Here is where we need to be. The color of skin is highly overrated, unless you need that color for identification purposes. The Biden Cartel has set racial equality back 100 years with their seizure of this aspect of life and use of it for political purposes. Damn him and his party for their capitalization of racism as a cudgel used to beat us into submission and silence. It has become quite fashionable to jump on the racism bandwagon, because it requires no courage to slink into a corner and ignore what is patently stupid. Thank the Good Lord that our marines on Tarawa conquered their fear and ultimately our enemies in the world. Fear is beating the hell out of us. We live in America, forged from courage and conviction. It is time to show the race baiters the door……if we have the courage. Just like we showed the Japanese the door in Tarawa.

We are at a fork in the road.

Have a good weekend.

SR

I took a deep breath before the first keystroke in today’s blog. It is important to note there may be 2d Amendment defenders out there that are as fervent as I am, but none that are more so. I am writing to offer a perspective relative to the evolution of firearms in America, specifically in guns presumably designed for self defense. I acknowledge that it is none of my business what a law abiding individual chooses to own in terms of firearms. My musings today have nothing to do with the recent mass shootings, as I am not qualified to ferret out the sociopaths and psychopaths that walk among us, which, of course are the problem, not guns.

I have been around guns all of my life. I am the son of an Infantry officer, who was masterful with small arms. I love to hunt, and have developed a penchant for long range precision in sporting rifles. As a matter of fact I walk a little out of kilter, as the result of packing a 3 pound pistol on my right hip for 27 years. The weaponry of my day in policing was pretty well limited to a shotgun, pistol and a lead filled, leather “slapper” our non lethal force multiplier. Before retiring, I added a canister of chemical mace to my armament, which in most cases contaminated you, the bad guy and your patrol car after being used.

The Vietnam era introduced us to a nifty little rifle that was lightweight, effective and easy to manufacture, the venerable M-16. (The first of these little rifles were a nightmare, as a few grains of sand would cause it to jam in the most inopportune moments.) They began an evolution into the amazing variety of firearms available today. The pictures accompanying this musing are not intended to disparage any of the fine manufacturers of the guns. The pictures are intended to make my point, which is to ask, are we stepping on our own toes with the appearances of many firearms today? Can we acknowledge that some of the firearms being manufactured stretch credibility as sporting arms? With some 70% of Americans alleging that some form of registration is necessary and a like number of folks believing that so called universal back ground checks would be okay, are we feeding this frenzy with our current firearm offerings? Our problem my firearm loving friends is these folks vote, just like you and I, and when they have the majority, they are going to attack. Votes reflect opinions and opinions are shaped, in large part, by perceptions, and the perception of a silencer equipped, semi-automatic “pistol” with a 30 round magazine, that looks like a military grade weapon is not good with these voters, which, it has been suggested, held the majority in the last election.

In an attempt to offer a balanced review, I am mystified at the attack on the 2d Amendment, evidenced by Joe Biden’s opining that Amendments, and by extension, the Constitution, is not “absolute”. I would suggest that someone check the grave of Justice Scalia to make sure he has not dug out and left for Washington. It is this thinking that could prevail if the so called majority stays in power. (The conduct of this administration practically guarantees they will not.)

In summary. Today’s firearm offerings are utilitarian and offer a platform for accessories that is virtually unlimited. They are efficient, compact and in a personal defense posture, more efficient than at any time in our history. They are also very militaristic in appearance, expensive to own and shoot, and mystifying to many, many people. While a Glock pistol, with 16 rounds is a formidable and efficient weapon, today’s so called “machine “pistols are far more efficient. While the sociopaths and mentally ill folks grab the headlines, the folks who have the majority see only the guns they use. I am asking a fair question. Do we have any culpability in the current feeding frenzy with our demand for ever more esoteric semi-automatic weaponry, which has very little “sporting value”? We are, at present, just a precious few votes from another “assault” weapon ban, and we know the Biden Cartel has no respect for definitional parameters. They will call a moose a fox and a .22 rifle a cannon. This is sacred ground, I admit, and I will continue to fight for our right to own and shoot what we want to. That loyalty may not be enough if we don’t have the votes, and we may not have those votes when perception trumps reality.

