Well, Well, What Have We Here

Typical Texan HVAC Scene

 

Busted HVAC. Good thing Craig turned up before Morning Prayer to sort it out. And there we were, looking at the malfeasant unit. "Cuts off when the cover goes on. Why? Faulty board, pressure?" I didn't know but stood back while HVAC friend took a call from Waco.

"I need duct for... and some foots... and..." he turned to me me, call ended, "Where are we living, Babylon?" Ain't that the truth, and we discussed the current insanity of the way we live now. Then it was time to head to Itasca.

Karen's Authentic Mexican Food (it is)

Itasca's an interesting little town, mainly because of its Amish(?) deli and Karen's Authentic Mexican Food. I like both but prefer Karen's, where you can get an awesome homemade bean brisket burrito. That in hand, off to the compound to meet a hauler. His job? Take out a '50's Chevy Panel van and an '82 'vette, which is exactly what he did. 

It felt good, I tell you, being under the big sky and open air of Texas as opposed to some ersatz, strip mall facsimile. Not that I pour scorn any which way. Go on, knock yourself out at Red Lobster, Texas Roadhouse, Taco Bell, subWay, Panda Express or whatever, or enjoy Karen's. Your call. No rule.

Creepy Van

In other news, an old pal's setting up some kind of pop concert at Chanel's HQ in Paris. In homage to Coco, or just for bucks? Maybe both. Whatever, if you want to get on the VIP list send an email, we can only say no, or YES.

Whatev. I'm not joining the Parisian party because I can't fly. No DevilVax you see.

Truly,

LSP

I Fought The Law

Just kidding. I didn't fight the Law at all but dutifully went to get the rig tested and registered. This meant driving to the "shop" and discovering you have to wear a weird mask, like a robber, to get in the door. So I did, being a law-abiding citizen of the great Republic of Texas.

The Shop

They're a good crew at the "shop" and only charged $7 for the inspection, it didn't even take long. Thanks, guys, appreciate it. Next stop? The Court House, because that's where you register your vehicle.

Fortress

In the old days, people were less lawful in this part of the world and the imposing edifice to Justice still has metal shutters in place for fear of banditry, mayhem and insurrection. Like a fort, which in a way it was and might be again if the going gets weird. See Portland.

All Hail Texas

Of course I'd be happier if it was a collegiate church in a pleasant plaza with fountains, cafes, statues of saints and Confederate generals but there it is. The place burned down a little while ago and Willie Nelson helped to rebuild it, before he degenerated into a completely useless old hippy.

Willie aside, the Courthouse has gone full COVID. A pleasant young policeman asked if I had any symptoms of the Red Death, then took my temperature with a handheld machine which was doubtless made in China. 

Huh

I wished him a muffled joy of the day through my annoying and stupid mask and offered an informal salute. Defend the Police, Thin Blue Line. 

And then it was wait in line because the Kung Flu says only two people at a time are allowed in the registration office. Still, it wasn't too bad. A couple of veterans noticed each others' hat insignia in the queue.

"You served with the...?!?"

"What?!?"

"You served with..."

"Jets. Jet engines all day every day!"

"Can't hear you. What!"

A Rig

Good men, respect, and all too soon the line was at an end and I was forking over $75 for the white privilege of being road legal. Where does this money go? To the police and army of Texas, I hope.

Remember the Alamo,

LSP

Get Back in The Saddle, Fool

It's been a little while, but I rode out on Tres this evening before Vespers. Tres is a horse of color who identifies with her biological gender as a mare. Tres is OK with people calling her "her" or "she", that's the kind of pronoun she goes by, at least for now. 

Tres also idolizes a white Stallion, called Whitey McPrivilege. Whitey feels, pretty aggressively I can tell you, that Tres belongs to him. Tres agrees and even seems to like it.

A Saddle on a Truck

I know. By now you're probably feeling a bit sick at the sheer spectacle of this heteronormative, self-imposed cisgender stereotyping. What's wrong with these horses, you're asking. Good question, and I don't know what's got into them, but I do know that Whitey McPrivilege wasn't there when we rode up on the herd.

