Rest in Peace

 

Have you been to a country cemetery in Texas? I'm sure some of you have and I like them, right out there in the fields, complete with old shade trees under a big sky. Saying that, it can seem a little odd officiating at the graveside in such a place wearing Anglican Choir dress; Old England meets the frontier, sort of thing. But I wasn't taking the service, a young pastor was, and he did a good job, for which I thanked him.

Say a prayer for the repose of the soul of Marian W, who passed away in her early 80s and was an innocent, humble, faithful soul. She was a FORTRAN coder by profession, which I always found remarkable, and a diligent pianist. You could tell, on meeting her, that she was on the right side of God and heaven. May she rest in peace and rise in glory.

God Bless,

LSP

Ranching

 

There it is, Texas, under a big blue sky. And I tell you, it was good to be out on my friend's ranch, which is pretty unreconstructed apart from the neat house he's built on the ancestral land. Yes, it has a tower, important for overwatch, and's built of stone as opposed to brick. I'll send photos next time I'm back, it's a substantial house.

In the meanwhile, we enjoyed a brunch send-off for a church woman who's leaving for Weatherford. What a good person! Worldwide champ barrel racer in the '80s and President of the WPRA, which would pretty much make her totus orbis Head of the Cowgirls. Like no kidding. She's also been Senior Warden of Mission #2 and I could not have wished for a better person in that role, to say nothing of a friend.

Ranch brunch over, I headed back to the Compound along the strip of rural wasteland that is HWY 22 and thanked God for His goodness. Beautiful country, outstanding people, no rainbow garbage and a great moon overhead.

God Bless,

LSP

Shoot

 

A young churchman called, "We're shooting skeet this evening at the ranch to knock the rust off before Opening Day. Are you in?" Sure I was, and loaded a new CZ over and under 20 gauge into the rig and drove off to the countryside.

It's not far, and before you could say Dialectical Materialism is rubbish, there we were, five shooters and a couple of spectators in a ranch shop, checking out guns, shaking hands and all of that. Then we set up in the shade of an old oak and got down to it.

First up, two shooters on the firing line with Old LSP throwing the clays. Boom! Smoke that skeet! Good work boys, didn't take long at all to get in the zone. Then it was my turn, would the CZ work, would I work? Magnum mysterium. But lo and behold, I somehow remembered how to shoot and was up there with the young 'uns. What a lot of fun. But here's the thing.

The boys were shooting 12 gauge pumps, mostly newer Remington 870 Wingmasters, to be precise, and guess what, their weapons kept jamming. My CZ 20? Worked flawlessly, as well as being lighter and easier to shoot. I tell you, I'm a double barrel 20 convert after years of 12 gauge pumpery (Mossberg Ulti Mag and Wingmaster). For that matter and for the most part, I'd go for a double 12 over a pump, they're more reliable. 

Mind you, a smooth working pump does have that rate of fire advantage, so there is that. Double v. Pump, 12 v. 20 reverie over, my shoot was done and I left the guys striking steel with various deadly assault rifles and banned in England pistols. 

What a great evening and so good to get out in the clean air and big sky of Texas, with the added bonus of putting lead on clay to boot. Maybe we need to organize a church shoot, with BBQ, obviously, and prizes for taking out John Lennon CDs at 500 yards.

#2A,

LSP

S'Up?

 

What's up? Well I'll tell you. A recce mission to the lake to see if the Piscine Adversary was biting. No, it was not. I think they were stunned by the shock of massive heat after massive rain. Still, I tried my luck with topwater lures and it was good to get out in God's clean air by the water.

Waterworld, Thanks A Lot, NWO

Other people were fishing and not catching either, so I didn't feel so bad as I melted into the limestone of what was once an enormous paleolithic reef in an inland sea. A rogue rooster didn't seem to care one way or the other, he just strutted around. And I wondered.

Imagine This Bird Eight Or Nine Feet Tall

If that bird was paleo large, say 6-8' tall+, would it kill you? Dam straight it would, if only by reflex, and just think, our ancestors in the age of magafauna fought and survived against such fearsome beasts. But now they're shrunken and harmless, unless you're a member of our Godless Elite who want to erase all life from the planet apart from themselves.

Top Water No Bites

CS Lewis writes about this in That Hideous Strength and the Abolition of Man. Read 'em both if you haven't already, and if you have, read 'em again. By the way, the former's a novelization of the latter and, I'd say, all the better for that.

What You Gonna Do LSP, Shoot All The Fish?

Then there's fish. They were lying low today, like Democrats in defense of Hunter Biden's cracked up gun buying, but don't kid yourselves, aquatic predators, we'll be back. And then some.