Have a great weekend!

SR

People don’t talk as much as they used to. We don’t need to in this age of communication where the Gettysburg Address can be sent electronically, in a matter of minutes, to a phone or computer somewhere in China. Excellent verbal communication skill belongs to a select few, evidenced by the unbelievable volume of communication that is accomplished by text or other electronic conveyance. I thought it might be worth our while to candidly look at the significance of signs, symbols and gestures in use in our world today.

No treatise on the significance of signs can be considered without the game of baseball figuring prominently. (It is sad that MLB has chosen to relegate this noble game to just another political statement, alienating millions of fans with their woke nonsense, a monumental lapse in judgement.) The stealthy American Indian had nothing on a coach or manger’s ability to demand a myriad of responses from a player on the field, without speaking. Touch the left eye, steal; the right eye hold fast, hands clasped take a pitch, well, you get the idea. I am guessing that a coach or manager suddenly scratching an itchy portion of his anatomy has resulted in much confusion on the part of his player intently watching for the “sign”. Baseball players are walking examples of the power of symbolism. We all know that ball players keep in constant touch with themselves. Really, they touch themselves constantly, always concerned about the precise location of their low hanging fruit. This is the one public arena where rearranging the furniture is absolutely acceptable, presumably because the manufacturers of protective equipment have yet to develop that one simple device that keeps everything where it should be. It may be just the simple task of moving the coffee bar where the bean bag was or the monumental task of hefting the love seat to see if it has gained weight since you last checked. At any rate, ball players are aptly named, well…ball players. Leaving anatomy behind for a moment, there is also the lost art of spitting, which conjures up another story on a personal level.

I hate tobacco in all forms other than the smell of a humidor where all that pipe tobacco is stored. I was an average pitcher in High School (but did have a winning record). All the big boys chewed tobacco, an acquired skill that would leave me retching at the thought. Relying on what little political skill I had, I placed a handful of dried apricots in a blender, shredded them and put them in one end of a Red Man tobacco bag. I kept tobacco in the other half, in case a player asked for a chew. When I took the mound, I would make a production of stuffing an enormous chew in my cheek and go to work. The opposing team would note that I never spit, which would of course enamor me to them as one tough son of a gun. Don’t laugh, politicians do this on another level every day! If you swallowed enough of the apricots, it also insured you would be out of the game in the 5th inning as it soon went to work on your digestive system.

Now on to gestures. Of course, the world knows and relies on the universal symbol/gesture of disrespect, the middle finger, to signal one’s lack of regard to the intended recipient. I hate this gesture, but admit it does cover great spans of space without running the risk of having your finger snapped off and stuck up your nose. (Nose being used symbolically, of course). When I was patrolling our highways, I delivered several lectures on the inappropriateness of relying on that sign of disrespect for my efforts in promoting safety. The poor folks who chose that route to express their lack of appreciation for my uniformed presence learned to rely on alternate forms of communication when addressing an officer of the law. I would not last 30 minutes in today’s police world, as I have no more regard for this gesture today than I did 20 years ago, and it is in common use by ignorant people everywhere.

Folks, we have seen the displeasure of a “sharp look”, warmth of a “broad smile” or abruptness of a “raised hand” replaced by an email or text message that conveys no warmth or emotion. Even emojis can be misconstrued. It is a “sign” of the times. Parents, motorcyclists, teachers and athletes are all schooled in the use of signs and gestures to communicate. A simple test of your ability is to agree to use no verbal communication for the first hour after you wake up in the morning, and relying on signs, symbols and gestures to communicate with your partner. You’ll be surprised….and laughing. I guarantee it!

Have a great week.

