Concerning events in a little country cemetery

Authors note:  When I was in the Marines, all the best stories started with some variation of “That ain’t no shit…”  Well, this ain’t no shit either!

I parked my truck in front of the old church just as the morning sun was peeking over the treetops along the eastern side of the highway.  As quickly as I could, I moved my gear to the rear of the cemetery and staged it in the edge of the woods there.  Shovel, arms cache, rake, and a scrap of old carpet were positioned out of sight behind a large oak tree, just in case some other early morning cemetery visitors showed up unexpectedly.

The particular grave I wanted to use for the purpose of hiding some guns and ammo was just a few steps away from the treeline, and I was fairly certain that any cars approaching along the highway could be heard in plenty of time to stash anything incriminating if the sound indicated they were slowing to pull into the cemetery.

Lest my reader think ill of me for disturbing a grave, allow me to explain that I had no intention of disturbing the grave itself, but merely to hide my cache behind, rather than in front of, the headstone.  These are, after all, strange times we live in.  And the old man sleeping here had been awaiting judgment day for over a hundred years now.  Besides – from what I knew of the old fellow I was fairly certain he would understand.

As further camouflage for my activities, I unloaded a weedeater, lawnmower, and other yard tools and positioned them strategically at the rear of my truck. 

Once everything was in place, I began to dig.  The soil was soft and the shovel was as sharp as I could get it, but the sweat was streaming down my face in no time just the same.  This was a task I would be happy to finish quickly and be on my way.

For the next few minutes the only sounds to be heard in this little country graveyard was the sound of a fat old man laboring with a shovel.  Then came a sound that made me almost jump out of my skin.

“Ahem”

I whirled around, and nearly fell over in the process.  Seated just a few feet away on another headstone was an old man.  One leg was crossed over the other as he sat there calmly puffing a pipe.  He was dressed in an old-style brown woolen suit, and he had an old wide brim hat on his head that looked like it had seen as many years as he had.  His demeanor was thoroughly calm; almost disinterested, and the expression on his face was one of mild amusement.

I’m sure I stood there, shovel in hand, huffing and puffing with a surprised look on my speechless face. 

“I don’t reckon you ought to be doing that young fellow.  Folks don’t take kindly to being disturbed ya know”.  His voice was deep and melodious, and the accent was that of a man born and raised in the southern Georgia backwoods.

“I’m sorry” I replied.  “I really need to hide something, and this was the very best place I could think of to hide it.  I didn’t hear you walk up.”

He eyed me for a moment without speaking, took another puff off his pipe, and then said “Well whatcha hidin that’s so all-fired important that you have hide it in a cemetery?”  My comment about not hearing him walk up was ignored.

For a moment I felt a little silly, but clearly there was no turning back now.  And the thought occurred to me that the only way out of certain trouble was to make my point to this gentleman sufficient for him to see the wisdom of burying guns and ammo in a cemetery.

“Well sir… this PVC pipe is filled with a couple a rifles and about a thousand rounds of ammo that I am scared to keep at my house.  I’m fairly certain that I’ve drawn the attention of this evil federal government that is busy destroying the Republic, and I’m scared of a midnight visit to my home”.

As I spoke I laid my shovel down and then leaned against the headstone I had been digging behind.  At my words I saw the first flash of something other than amusement in the old man’s eyes and I was afraid that I’d said something to offend him. 

“What’s that you say boy?  Government destroying the Republic!  Is this still America or what?”  he said with a degree of force in his tone that hadn’t been there moment before.

“Let me tell you sump’um boy” and he leaned forward as he spoke, his eyes becoming steely and his brow furrowed  “My grandfather was a Lt. in Colonel Anderson’s Company during the Revolution, and him and his men didn’t go off and bury their rifles!  They shot King George’s troops with ‘em!” 