Tight Lines,

LSP

A Short Advent Reflection

 

What a beautiful drive to Mission #2 for evening Mass as the sun tried to break through the clouds. "This," I thought gravely to myself, "is Texas." Mind like a steel trap, you see, but en lieu of anything beyond bears, climate change and impending civil war, here's Austin Farrer on the season, behold wisdom:

OUR journey sets out from God in our creation, and returns to God at the final judgement.  As the bird rises from the earth to fly, and must some time return to the earth from which it rose; so God sends us forth to fly, and we must fall back into the hands of God at last.  But God does not wait for the  failure and the expiry of our days to drop us back into his lap.  He goes himself to meet us and everywhere confronts us.  Where is the countenance which we must finally look in the eyes, and not be able to turn away our head?  It smiles up at Mary from the cradle, it calls Peter from the nets, it looks on him with grief when he has denied his master.  Our judge meets us at every step of our way, with forgiveness on his lips and succour in his hands.  He offers us these things while there is yet time.  Every day opportunity shortens, our scope for learning our Redeemer’s love is narrowed by twenty-four hours, and we come nearer to the end of our journey, when we shall fall into the hands of the living God, and touch the heart of the devouring fire.

 

Touch the heart of the devouring fire. I love that.

Pax,

LSP

Thursday After Mass

 

On Thursday evenings there's a Mass at Mission #2 and afterwards we decided to go down the road to Parson's Marina for a drink and a snack. It's tranquil there, with a view over the lake and offers $2 beers and discount pizza on Thursdays, which can't be bad.

So we pulled in to Shooky's only to find several other members of the flock already there who had cunningly skipped Mass in favor of cut price lakeside fare. In fairness, the latter's a big draw but look, you can have both. Hmmm, maybe I need to say an outdoor Mass at good old Shooky's, move the mountain to Mohammed, sorta thing.

Good Old Shooky's

Then more people from the church turned up, it was getting to be like an Annual Parish Meeting and I found myself invited to a dove hunt on Sunday. Great result, let's see if the birds are flying when the day comes around and regardless, it'd be good to get out in the field now the climate's changed.

We'll see how that goes, in the meanwhile, what a lot of fun to meet up with such good people as the sun was beginning to set over the lake, beautiful. I feel more of this is in order.

Cheers,

LSP

Out And About

 

One of the things people like to do after Mass at Mission #2 is go out for lunch and I joined in today. We went to Shooky's, which is a congenial little setup overlooking Lake Whitney at Parson's Marina. I hadn't there been before, strangely, and liked it a lot.

The food was good, I can recommend their pepperoni pizza, the view over the lake tranquil and I liked the fishing lodge, marina ambiance of the place. Just a really pleasant way to spend an hour or so after church and with great company to boot.

What good people! Representing several walks of life, law enforcement, banking, engineering, ranching, and all united in the Faith. Were there any libs at the table? No, there were not. Was anyone armed? Woe betide the fool who attempted to rob Shooky's on a Sunday afternoon.

Seriously, I feel blessed by such a good hearted congregation and am amazed at its range. It's easily the most intellectual church I've served but at the same time totally down to earth. From people who write books like I'd like to shoot dove to rodeo stars and all else in between, and right there in Bosque County, Texas.

Who'd have thought it, yet there it is. Go to Shooky's if you get the chance, I think you'll have fun.

God bless,

LSP

The After Mass

 

One of the things that happens here is that we meet at 5.30 pm on Thursdays to worship God in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and no, this doesn't mean we blasphemously attempt to repeat the one all-sufficient sacrifice of Christ but rather, by grace, unite ourselves to it. 

Magnum mysterium, to put it mildly, sacramental unity with our Lord's paschal offering of himself for our atonement on Calvary. And right there in supernatural power  in Bosque County, Texas, there on the Altar was Christ's Body and Blood given and shed for us for the forgiveness of sins and the reconciliation of Man to God.

Heaven, for a moment, breaks through to us and we to heaven, "peace be to this house." Then we're dismissed with a benediction and vale, "May almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, this night and forevermore. The Mass has ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

Reflect on this. If Christ is truly present in the Mass, if we meet him and enter into communion with him in the Eucharist, for the forgiveness of of our sins, if all this is true how could any faithful person not want, fervently, to meet our Lord at the Last Supper which is Holy Communion? Yes, judgement for sure, but also mercy and infinite compassion.