SR

I have carried some form of firearm for 50 years both on and off duty as a trooper and a citizen. With the notable exception of a sojourn in Vietnam I can count the times that I have shot at another human being on one hand, one finger, actually, and my business was seeking out folks who would harm another human being and putting a stop to their designs. Firearms, in one form or another have relegated me to the cadre of half deaf old uncles and grandpas who can’t hear much without the the marvel of todays electronic hearing devices. I have earned the right to comment on today’s arming of our citizenry in unprecedented numbers. This writing is not about the politics or constitutionality of carrying a firearm, rather the common sense approach to do so comfortably.

To the shooters out there, now is the time to grab a cup of coffee and hear me out as I am going to challenge todays fascination with little, bitty handguns in untrained hands. Yes, there is a such thing as too little, kind of like the difference between a lady finger fire cracker and the old M-80 of years past, equivalent to a quarter stick of dynamite. The truth my friends lies somewhere between Dirty Harry and the back up, pocket derringer of Doc Holliday. The fascination with micro pistols is placing a lot of horse power in hands that cannot handle it comfortably or safely. Here we go.

Not too many years ago, your choices fell along the lines of a very reliable revolver, usually in the 30 caliber range or a full sized pistol in the 1911 class of firearms, heavy pistols in the .45 caliber realm. When I started on the Patrol, we carried a very reliable and beautiful old revolver that was pleasant to shoot. We graduated to heavier revolvers in the magnum range and finally into the new polymer pistols that are the rage today. Ammunition was no where as sophisticated as it is today, velocities were adequate but not excessive. Smart troopers carried a handful of solid nosed ammo to dispatch the luckless cow or deer that had been struck and mortally injured. We enjoyed our range days, as the revolver was ergonomically designed and your hands were wrapped around walnut grips that were somehow comforting to the touch. I have yet to see a trooper who could not be taught the mastery of handling those handguns by folks like our legendary Roy Bergman, a shooter of national acclaim. Today, mom runs down to the gun store and buys her polymer pistol based on the single consideration of size. Never mind that every time she touches off a round, she closes her eyes, has little idea where the bullet is going and grips what little handle she is holding with the tenacity of a catfish eating a perch. The shooting experience is not pleasant and her practice sessions are therefore limited.

Polymer pistols are here to stay. They are light, affordable and can be configured in sizes that are easily concealable. In untrained hands, the smallest of these pocket cannons, with today’s high pressure loads, are simply not fun to shoot. The new shooter will squeeze a magazine or two off, and proclaim themselves combat ready. That is not in the best interest of the shooter or those around them. They are not combat ready, which dear readers, is why they want to carry a pistol in the first place.

I am not narrowing this consideration to women. I know ladies that are masterful hand gunners and men who cannot hit a barn door. That is a human thing. Personally, after three hand surgeries, I do not, at all, enjoy the snappy nature of micro pistols. For me, a mid sized pistol, still concealable, but entirely manageable is the ideal self defense carry pistol. There are many folks my age who still have the strength and dexterity to handle a small pistol with skill and dispatch……there are many who do not. What is my point?

When you go forth, arm and train a new shooter or a shooter with compromised hands, please place enough pistol in their hands to enjoy the experience. These handguns are out there and easily obtainable. In today’s market, there is a handgun and caliber that is appropriate for nearly every shooter. Shooting should be enjoyable and involve more than 8 rounds and a purse/pocket stash for the life of the firearm. You should become intimate with your carry choice, how to reload, clear stoppages, clean and finally shoot the damned thing. Hand gunning, like most anything in America today, involves compromise. Harry’s magnum is too much for today’s new shooter and Holiday’s derringer is too little. Err to bigger and you’ll thank me later.

Where do you and yours fit in the shooting paradigm? The controlled explosion that occurs at arm’s length should be manageable, fun, safe and effective. A death grip on a card deck sized pistol with a hot load in it is none of these things in the vast majority of shooters hands.

Have a great week.