His ire was clearly up now, and his demeanor no longer that of a kindly old country gent.  His pipe now forgotten in his hand, he stood up and hitched up his britches in the manner of someone resolved to action.   In a sweeping gesture with his free hand he continued on:  “Boy… take a look around yerself here.  Ain’t you standin amongst two hundred years of your own family?  And don’t you know these folks were made of stern stuff?”

Indeed I did know where I was, and I knew very well that my grandfather, his father, and his father’s father all lay within a few yards of where I now stood being lectured by a man whose identity was beginning to dawn on me. 

“I know who you are Boy.  I’ve watched you since you wuz a young’un.  And I watched your Daddy too.  Didn’t he go to war half way around the world back before you wuz born?  He damn sure did!  Hell… back in 1861 me and all my brothers, and every one of my cousins, and every able-bodied man in these here parts – we all signed up to go fight them sumbitches that come down here from up North.  You ought to know Boy… we ain’t never been the sort to run and hide!”

Hearing these words I knew that the man standing before me had departed this world in 1901, and was none other than my own great-grandfather – whose grave it was that I had disturbed.  Yet rather than fear my only feeling was one of profound shame.  His words struck to my very core.  My father had fought the Japs on Okinawa, and this old man had fought against Sherman in his march to the sea.  His father (my great-great grandfather) had served in the militia during the War of 1812, and that man’s grandfather had organized a chapter of the Sons of Liberty that was so effective in harassing the British in and around Savannah that he was mentioned by name in the Georgia Governor’s letters to King George.   

These things I knew well and the truth of his words had cut me to the quick.  I had bowed my head lower and lower with each word from the old man, and now as he seemed to pause, I raised my eyes and looked him full in the face.  All the pride I had ever felt in my ancestors now welled up within me, and I spoke to him from the bottom of my heart. 

“I hear you Grandpa.  And I reckon you’re absolutely right – There’re other things I need to be doing with these”

The old man smiled a smile of love - in a face framed in pride - and slowly faded from view.

Range Report

I had a good day at the range this last Saturday. In hopes of beating the rush (and the heat) I got there early and was shooting by 8:30. As it happened, I had the entire facility to myself until nearly 1pm.

I started out at the 300 yard line using ammo of my own creation. Batch #19 has shown real promise at the 200 yard line when fired against my other loads, and against off the shelf stuff. So this was my first opportunity to fire it at a longer distance.

My group at 300 yards was strangely out of whack, and I don’t have a good reason. It might be the clouds of mosquitoes I was fighting off, or it might have been the bug repellant that the sweat kept carrying into my eyes. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t thrilled with my 300 yard line results and moved out to the 400 yard line with some trepidation.

At 400 yards my group of three shots was 3 and 3/4 inches. At 500 yards my group measured 4 and ½ inches. Moving back to the 600 yard line I fired a 6 and ½ inch group, and at 700 yards my group measured 10 inches.

My dope as provided by Bryan Litz’s program, Point Mass Ballistics Solver was right on the money the whole way! If the day hadn’t been so blisteringly hot, and the mosquitoes and gnats not been on the assault throughout the day, I am sure that I could have done even better.

The other positive factor I am convinced is the Outer’s Foul Out barrel cleaner that I used to strip the copper fouling from my heavily used rifle. I made a mistake in not starting at the 200 yard line so I don’t have comparative data for before and after the barrel cleaning. But I was just so darned anxious to get out beyond 200 yards that I stifled my good instincts and went directly to 300 yards. That is the one part of my day at the range that I regret!

Law student slaps down LEO for illegal stop and questioning

This is absolutely the most motivating thing I've seen in quite some time! I would buy this young man a beer and happily shake his hand. THIS is the kind of GUTS that American gun owners need to have!

 

The UN is deciding on your gun rights this month

How many of you even knew this was happening this month?  The United Nincompoops, in cahoots with the Obongo administration, is in the process of deciding if the 2A has any future at all.

Read this

Keep it firmly in mind that the UN does NOT like the idea of an armed citizenry, and nothing expresses its contempt quite so well as the artwork adorning the UN's front lawn!