That in mind, I was heartened by the congregation this evening, our worship is growing, and waved goodbye to the guys, "See you Saturday (men's group), I'm going fishing." And there it was, Soldiers Bluff, resting under a hot Texan sun, just a minute or two away from the church.

It was beautiful to be out by the water as the sun began to set and fun to catch a scad of little perch who went back in to fight again another day.

God bless you all,

LSP

Corpus Christi Storm

 

Thunder rumbled like a celestial artillery barrage as the heavens opened and rain lashed down with cascading fury. Seriously, climate change got real and I had to pull over to the side of the road on the way to Mass. Clearly Hill County had forgotten to pay its carbon tax.

But maybe Bosque had because it was clear skies and sunny southern weather once you got over the dam which blocks the mighty Brazos, creating Lake Whitney. A great place to fish, for sure, and a good place to celebrate the Mass to boot, not far from one of Belle Starr's hideouts.

A typical Texas Storm

I keep meaning to visit what's left of her small 100 acre ranch, which once played host to the James Gang and other bushwhackers turned outlaw. All in good time, but in the meanwhile it's Corpus Christi, so here's a prayer.

Deus, qui nobis sub Sacramento mirabili Passionis tuae memoriam reliquisti; tribue, quaesumus, ita nos Corporis et Sanguinis tui sacra mysteria venerari, ut redemptionis tuae fructum in nobis iugiter sentiamus: Qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum. Amen.

 

And in English:

O God, who under a wonderful Sacrament hast left us a memorial of Thy Passion; grant us, we beseech Thee, so to venerate the sacred mysteries of Thy Body and Blood, that we may ever feel within ourselves the fruit of Thy Redemption: Thou who livest and reignest forever and ever. Amen.

 

Powerful prayers and do you think that a nation, people or persons who openly mock God will somehow escape the storm of his judgement?

O Salutaris,

LSP

Time To Shoot Again

There it was, another beautiful, clear, already ovenlike morning in country Texas, another day to shoot. This time at Chandler's range just outside of Valley Mills where I RV'd with some church people. Of course I was on a mission to test out yesterday's malfeasant gas gun. Would it work today after yesterday's failure and remedial gas block surgery?

Good question. You'll recall, far-sighted readers, that the gun wouldn't cycle because of an incorrectly aligned gas block and wrong length gas tube, which I corrected. Or had I? First shot. Bang, right in the center of the green terrorist's head, nice, the weapon was on. But no cycle. Dam.

Out came the screw driver, off went the hand guard, and whaddya know, the gas block still wasn't right. Attention to detail, LSP, get it right the first time, enough of your shoddy, useless gunsmithery. That in mind, I nudged the block back over the handy indent in the barrel, tightened it up, fired a test shot, the rifle cycled, phew, and replaced the hand guard.

A few shots later on the head of the green terr proved the rifle was in working order. Mission accomplished. Result. The rest of the morning went on remedial .45 practice, I'm rusty, and plinking about with a .22. Great enjoyment and what a lot of fun to meet with with church friends for a shoot in the clean country air. 

We must build on this worthy endeavor.

Gun Rights,

LSP

Just Go To The Lake

 

Movement, says the Philosopher, is a sign of life and that in mind I loaded a couple of rods in the rig and moved off to the lake. Yes, I was alive, but what about the fish? Good question. Soldier's Bluff, once a reef in a vast inland sea, shone under a fierce Texan sun, teenagers did backflips into hot water, all was alive, but the fish weren't moving.

Don't get me wrong, I tried, with worms and shad but no, our piscine enemy were lying low, immobile, playing dead. So much for this game of soldiers, I thought grimly to myself, and moved to another location, across the dam.

Boom, right out of the gate a ferocious Drum pulled rod #2 along the fishing pier. Off I ran, alive, picked up the rod and reeled him in. Good fight, well done fish. He went back, living, to fight again another day. Next up, Gar.

The thing about Gar, if you're me, is they're easy to get on but hard to hook. You see, they'll play with your bait and drop it if you attempt a premature hookset, which tends not to work because of the bony toughness of their long prehistoric beaks. So what to do?

Try a small #6 hook, baited with frozen shad, on a 12" leader weighted with split shot beneath a small float. If you're smart, unlike me, make that leader steel. Launch the shad near the Gar, he'll see it, move in and it.

Watch the Pleistocene creature gobble that bait fish down; seriously, let the fish do its thing, give it line, allow it to pretty much eat the shad and then run with it. It'll run, allow some 8 seconds into this then set that hook.