SR

In a manner of confession, I acknowledge my seriously maudlin tendencies. Tossing a trashed pair of athletic shoes or an old sweatshirt that is barely identifiable as an item of clothing conjures up memories of the miles and smiles we have enjoyed together. It should not be surprising then, that watching a truck leave that has conveyed Tazzy, Sharon and I around the country evokes a similar response. I am also a retired trooper, and troopers develop a relationship with vehicles that follows them to their graves. It is in our DNA.

About 5 years ago, we began to RV around the country. I was skeptical at first, as situating yourself a few feet away from a stranger, in a strange place, is a bit out of my comfort zone. My concern was all for naught, as it turned out to be a hoot and results in meeting people who make you proud of America. We started with a nominal sized trailer, blissful ignorance as to what we were doing and our existing, very capable, Toyota Tundra pickup. I am not writing to evoke an argument over the merits of tow vehicles, but we determined the Tundra, in the howling crosswind we were negotiating on the way home, did not suit our interests. I personally delivered the Tundra to a brother-in-law in sunny South Carolina where it continues to suit his purposes to a “T”. Enter the red BAT, short for “Big Assed Truck”, a RAM turbo diesel with features that to this day I didn’t know it had.

When vehicles enter our stable, I endeavor to see to it they leave in as close to the same condition they were received. The BAT was no exception. Along the way, the BAT reintroduced me to the craftsmanship of the Chrysler Corporation, that I felt had gone the way of the dodo back when I was assigned a Grand Fury that was more noise than go, and equipped with a seat out of a New York taxi cab. When you work an interstate, you quickly ascertain the limitations of your brakes…..and the Grand Fury barely had enough to get you safely halted at a coffee stop. After a thorough investigation and conversations with mechanics, I turned to the BAT. It turned out to be the finest all around truck that I have ever owned, and folks, I have owned an embarrassing number of them.

Recently, I made the acquaintance of a hard working, very real gentleman from Herman, MO., courtesy of Facebook and a mutual friend who happens to house sit for us when we are on the road. Yesterday we met for lunch and talked about our experiences as first responders. It was the perfect opportunity to get the measure of Matt, and I came away feeling certain the BAT, which he was here to take delivery of, was going to a home where it would remain a favorite family member. I suppose as a result of the many miles that Sharon, Tazzy and I have spent seeing America, wrapped in the comfort and power of the BAT, our travels have endeared her to us. Thus the maudlin approach to her leaving for Herman and the custody of Mathew, who happens to also be a skilled mechanic and exacting craftsman.

We have ordered a new RAM that will soon be built by the good folks in Saltillo, Mexico. They say it will take 8 weeks to build. ( Folks who know me know I have infinite patience. I will wait until Monday to find out what the hell they are doing in Saltillo and where my new truck is.) It, like the BAT, has a few options that I can barely spell, but are cleverly hidden in the packages that manufacturers make you take in order to have the stuff you gotta have. We have gone all in on this one, as I am getting to the age where you may have no necessity for another one in the years to come. To that end, I have already named the unborn, soft white turbo RAM “Cirrus” after the soft white colors reminiscent of the cirrus clouds that float over Missouri on a breezy afternoon. When she arrives, I’ll drive over to Herman for another lunch with Matthew and introduce her to her older sibling.

The automobile, in it’s many forms is the heart of America, beginning with those first few solo miles driven by a newly licensed driver. It becomes a reflection of you, your values and a part of your image. With this in mind, I drive RAMs and likely always will….an unashamed fan of the big, thumping Cummins diesel that seldom sees hardship. Many thanks to my mechanic friends who pointed me in the right direction. I will never forget the BAT.

Have a wonderful weekend!

SR

Today marks the first day of spring. I am looking through my office window at a lawn that has suddenly become threatening to the button downed neighborhood that we live in. It occurred to me that we are shaking off the chaos of winter in anticipation of a new season and new adventures. When you are retired, with no deadlines, pending projects and production schedules, you begin living rather than existing between critical events. This explains why older people lament the passage of time. We are not tied to a clock. When we look at a calendar, we are often shocked.

