Dirt People & Balkanization
I’m predicating everything I’m writing in this missive on one thing. The test of character & prudence, spirit, hearts and minds of the dirt people.
I believe there is something very important in our way of life of those of us who are traditional people of the traditions of Western Christian Culture in America. A way of living and thinking. Thought it is a legacy Patriarchal/Matriarchal system hard won hard learned down thru time from the 1600’s resulting in America as created, and still exists regardless of those enemies among us who would have us enslaved or extinguished within a amerika they are attempting to create as to destroy every vestige of our America and our Western Christian culture.
What that thing is the personal record of tradition saved, and passed on to the next generation. Loosing this means the loss of what we are as Freemen and what is also a tribe per say of sub cultures within the precinct system of small provincial orientated loosely connected community’s, but not only that, an abiding cherished long and deeply held and ingrained, if not fully understood, but still nonetheless sense of ourselves, concept of individualism and its brothers self sufficiency & self determination. Prudence and personal accountability take central roles in these precepts of Western thought and activity. An issue in itself at the root of many things these days.
You put all these things together and you end up with a very dangerous but wonderful thing called Liberty, an entirely Christian Western uniquely American foundation of freedom. Really a legacy anathema to everything outside its scope of living and traditions which uphold our cherished culture. Even within the revisionists marxian dystopian utopia, it still exists, no matter, in fact in spite of, and if anything it is gaining strength and a manifest grass roots dirt people insurgency, this marxist human extinction movement with its vile proponents who will do anything, expend any treasure, spare nothing to destroy what is its existential opponent. We Men of The West.
Tough shit you dirty stinking commie motherfuckers. Go pound sand. And fuck you too. No in fact, Because Fuck You Thats Why.
What it is is how our American generations thrive. By family and tribal knowledge of the hard won long learned legacies and traditions passed on. Its strong medicine. Nothing can deny its truths and motive power when it is passed on and taken up in sequential fashion to be passed on again, and so on. It has no agenda. Like the truth has no agenda but the truth.
I’m of a place and age, a culture passed on to me. Maybe I can pass on parts of this legacy with modern implements of communication helping others understand there exists commonality of being, of activity and thinking, of history and precepts not found but rarely outside small enclaves of family kin kith tribe and community in various parts of flyover nation. And in doing so, we all become a bit more connected, less isolated. more on the same wavelength. Solidarity if you will. I’m no smarter than the next guy. I got no special powers. My insights are a product of my dirt people roots. Some of that humble, some because I’m proud of my race. I dearly love this culture, its achievements and origins down thru time. I especially hold strong preference for the ferocity of making war on our enemies, as a last reserve of self preservation. we have within us. Not taken out and hand galloped at the merest whim. If anything a last resorts, once begun that which can not be stopped except by itself. Its the indomitable thing driven by a motive power not to be denied its righteous due.
Crusades my Brothers & Sisters?
Do you know why I’m standing here on the edge of the “civilized” world with a rifle?
Because I know something, at some point the comfort and convenience of that civilized world may implode over a few days time? That there is not much of anything as a dirt person I can do about that happening, and even so, taking courage in hand I’m not afraid to look that day in the eyes and all it brings. And what to do about it in the small circle of Liberty proscribed around the earth I stand on. For the whole armor of God is my shield: it protects me from there but for the Grace of Thee I go.
I find pretty much except for a trusted few men among my community we are alone in this respect. Though I suspect there are those who are reserved and keep their council discreet. Some of what I see is normalcy bias. Some think a little cheese has fallen off my cracker. Some think i’m overdoing things a bit and humor or ignore me. Some have contempt. Some refuse to think about that day. Others simply can not conceive of such times & events. Some don’t really give a flying fuck. There’s fatalistic viewpoints. Or, it will never happen to me, I got mine, a hidy hole, and 10 years food and bolts. screw this crazy world. There’s those who can’t wait, pure anarchy, the ultimate rubber neckers, it has a certain draw to it after all, from excitement of action, romanticism to sadistic pleasure. Some see it must all burn, things have gone so far, it is the only way. People being people. A million flavors. A thousand & one grains of sand as little truths.