Fish On, Just Doesn't Know It

Wow. Stand up, rod double, line out, leaping, thrashing, diving, running fish action. Just a lot of fun. But word to the wise. I say again, if you're fishing from some kind of pier use a steel leader, otherwise the fish will bite through your line as you haul him up, which is what happened to me today. Still, good fight, great result, thank you fish.

Back at the Compound we're reflecting on this real-life parable. It's the Feast of SS. Peter & Paul, who followed Christ and became fishers of men.

Tight lines,

LSP

On The Way

 

One of the crew ended up in hospital the other day with a heart condition, but by the grace of God he survived and one pacemaker later was back in his newbuilt home today, recovering. I drove out to see him, and I tell you, it felt good to be out in the country. There it is, lying there in the searing heat, Texas. Good too to find my friend in good spirits and recovering, though weak. We prayed for a full recovery.

In other news, the Russkies had a good week, capturing Sverdonetsk along with neighboring territory and look set to capture Lisyshansk (across the river from Sverdonetsk) shortly. Smart UKR troops made it out of the encirclement, on foot?, and fell back to the Bakmut/Kramatorsk defense line. Expect RF forces to move West to test this after securing their rear. Or not. Here's a map from Rybar:

It's similar, when you think of it, to a mini version of Operation Bagration, but at a company and battalion level as opposed to divisional, and both sides seem to be operating on something like the 1944 playbook. Mini or not, it's no joke when it's your kid who dies in the fury of thing. And die they have, to the tune of tens of thousands. 

This is hideous, unlike Blue's new friend who's cute as all get out. But here's the thing. No cats in the house and this one's going to a different home after being rescued from ghetto street life by a soldier. 

He calls it "Bobby," which is sweet, but "Bobby" is not taking up residence, plaintive, sentimental, unrealistic, pugnacious protests notwithstanding.

Your Pal,

LSP

Fish And Fossil

 

"Dad, can we go fishing?" I thought for a moment, for maybe a second, "Yes, we can." Some coffee, two bacon and egg sandwiches and a relined rod later we were on our way to the lake, Lake Whitney. And after a brief pit stop at a lakeside Pick 'n Steal for fried cherry pie and a fishing license for the kid, we were at Soldiers Bluff, casting off.

Would the fish be on? Sure enough they were, right from the get go, with voracious predator perch going at the worms we were throwing into the murky, minnowed water. Tug, snap, light rod down and boom, out comes a fish. The soldier caught first, nice, and I came in not far behind.

And so passed a pleasant hour or so in the Texan sun on the side of the lake, what a lot of fun, especially given a late bite in the last half hour; fish after fish till you started to lose count. Some of them were big too, but all Bluegill. Come on, Bass, get your act together.

As we clambered up the rocks to get to the rig and home, I reminded the world that this was once the bed of a primeval, Mesozoic sea and there were fossils to be found. Sure enough, there was a junior ammonite and some petrified shells, easy to dig out of the clayish strata.

Then, "Look at this!" Lo and behold, there was a section of fossilized shell, sticking out of the rock. Pretty cool, so we went back to the truck to get some tools to excavate it. 

Some well placed taps with the hammer end of an old axe on a sturdy screwdriver and there it was, freed from the rock. "What if there's more?" We tapped away, removing the stone which had once been mud, and there it was, the fossilized spiral of an ancient crustacean.

Great excitement, and the fossil's back at the Compound. The Bluegill, on the other hand, were put back to fight again another day, and maybe to keep. Tasty.

Fish On,

LSP.

After Mass Outlaws - Belle Starr

 

Belle Starr on Venus

Talk after Mass at mission #2 turned naturally to famous Bosque County outlaws, and I learned something. The famous Bandit Queen, Belle Star, née Myra Shirley, owned a 160 acre ranch not far from the church, in what became Fairview.

This would have been in the 1870s, in the turbulent years following the War, and the ranch served as a hideout for Belle, then Myra, her first husband Jim Reed and assorted outlaws. These could well have have included members of the James and Younger gangs, former Confederate raiders turned horse thieves and bandits.

Wild West Show?

The Bandit Queen knew these men because she'd served as a scout(?) with Quantrill, "Bloody Bill" Anderson and other guerrillas during the Missouri-Kansas border war. Her brother Bud served as a raider and taught Belle to ride and shoot. 

After Bud was killed in action in 1864, Belle's family, the Shirleys, moved to Texas, northeast of Dallas, where they continued their relationship with the very irregular cavalry.

Jim Reed was shot in 1874 in Paris, Texas, and Myra moved to Indian Territory (Oklahoma) where she set up on the South Canadian River with a Cherokee outlaw, Sam Starr, her second husband. Starr was shot by lawman Frank West at a Christmas party and Belle went on to marry another Cherokee horse thief, Bill July, who she renamed Jim Starr.