What Boortz said

There much that comes out of the mouth of Neal Boortz that I stridently disagree with (abortion, Confederate Flag, gays, Christianity, etc.), but every now and then that guy nails it squarely on the head. Here’s his 4th of July rant, and he calls it – right on the money. Americans love security more than Liberty!

Tomorrow is known as Independence Day, not Dependence Day. This is a day we celebrate the Declaration of Independence … proclaiming our independence from Great Britain and the heavy-handed governance King George was inflicting on the colonies. Now we have durned near half of the voters in this country not only supporting, but celebrating another ruler (his words, not mine) who governs with every bit the heavy handedness of the British King we fought for liberty 236 year ago.


My beef with the 4th of July is that so many of the people who go to such great lengths to celebrate this holiday – perhaps even a majority – are much more tuned in to dependence rather than independence, and security rather than freedom. There’s a reason the word “security” beats “freedom” by a 9:1 margin in presidential speeches.

There more, and it's worth your time to read it. Go here for the rest.

Working on a recipe - and making some headway

I’ve been doing way more shooting lately than blogging. I hope my handful of readers forgive me. Working diligently on the perfect load for my .270 WIN, and I may be getting close.

Among the groups I shot recently is this one that I call simply batch 19. It actually comes in two flavors, 19 and 19b. The only difference is that 19 was charged using my old Lee Perfect Powder Measure, while 19b was loaded with my new RCBS digital model. So there was some chance that batch 19 had some variations in the powder charge – and we all know that variations are anathema to accuracy.

Anyhow… this ten shot group was fired at 200 yards in the prone. The first two shots I had the rifle on a bag that I just couldn’t get stable like I wanted it. So for shots three through ten I fired from the bi-pod and stabilized the rear of my stock with the bag.

Since this was just one of several batches I’m testing, and since each batch tends to have a different point of impact, I am not adjusting the rifle to zero for every batch. I’m simply firing to gauge the tightness of the group – hence the reason my POI is up the street a ways from my POA (Yes that scrawl in the red is meant to be POA – ever try writing with a magic marker with a tip the size of a paintbrush!)

If the two fliers are discounted, the group measures 1.7 inches at its widest point. Not too shabby IMHO. Batch 19 consists of a Berger 150 grain VLD projectile powered by 49.2 grains of IMR 4350. It's packaged in a Federal Fusion case that's been given a lot of TLC, and it's lit by a CCI #200 primer. 

Further testing is definitely warranted and I’ll keep you informed.

 

Barack Obama’s 20 Most Impossibly Self-Absorbed Moments

I usually try not to get too focused on that buffoon in the White House (the current Buffoon - not the previous Buffoons), so I missed many of these things at the time that they happened. But this is worth looking thru to remind ourselves of the concentrated narcissism brought to the table by Obongo.

It is simply un-fookin-believable!

Barack Obama’s 20 Most Impossibly Self-Absorbed Moments




Hat tip to John Venlet

Jack Hinson: Confederate Sniper

Proverbs 18:19
A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city

Review by:

Robert B. Loring

“Jack Hinson’s One-Man War,” written by Lieutenant Colonel Tom C. McKenney, USMC (Ret), is the incredible story of a Southern civilian sniper operating during the American Civil War. Masterfully told, but difficult to research, LtCol McKenney has successfully brought to light this poignant tale of a grief-stricken man’s need for revenge.

Jack Hinson, who was approaching 60 years old, was a successful farmer near the Tennessee-Kentucky border and a devoted family man. He was known as one of that area’s leading citizens, until the “dogs of war” came calling. At first, and as did many farmers of that tumultuous period, Hinson attempted to stay neutral.

In early winter 1862, Ulysses S. Grant brought his gunboat-supported army to the walls of Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River. During the following battle Hinson road the lines and offered his eyewitness intelligence to both armies, and one to Grant himself. However, his slim-to-none hopes of staying neutral would abruptly change.