Regardless there’s always that few who persevere regardless of any obstacle. And for us who do, its very much like the old saying: “This is going to hurt, might as well get it over with now rather than later when I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong outlook, the wrong tools & resources, and wrong state of mind.” In crude terms its not getting caught with your arse hanging in the wind.
I’m not prepping per say, its kind of way of life. I was brought up with less, lived without electricity, running water but for a copper & brass hand pump piped from a well in the kitchen floor, a 4 holer, wood fired cookstove, kerosene lanterns and a wood stove in every room. Don’t Waste Nothin’. All life is a miracle. Thrive close to your source of sustenance. Respect ones elders. Tell them you love them. Be honest, beginning with yourself.
We played in the woods or in the river or creek, we hunted fished trapped poached and raised a truck garden. A provincial cycle of life. And it has stuck like the glue of life all these years. There’s an economy of living type of basic wisdom raised as a barefoot kid. Took awhile till my 40’s before I understood why something like fast food, food produced industrially, all packaged neat and clean like sterilized suture kits at the hospital, was favored by my fellows over “peasant fare” of my upbringing. It was one of those epiphany moments. Its eye appeal of course, but the fascinating revelation was the development of the modern pallet which seems such food creates over time. A very strong almost unbreakable conditioning of mind and senses. A long time friend who was raised and lives in a Northeast city came to visit for a day before we headed out on a journey. I was looking forward to my friends visit and so went out to my favorite stream to catch a creel of native Brook Trout, along with a nice brace of just sprouting Fiddle Heads and Ramps. I’ve raised and cured my own bacon all my life, so with some tasty bacon fat, I could cook up a pan of just dug new potatoes, with Ramps and Fiddle Heads, on the side of pan fried Brookies and dry cured Bacon and fresh eggs. Honestly, it doesn’t get better than that. My friend displayed what is the finest act of diplomacy I’ve ever experienced a few minutes after I put a big old plate of this fine gut lumber in front of him. He said he very much appreciated me for this hospitality, and that this meal was probably the finest he had ever seen, but that he was terribly sorry & apologetic he couldn’t eat it, because it didn’t come out of a package. I just can’t get it down. As only a true friend can tell you such a thing with that grace friends share. I laughed respectfully and said for his benefit, yeah, leaving the heads on with the eyeballs probably don’t help huh? Shit did we laugh. And it became a favorite inside joke and tale to tell. The “modern pallet” became a benchmark reference in my thinking for many aspects of the industrial grade corporatized modern society outside the more provincial places and way of life.
My wife before our life together was a packaged highly processed food eater. She took pretty quick to home raised and gathered food from field and woods. Particularly fresh Trout and other fresh water fish. She never ate home canned and preserved food. At one point we went through a big move and rarely ate out for a spell, and not having highly processed convenience edibles regularly, she began to notice how much better she felt staying away from the chemical stew that store bought was. Also how it just didn’t taste all that great now that her diet consisted of the most basic minimally processed home grown food, with the exception of some high end gourmet products that strived to produce as minimally processed goods as possible. Again the analogy here carries over into other facets of life. Most interesting dynamics right there.