Belle Starr

Belle was ambushed, shot and killed in 1889, at the age of 40. Suspects included Edgar Watson, a neighbor and horse thieving associate, her son Ed and possibly her third husband Jim. But I won't bang on, here's Belle:

My home became famous as an outlaws' ranch long before it was visited by any of the boys who were friends of mine in times past. Indeed, I never correspond with any of my old associates, and was desirous my whereabouts should be unknown to them. Through rumor, they learned of it. Jesse James first came in and remained several weeks. He was unknown to my husband, who never knew until long afterward, that our home had been honored by Jesse's presence. I introduced Jesse as one Mr. Williams from Texas. But, few outlaws have visited my home, notwithstanding so much has been said. The best people in the country are my friends. I have considerable ignorance to cope with, consequently, my troubles originate mostly in that quarter. Surrounded by a low down class of shoddy whites, who have made the Indian country their home to evade paying tax on their dogs, and, who I will not permit to hunt on my premises, I am the constant theme of their slanderous tongues. In all the world, there is no woman more peaceably inclined than I.

 

Again:

You can just say I am a friend to any brave and gallant outlaw, but have no use for that sneaking, coward class of thieves who can be found in every locality, and who would betray a friend or comrade for the sake of their own gain. There are three or four jolly, good fellows on the dodge now in my section, and when they come to my home, they are welcome, for they are my friends, and would lay down their lives in my defense at any time the occasion demanded it, and go their full length to serve me in any way.

 

Belle Starr, an excellent horsewoman, see Venus, who often rode side saddle, was a crack shot with two revolvers which she called her "babies," served less than a year in a Detroit jail, acted in a Wild West show where she robbed a stagecoach and... became a legend in her lifetime. 

She had, to my mind,  a hardbitten look by the time she married July, and no wonder. You can imagine her running hospitality for killers like the James and Younger brothers.

For my part, I'll remember her when I drive down 56 past Fairview on the way to Valley Mills. And rumors that some of our people are part Cherokee and out of Bonham are just that, vicious, unfounded rumors.

Ride on, and ride fast. Or slowly if you've busted your hip,

LSP

Still Beating The Drum

After a morning visiting the sick, I stopped off at Lake Whitney dam to test the waters. These were clear(ish), and apparently devoid of any fish. 

The occasional Water Moccasin slithered across the still surface of the pool, ignored by floating turtles, and that was that, no evidence of fish at all.

Still, I had the pier to myself, no pressure, and that's no small thing. There it was, the great edifice of the dam and the Brazos, winding its way through Texas to Waco and beyond under a big sky. A tranquil scene, and I cast off more for the contemplative reflection of it all than anything else.

Say your prayers, consider the upcoming Feast of Pentecost and the nature of the Holy Spirit, who we're told is the personification of the love between the Father and the Son. Take a break from the turgid skulduggery of the world and unwind overlooking the river.

Good call, right? No, it wasn't to be. The pool looked empty, like the pews of the venerable if shrinking Church of England, but it wasn't, it was full of voracious Black Drum. No kidding. I'd no sooner cast off with a famously scientific split shot, #6 worm rig than Drum were plowing into the line. 

Up came one, up came another, and another, and on we went for an hour or so. Good action and good sized fish. Finally the worm battalion were down to their last two conscripts, which I threaded onto a sharp, #6 baitholder.

The Tebbit

Within seconds something big was on the line. A Gar? A Striper? A Dolphin? Lord Tebbit himself, protesting against the rainbow riding iniquity of Bury St. Edmonds' Deanery?

No, just a monster Black Drum. He thrashed, flailed, dived and pulled but nothing worked, the fish was on and up it came. 

And that, international readership of this popular mind blog, is just the way it was.

MAGA and Fish On,

LSP

Fish 1 LSP 0

The air was clear, bright and for Texas at the end of August, pleasantly cool. So why not head over to the dam after visiting the sick and see if the fish were biting. Good plan, eh?

No, bad plan because of the War on Weather, which stopped the dam letting water out of Lake Whitney into the Brazos and further inundating an already flooded Houston.  That meant there weren't any fish in the channel apart from a few lazy Gar and lots of turtles.

So I didn't catch anything. Still, it was good to unwind for an hour or so overlooking the water and, to be honest, I was more in it for the country air and relaxation than anything else. Mind you, there's no escaping the fact that the fish won this round.

Good luck next time, fish. This isn't over.

Fish on,

LSP