On this first day of spring, we have plans that reflect little reference to time, rather a response to conditions. Breakfast is not on a schedule. There is no specific time for that first cup of coffee, and I am more interested in a busy Robin outside my window than the happenings in Washington. More as a result of budding trees and the sounds of a lawn mower last evening, I instinctively know the crappie will be schooling on secondary points, the canoe trailer tires need to be aired up and the RV unbuttoned after reposing for nearly a year while the world was preoccupied with a virus. We will drive over later today to Pryor’s Pizza, a hundred miles from here, to enjoy our favorite pie after a slow drive through Piney River country. Neither of us has given much thought to tomorrow as we have little desire to mingle among those unfortunate souls who have only the weekend to live life. Another, non calendar, indication of spring is the breakup of tom turkeys from their winter bachelor groups into fierce competitors for the affections of amorous hens. I have no date on a calendar for this event, nor for the blooming of dogwood trees, signaling the movement of crappie to the banks to spawn. Calendars and watches mean little when nature talks to you. When float trips are spontaneous, a trout adventure is arranged the day before and conditions are just right for a mess of morels you go. You are relying on what guided the Native Americans long before the advent of fancy watches, cell phones and a calendar clutched in your hands or within easy reach. It is a beautiful time to be alive.

To be sure, the schedules of folks who are still slaves to some master somewhere, interfere with our ability to drift. There are appointments for doctors, and vehicle maintenance. You must schedule your adventures with the RV, thus assuring an available camp site, although we often dally when we travel, preferring to simply “pull through” at a campground for the night, never unhooking from the “BAT” (big assed truck). We enjoy traveling in our abode instead of to an abode, thus permitting spontaneous stops and roaming about. This freedom opens new adventures, such as visiting an Amish family in Pennsylvania and enjoying a pastry in their kitchen, or pulling off and glassing elk and antelope.

The blissful dismissal of time as your master has it’s perils. I mentioned the often expressed dismay with the passage of time by folks who have used a lot of it in their lifetimes. The ability to wander, drink in this unbelievable country and answer to your inner clock rather than a wall clock results in sadness and shock when you suddenly find yourself getting senior discounts and preferential seating. I am closing with this advice: embrace life that is not tied to a timepiece, shamelessly exploit your freedom to go and do what you damn well please, when you want to, as opposed to when you can. Live life doing things that matter to you and not a “boss”. Finally, measure time in months rather than hours. The American Indian understood more about time, with little regard for numerical measurement, than you might guess. Spring is here. I know this because of the trees, birds and morning warmth when I enjoy a coffee. Embrace the freedom in a state where freedom is still sacred.

Have a great weekend!

SR

MOPAR has a relatively new automobile on the market that is appropriately named Hellcat after the mythical creature that can be found in literature. Hellcats possess many attributes such as tenacity, viciousness and fearlessness. Aside from the soon to be legendary Dodge, three other Hellcats come to mind when I consider this mythical creature. One is an airplane, the second a firearm and the third the diminutive lady I am married to. Your personal images of a Hellcat may differ, but we all have them.

The Hellcat airplane was a pugnacious, 2000 HP, hot rod that could climb at 3400’ per minute to an altitude of 37000’. While it rested on a carrier deck with it’s wings folded, it was a rather peaceful looking little guy in spite of being equipped with six 50 cal machine guns and the ability to carry 2000 pounds of bombs. A skillful pilot, such as Lt. Bill Hardy, dealt the Japanese hell in aerial combat. Hardy, on one sortie lasting just over a hour, shot down 5 Japanese planes over the Pacific. This airplane could also take a beating and bring the pilot back to his carrier.