Like many other communities throughout the contested South, the times of regular combat quickly turned into irregular guerrilla warfare. Attracting semi-military forces and countless freebooters, the area residents witnessed innumerable acts of inhuman cruelty and injustice. Mayhem reigned upon the families living in this once peaceful and prosperous land.

On one horrific day a Union cavalry troop appeared at the Hinsons’ door. They had captured two of Jack’s boys. The boys, caught with hunting rifles, had been taken for suspected guerrillas and were summarily executed. Identified as Jack’s sons, the patrol’s lieutenant ordered his sergeant to impale the boys’ decapitated heads on the Hinsons’ front gateposts.

After the family buried their children’s remains, Hinson swiftly turned his attention to exacting terrible vengeance. Hinson freed his slaves, moved his family west, and carefully oversaw the manufacture of a specially crafted sniper rifle. Certain that his surviving family was safe, he initiated his highly personalized war of retribution. McKenney writes, “Whatever the details, the Federals had sown the wind, and for the rest of the war, they would reap the whirlwind.”
Hidden deep in Hinson’s Scottish heritage resided the impulse for blood and retribution. The first person Hinson hunted down was the hated Union lieutenant; his second kill was the sergeant who seemed to take delight in impaling the boys’ heads on the family’s gateposts.

Moving freely throughout the wooded hills, Hinson continued his unique brand of warfare. He set up a camp at the base of what is now known as “Jack’s Ridge,” overlooking the northern flowing Tennessee River. There, at a branch known as Towhead Chute, the Union boats plowed upstream against the current. There, presenting a near stationary target, Hinson shot the boats’ captains or other officers. As time passed and his killing reputation grew, he was hunted by the local army units and a combined Marine/Navy amphibious force.

In one truly remarkable moment in naval military history, the captain of a transport loaded with armed soldiers hove to and attempted to surrender. Thinking he’d been accosted by a swarm of Rebels, the captain beached his boat and rapidly struck his colors. Alone, with no infantry support, Hinson reluctantly passed on the offer and quietly faded into the countryside.

The author writes, “It was the only time in recorded history that a fully armed naval vessel with embarked combat troops ever surrendered to one man, and it was probably the shortest period of military confinement after being captured in combat.”

Late in the war, Jack acted as a guide for General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s operations in Tennessee and Kentucky. The author estimates that Hinson, who survived the war, had killed nearly 100 individuals, including some pro-Southern renegades who plagued his neighbor. After the war, Hinson presented his trusty sniper rifle to GEN Forrest. The reader will note that the rifle’s “chain of possession” is carefully recorded in the appendix of the book.

McKenney spent 15 years researching the legend surrounding Jack Hinson’s unique war experiences. His research was difficult because Hinson’s surviving family was, at first, afraid of reprisal, while later descendants wished not to be remem­bered as being related to a bushwhacker. The book is a joy to read; whether you’re an old military trained scout sniper, or a hard-charging Civil War enthusiast, you’ll be captivated at this skillfully crafted literary masterpiece.

Growth of the public sector versus the private sector

State and local governments depend on the private sector for their survival. Almost every dollar that these governments spend is either borrowed or taxed from the private economy. Yet, for more than half a century, these governments have continuously outpaced the growth of the private sector on which they depend.

 In the chart below, Mercatus Center senior research fellow Matthew Mitchell uses inflation-adjusted data from the Bureau of Economic Analysis to illustrate the unsustainable growth of these governments. The blue line shows the size of the private sector as a multiple of its 1950 value and the red line shows the size of state and local government spending as a multiple of its 1950 value.

 The graph shows that, after 60 years, the private economy is 5 times its 1950 size. But state and local governments are spending almost 13 times as much as they did in 1950.



  Source Hat tip to Old Jarhead

How to spend a great Sunday by yourself

I'll let the pics tell the story