My 1st weapon was a Stevens single shot takedown .22 “Crack Shot”, and a 16 ga, Sear’s O/U my grand dad chopped down to 18 inches and a 10 inch pull so I could handle it. I got use of his beat to hell & back original model 92′ in 38-40. Fine Deer carbine under a hundred yards. Pop hunted Upland birds with a .410 side by side with a broken trigger, he would pull the outside hammers back and let them go to shoot it. He preferred this Remington auto loader in 35 Remington, I remember he never missed. A natural shooter with anything. Originally when I was barely old enough to handle the 92, I got 1 bullet, later he graduated me to 2 rounds, would hand me ammo and say, come back with both or a deer. Same with nightcrawlers for Brook Trout. He would count out 6 worms, boy you better come back with 6 Brookies. Lord help you if you lost a hook, and a leader, well you really screwed up then No excuses on all that, none. Never let you live that down either when you missed. Same with shells. You learned to snap shoot by understanding the best shot was not waiting for the perfect one, but the one at the moment before you had no shot at all because perfect is the outlier. Those big old Spruce Grouse are cruise missiles on crank. A roasted toothsome delicacy unequaled. Got to pull on them within the time it takes to drop your cock and get your shotgun on the bird, one smooth motion no hesitation. Or you miss every time. The shot that works is the shot you can’t remember but for that incredible sublime sense of time that stops for a tiny moment of unconsciousness of instinctual hitting your target. Only way I can explain it. Its being in the zone ahead of the boolit. Its like that with a lot of things. Never had a compass till BoyScouts. Didn’t need one. You get used to the woods, your sense of direction is something you don’t think on. Don’t question. Probably subconscious awareness of land/sky/wind/water features. Don’t mean you don’t get lost. But only for the time it takes to get your internal compass lined up. When I got my first compass it really screwed me up using it. I’m wicked dyslectic, even today, I use my compass to get a bearing on a cardinal point and put it away. Checking every so often to keep a picture in my minds eye where I can traverse as landmarks & reference. I learned back as a little kid how not to walk in circles. You do that a couple times in the dark, and panic because your sense of direction betray’s you, you figure out real fast to walk on a steady bearing. In deep dark under the tree canopy, you take a step to the right every so often to make up for your natural drift. Its a shocking and personally embarrassing event to find out you went in a circle and betrayed yourself. Be surprised if that isnt the fate of a lot of people who get terribly lost & die in the bush. It can suck the Lets Go right out of you, I think thats what kills you, that demoralizing factor of finding yourself so rudely helpless for a brief moment, panic blowing away common sense of calming ones self and getting your head back on straight. The not knowing how to compartmentalize such strong emotions in austere or severe circumstance. Time to pull up on those bootstraps, put the suffering over & behind one now, and get on to get er’ done.
The unexpected is normal in respect, your raised to deal with it, and putting things off just isn’t an option. Like the Bee hives we kept. You can’t put off what chores need doing or you got no bee’s in a NewYork minute, no Honey either. You earned that shame. And Ol’ Pop would be very upset something was wasted because you didn’t stick to chores entrusted to you. No worse thing you could commit. You could get caught for kid shit, do stupid kid stuff, run your mouth and get it washed out with soap, but neglect designated chores, or done badly, wasting ammo or missing on food whether trapping fishing or hunting, you screwed the pooch and it was never excused, because it was usually due to not being prepared or focused on the task. No mercy. It wasn’t all stern admonition though. There was the good natured razzing and ball busting Men exchange as Love between brothers & sons. It was after all not Pop who was mad with me so much, it was really myself and my shame, and thats how I learned my perseverance. Believe you me. That shit sticks with you thru life. The only salve is accounting fully with myself and oath to do better. That never gets old or outgrown, nor outmoded. Noticed contemporaries who don’t use or have that skill of self correcting responsibility. Its honesty with a vengeance with oneself. Manly stuff yes sir, and humbling at the same time.
As a matter of course now, I’m simply adjusting a little bit as I go to stay a few steps ahead of the curve of history through time. You got to watch shit going down like a hawk. It may be far removed on distance or society, but when it drops in the pot, some shits gonna be like a razor beam straight for you no matter how far out there you are. Like sense of direction, sense of time reference. Its as much part of me as my hand. I can’t be what I’m not. Regardless of what those around me do or don’t, say or believe. My spirit is all I got and I got to live with it. Make peace with the demons. Treasure the angels. Live as each day is a miracle.