Next up we have a Hellcat in a little different form, that of a micro pistol, developed by the Springfield Armory folks over in Illinois. These little guys are designed for concealed carry by folks who are so inclined. Do not be fooled by its concealable size. This is a big boy (girl) handgun, packing up to 14 rounds of potent 9mm fodder, more than enough in most circumstances to slow down a bad guy (girl) with bad intentions. Properly concealed this little guy is the perfect antidote to folks who increasingly walk among us not caring who they hurt or threaten. Like the airplane, it is best suited to well trained hands and people who understand the implications of it’s employ against armed enemies. This is the same Hellcat that bit me a week ago, on the range, when I carelessly placed a thumb in the path of the slide.

Finally. We have the third Hellcat whose appearance is deceptive. Miss Sharon is the picture of an articulate, well raised and educated lady. She can carry a conversation with both a dumpster diver and professor with equal acumen. She loves kids, animals and kind people of all descriptions. She can back a 400 HP John Deere with skill, shoot with either hand and knows her way around the kitchen with a skill honed by a mother who was a farm chef. She can respond with grace and sympathy and has a winning smile. Do not be misled by these qualities. When cut off in traffic, she can deliver an oath that would scare a sumo wrestler, has little tolerance for people who are rude, and even less tolerance for parents who are ruining their children with their inability to correct them or teach them whom the adult in the room is. She also has an uncanny ability to communicate volumes with a narrowing of the eyes and artful pause in conversation. It is why I love her. I do not have to guess in our relationship.

So we have an airplane, handgun and lady that all easily earn their monikers of Hellcat. I believe that an association with a Hellcat of some form makes life richer and challenges normalcy, whatever that is. Here is to a great week ahead. Take a minute or two to consider your Hellcats, or better yet, whether you are a Hellcat yourself!

SR

I am writing this week to in an attempt to find peace after living a life of utter insensitivity. I have come to notice how this horrible trait permeates my existence from day to day and somehow, if I acknowledge these shortcomings, I might find solace.

First, I acknowledge the the sin of reading to my children and grandchildren from Dr. Seuss, Mark Twain and Laura Engles Wilder. I meant well, but know I have damaged them. I also am guilty of serving them pancakes made from Aunt Jemima batter and of all things allowed the use of syrup by the same name. Compounding this egregious conduct, I served Land-o-Lakes butter, an obvious affront to the Inuit population, a group slandered by the moniker “Eskimo”. We have enjoyed far too many Eskimo Pies, a treat contemptuous of the Inuits. I am deeply chagrined by my decision to actually drive on streets named after confederate generals. That was so callous.

On a personal level, I love white meat from the poultry that is a staple in our home. This is an obvious affront to dark meat and should have been obvious. How could I? We are also fond of rice, a carryover from our southern heritage, and have even eaten Uncle Ben’s rice. Oh the magnitude of that transgression. As a kid, I enjoyed a Mr. Potato Head, oblivious to the fact that I was relegating the female gender to second class status. I deeply regret the wonderful float trips on the White River as the Black River was so close. I just was not thinking. Without giving it a thought, I casually pull on Cotten underwear, with little regard for the fact that many years ago, black slaves toiled in fields chopping Cotten for the convenience of people who wear underwear.

The insensitivity goes on. How could I possibly enjoy a slice of cold watermelon? My eyes have been opened to the horrible implications of Father’s Day. Clearly this day should be renamed Hermaphrodite Day, to acknowledge the importance of folks who are genuinely afflicted. No more white sheets for us, only sheets of color. I am repulsed by the many loaves of White Bread on the shelves, with nary a loaf of black bread to be had. In this age of food coloring, you would think this matter easily resolved. I have allowed my insensitivity to show in the preference for white vehicles, probably a genetic flaw as a result of my southern heritage. There are plenty of black, brown and red vehicles around and I should know better.

I have come to appreciate the necessity of renaming the teams that challenge the sensitivities of folks who cannot identify with the racist monikers such as Indians and Chiefs. I would welcome the Cleveland Indians being renamed the Cleveland Multi-Culturals, and the Kansas City Chiefs the Kansas City Amoebas, after a harmless one cell organism not offensive to anyone.