Is Whitey Here?

They were all horses of color and Whitey wasn't there. Tres was pretty upset, no kidding, so we ran back to the safe space of the barn, fast. Maybe she'd find Whitey there, thought Tres. No, she didn't. Then we ran down to the big cow pasture. Was Whitey there? No, he wasn't. Maybe someone had shot Whitey for being a hate-filed, misogynist gender fascist. Whatever, he wan't there.

Where is Whitey?

Bereft of gender oppression, Tres posted back to the safe space, ate some grass and got turned out. So you see, readers, all six of you, everything turned out alright.

Ride on,

LSP

Snake Hunt!

What do you need to go on a snake hunt? A knife might come in handy, so take one. Take a hat, too, to keep the scorching April sun off your head. Wear boots, as an extra layer of protection against the sharp fangs of the snakes and vicious Texan thorns. But what about a gun?

A Hat

Yes, you'll need one. I chose a battered Mossberg 12 gauge pump. OK, it's not a fancy-pants, Ivy League, boarding school, Illuminati elite, Country Club double, but so what? It gets the job done.

Spot the Space Junk

Now that you're loaded for snake, set off and check out the serpentzone. I poked around in a pile of space junk that I knew a rattlesnake was fond of. How did I know? Because I saw it there the other day, with GWB. No luck. Next, peer down into a small ravine and gaze at the clear water of its creek. Tranquil, that's for sure, but still no snake.

So Where's the Snake?

Don't give up, like a beaten army, scout along a treeline and observe various animal bones while looking for Indian artifacts, maybe there'll be a snake. No, there wasn't; there were plenty of wild flowers, most attractive, but still no snake. Perhaps the snakes will be at the Beach, I thought, after all, they love water. Especially Water Moccasins. 

The Beach. Watch out for Snakes

Alright, go to the beach and look in wonder at the height of the water, chances are there'll be a snake. They do, in fact, like to congregate in places like the Beach, so if you're thinking of using this snake hunt as a guide, be careful when knocking about the shorelines of snaky tanks, I was. Regardless, the serpents were hiding, unlike the frogs which were in abundance.

Snake Territory

I called it a day after the Beach and counted it a successful armed stroll through the Texan countryside. And there's nothing wrong with that. At all.

As I write this serpentine wisdom, big lightning fills the eastern night sky like an artillery barrage, but it's silent so far.

Your Pal,

LSP

Tree Logic

We're doing some building work at the Missions. Putting a new roof on one church, repairing the roof on another, fixing an out of control tree problem and repainting the HQ. One roof's been sorted out and a tree crew arrived this morning with a cherry picker, provoking a furious response from Blue Sentinel.

I took the dog for a walk to the local Pick 'n Steal so I could get a coffee and the tree gang could get on with their work. What sort of trees should we plant to replace the dead ones that are being taken down? I asked myself, as I sipped my coffee, while the dog stood guard against any life-threatening squirrels, cats, birds or mail trucks.

Typically, in this town, when trees are removed they're not replaced, giving our rural farming community's center a desolate, parade square, car park blasted by the sun look. That's unfortunate, because trees give needed shade in the fierce Texan summer. They look good, too.

Back at the Compound, I found the tree experts staring forlornly at their idle machinery. At what point, we have to ask, is technology  indistinguishable from magic?

Stay tuned for more, as this exciting story develops.

Chainsaws,

LSP

Storm Front

Maybe it's because we don't pay enough carbon tax and don't have a ban on hi-cap magazines, but for whatever reason, it seemed like we were losing the War on Weather this morning. 

The sky began to turn green and the air became still in the Ozlike light. Very much the calm before the tornado which didn't come, although the rain did. Like a deluge. That meant I didn't go visiting this morning because I had to make the compound's sturdy tornado bunker (basement) available to the public.