I attempt to always employ the frugality, and economy of multi tasking myself, skills and resources. Goes like this: My combat rifle is a lovely nimble .mil spec combat grade AR in 5.56 I built myself, to mil specifications. Even machined the barrel from a Green Mountain Rifle mil spec chrome lined/high grade alloy CM-V chambered blank, (GMRB makes a fine barrel and chambered barrel blank. I’ve used a number of their barrels and always have had nothing but excellent results, at a way reasonable price also). For specific instance: I got to thinking one day. If its my fighting rifle, its my hunting rifle. Practical Praxis at work. The common sense thing is to put my rifle to work every chance. Set aside the traditional hunting use weapons, keep them dry & safe, figure out how to kill a bunch of birds with one stone here. So my practical mind says to build me an AR in .300 Blackout. Lots of commonality of parts between the two rifles, the barrels being the only non swappable components. Here’s the practical aspects: The lighter .30 caliber projectiles of 110-125 grains share a practical trajectory/combat zero with 5.56 out to 200 yards. In other words, from CQ to 200 yards, impact zone is minute of Deer/Man. In my neck of the woods, a beyond 200 yard shot is rare. Now I have two almost identical combat rifles, set up identical except for barrels. I went to lengths to machine to high match grade tolerance of .0002 indicated. (GMRB .300 BO 1-8 twist mil spec chrome lined chambered blank here) This grade of indicated tolerance makes a huge difference in practical accuracy, takes out the natural tolerance of a mass produced bbl. Leaving me with, and not compounding, my personal & ammunition accuracy. Makes a huge difference, knowing my rifles exact ballistic characteristics, knowing I machined and built this rifle. Lot of confidence built into it, easier to find out weaknesses now instead of in a combat environment. Appreciating the quality and reasons for mil spec standards, the traceable history & robust practical simplicity those specs intend.
I also save wear and tear on the 5.56, while the .300 BO is my tractor/truck/garden/hunting rifle. It goes every where with me on a sling over my back. In this neck of the woods nobody thinks it is unusual to be carrying a rifle. If anything my neighbors & friends share enthusiasm with me and their favorite rifle. The .300 Blackout is a dandy deer, turkey, and vermin/varmint carbine, while also being an on the spot Minuteman’s at hand ready rifle. I gain muscle memory and shot memory on par with the 5.56. I’m not putting as many rounds thru my primary combat rifle. Spare parts kit serves both platforms, magazines do double duty, even my combat load out and field gear is a duplicate for each, JIC. Because I’ve built two, one in 5.56 another in .300, theres a few other complimentary aspects involved, (like swapping out the .30 barrel for a 5.56 barrel, and an hours work). Never know also, when either could come in handy in certain circumstances. Understand the common sense multi task approach here? The .300 is less intimidating to my wife, very mild shooting round, more of a short push recoil and relatively minor muzzle report. Got to really enjoying this carbine.
In part, most of this goes back to the old Boycott’s motto: “Always Be Prepared” drummed into us youngin’s all these far off years ago in another world another time & another America. It actually, giving it a good think is my personal OODA Loop:
Then Observe … Orient … Decide … Act …
It is a cycle, a loop.
It isn’t complicated. It only requires thinking outside the box…change your thinking, creating good habits, expecting a knuckle ball any moment, those unknown unknowns are ruthless. Yet, History is a cycle with a circular feature to it. Life is a series of balances.
That OODA Loop is a nifty concept. Not just for combat, but a myriad of things in life. It really fits well, adapts readily, and figures in to important components of life and activity, while extrapolating out in adaptive or practical ways, into expectance of consequences and unknowns, and trying to be as well prepared as practically possible, while outsmarting foes and surprises. Plan A needs a little brother called Plan B. And so on. Its a mind thing. My mind is my best weapon. My weapons being an extensions of. My best weapon is between my ears. As Max Velocity put’s it so well, “It is a holistic thing.” True that right there. Everything kind of follows.
Hope you get something from this. Thanks for reading.