America does not need a bright, capable head of state backed by an energetic congress who makes the people their priority. America needs more sensitivity. The cry of the cancel culture mobs, even though they constitute a minority in our population, needs to be heard. We are at a fork in the road my dear readers. If you choose the left route and do your research, it is likely that you can find a new way to trample the cultural norm and get your three minutes of fame. You will be among the liberals and Democrats that are currently driving the bus. If you go to the right, you can join conservative America that shakes it heads at the ludicrousness of the cancel culture movement. My satire is obvious, and I thank God that I am not a Democrat today. If this movement wasn’t as dangerous as it is, I would need a sedative to quell my hysterical laughter at what is happening.

God help us.

Have a good weekend!

The significance of tipping for services began for me in 1965 when I was unceremoniously delivered to the office of the manager of the Ft. Leonard Wood commissary, or grocery store for those who aren’t into military lingo. My new, and first, boss was Mrs. Mabel Steward, who drove daily from the community of Evening Shade, south of the post, to supervise the operations of the store. At the age of 16, I began a job that was as consistently physically demanding as any I have held since, a job that was compensated entirely through tips for service. I was a bag boy, packing groceries into paper sacks and delivering them to car side and loading them in cars. My clientele was military, usually dependents, and ran the gamut from frugal to generous. I have never forgotten the delicate dance that occurs between a service provider and the customer, and the significance of a generous tip. Haircuts were mandatory and a white shirt and tie was the standard.

First the ergonomics. Lifting double bagged canned goods into cars as well as watermelons, cartons of tripe (yes, tripe), as well as handling fragile goods on a good day was tough work. On a rainy day you learned about expediency and efficiency. Each customer from the bread and milk folks to the beginning of the month, double cart loads, needed to be met with a smile and courtesy. Occasionally, you encountered the customer who tipped poorly or not at all, which required a little more effort, but a customer they were and unpleasant responses were not acceptable to Mrs. Mabel. In those days, military families lived month to month and the first 3 days of a new month were met by huge orders of groceries and better tips. We averaged about 5 customers, packed and loaded, per hour with the bread and milk folks adding a few more. We worked behind 12 cashiers, all with the big manual NCR cash registers, and these folks could really fly on their machines. The cashiers knew full well the significance of their demeanor on the compensation of the bag boys, and could converse with customers and check with NASA like efficiency.

Near the end of the month, you would average around 10 bucks a day in compensation. Earlier in the month, you could count on a number of 20 to 25 dollar days with the best tips being a dollar on a double cart carry out. We knew who the good tippers were. There were far more customers who requested a particular bag boy than you might expect, and they compensated accordingly. As hard as it might be to believe, a number of the carry out “boys” were grown men who supported a family with this work. We had a break area and our breaks were not scheduled, but loitering or leaving registers unserviced would bring the affable Mrs. Mabel out to correct the inefficiency. Our responsibilities included keeping the floors clean behind the registers, stocking bags and policing spills and such up. When it snowed, we manned the shovels and kept the loading areas snow free and safe. It was damned hard work, well compensated for the era, and priceless in terms of human relations. Before the end of my tenure in this rather menial job, I was selected to supervise the bagging crew. I began understanding supervision and teamwork at the age of 17, lessons you will not garner at Harvard or Princeton. I also began understanding America’s fascination with titles, as we referred to ourselves as “commodities packing and transfer specialists”, far more impressive to the girls in school than “bag boy”.

Today, Sharon and I overtip by the standards that currently exist. It is because I understand the tipping concept and because we absolutely love to see Americans work for a living. When time permits we talk with our waitresses and waiters, and mention their efficiency to the managers and floor supervisors. In turn, these service providers remember us, often calling us by name when we are seated, resulting in a pleasant meal or other service where tipping is customary. From experience, I know that an extra dollar or two on top of a normal gratuity means much more to the provider than it does to me. After a long day on your feet, seeing to the needs of customers, a dollar or two in extra compensation from each customer results in a broad smile when the provider makes it home, kicks off their shoes, and tally’s the days income. I know this……again from experience.

Only a seriously, mathematically challenged individual does not understand that increases in the minimum wage will be passed directly to the consumer. These increases will tend to shrink tipping and result in layoffs and business failures. Tips, where permitted, will make more difference than ever before. A large, vanilla Diet Coke at Sonic, even at happy hour, is worth at least a buck for the purveyor of this nectar……a transaction that leaves all concerned feeling better. Tips, my dear readers, are important.

Have a great weekend!

SR

Within the past month or so, I stopped in my favorite toy store, Bass Pro, to pick up a few boxes of .22 caliber ammunition, with the intent of taking a new rifle to the range and tuning it up for the late squirrel season. I quickly discovered the days of grabbing ammunition for an afternoon shoot are on hold. I did find a box of .223 ammo and proceeded to the check out where I waited behind a gentleman buying over $1,000.00 dollars worth of .38 ammo, presumably for resale. There are many things wrong with that day’s experience prompting a look into this shortage for the benefit of my readers who either own a firearm or know someone who does.

It is obvious that demand has exceeded supply. The question is why. In the days before Covid, about a year ago, supply easily exceeded demand. All was well. Obviously Covid has been an ingredient in the shortage recipe, however civil unrest, often violent in nature, a white hot presidential election and the installation of the party of gun control is in the driver’s seat. Congress and the Presidency are controlled by folks who have never met a gun they liked. Add to this recipe around 7 million new American gun owners and you can start to see the makings of trouble for folks who enjoy firearms, but cannot find ammunition.

Back to my .22 ammunition experience. The makers of this diminutive little bullet tell us that if they stop taking orders today, it will take two years to fill the existing back orders with a price tag of around 1 billions dollars. A thoughtful business mind would conclude that more production is the answer, perhaps building new factories. Not so says the industry. Factories are excruciatingly expensive and current 24 hour production schedules will eventually fill the demand. It is unwise to build new factories to see them out of production in a year or so. We must also remember the shortage is cyclical in nature, as in 2017 when ammunition supplies easily exceeded demand.

Now it starts to get sticky. Manufacturers are starting to raise prices to distributors, logically reflecting the increase in production hours and labor costs. Market savvy folks know that when prices are high enough, folks won’t be stockpiling full combat stores of ammo. In simple terms, prices will discourage hoarding, something new to America on the levels we have seen recently during the pandemic. If you are one of the folks who has a thousand rounds of .223 in your basement or who has built a bunker to store obscene stockpiles of ammo, then you are part of the problem. Buying hundreds of expensive, personal defense ammunition for your 9mm is ludicrous, as the chances of touching off even one shot is incredibly low. By the same token, enough full metal jacket, for the range, makes perfect sense.

Has the new administration ordered the stockpiling of ammunition or ordered production slowed? Have they attempted to slap a high tax on ammunition? Not yet, but stay tuned. They will likely exhaust every effort to somehow make ammunition the centerpiece of their desire to crush the 2d Amendment. The new boss has blank executive orders at his breakfast table, and signs them anytime he can find his glasses. It is necessary, in most cases, to challenge these orders in the courts, and that takes time. Stay vigilant on this sensitive political issue. Boss Biden really has no need to think about running for a second term so he will run over anything he disagrees with.

A good strategy going forward through 2021 is to stay calm, shop for ammo deals on line, don’t buy and shoot that cheap Russian crap, and ease up on those long strings of .223 while on the range with your AR. The days of paying a buck a round for 9mm will likely disappear sometime this year and we can go back to the pastime so many of us love. Support your favorite 2d Amendment advocacy group to the extent you are comfortable and pick up the pen and put your thoughts on paper. Don’t miss an opportunity to teach a kid, or your wife or husband to shoot, safely and accurately.

Have a good weekend!

SR