Then the storm passed over and I made my rounds, visiting the sick, the dying and the bereaved. There's no shortage of these, unfortunately. But still, it meant stopping by a fine restaurant.

It also meant gauging the exponential growth of a chicken operation, and running cattle, to say nothing of pondering the militia presence in the local Walmart car park. 

It's all going on in the countryside, I tell you.

And the the storm is by no means over.

LSP

Flag Day

That's right, yesterday was Flag Day, Confederate Flag Day, so I did my bit by buying a Hood's Texas Brigade plate. Pleased with that.

One of the 4 readers of this so-called 'blog" even sent in a poem. It's a melancholy tribute, here's an excerpt:

For, though conquered, they adore it,—
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it;
Weep for those who fell before it;
Pardon those who trail and tore it:
Oh, how wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!

State's Rights,

LSP

Get on The Horse

You can be a sad determinist or some variety of Calvinist and believe that everything is preordained. I chose to exercise my freewill and went for a ride. Don't be a fatalist, I muttered grimly to myself, get on the horse.

We started off slowly, trotting along in the clear air of a crisp, sunny Texan morning and posted off down a trail in the Mesquite. As I understand it, posting trot isn't very "Western" but so what, it's good for the horse's back and the rider's sense of rhythm, to say nothing of muscles. They got a good workout.

After a little while it seemed right to open up and off we galloped, not too furiously but plenty fast enough. It's a great feeling, moving at speed with a horse through the countryside.

We finished with some uphill galloping, Go on! Up that hill! followed by a brisk trot back to the barn. I say barn, but it's more of a walk-in with a trailer doing duty as a tack room, and what's wrong with that? Nothing at all.

Ride over, I drove the country route to Waco, down 933, cleverly avoiding the heinous I35, and visited the sick in hospital. One of them's made a pretty miraculous recovery. I thank God for that. And remember, God's knowledge is necessary but it's also eternal and simultaneous, or present tense. 

That doesn't contradict free will. Speaking of which, I'll clean some guns after Stations of the Cross. There's nothing, ahem, predictable about that, at all.

Stay on the horse,

LSP

The Gun is Not a Pet

Guns aren't pets to be looked at, stroked and patted on the head, even if you do love them. No, they're tools, machines built with a purpose and made to be used. With that in mind, a friend came over from Dallas and we drove out to the range with a truckload of guns.

A Pet

First things first, see if my pal's Remington semi .22 was dialed in. It wasn't but the scope was soon put to rights. The Ruger American was right on and the more I shoot it the more I like it. Handy little bolter.

Some Guns

An old Winchester pump .22 did just fine too, handily taking down some steel plates and a small silhouette at 100 yards. I like that gun, and there was nothing wrong with an AR, either. Well done, Spikes Tactical, Fortis, Ballistic Advantage and Primary Arms. Put the dot on the target and off you go.

Dial it In

And then there's Glock. Some people scorn them, "they're rubbish." I disagree, a right workhorse of a pistol and all business. Breathe, squeeze the trigger, take down the plate, or whatever. For some reason I shot better at 30 yards than I did at 15. Weird, but true.

Some Old Guy With a Gun(s)

We finished off by blasting a plastic water container down the range with a single shot Boita (?) .20 gauge. Big fun.

So now you know. Happy Presidents Day.

LSP

Saturday Ride

After my morning routine of Morning Prayer (1928 BCP), walking the dog, drinking coffee and talking with spiritual singing gentlemen of the road, I went for a ride.

It was good to get out in the country and back in the saddle, though my horse disagreed at first. Easy, girl, we're riding on, and that's just the way it is.

Rodeo bronc over, we walked, trotted, cantered and galloped through the bucolic Mesquite groves of Olde Texas. Good thing I was wearing a sturdy Carharrt! Those thorns are big. But seriously, there was room enough to open up and I enjoyed that. Gallop.

After the ride I asked myself if I'd learned anything. Maybe a bit; sit deeper in the saddle, rely more on legs than rein, work with the rhythm of the horse, not against it, use the animal's instinct to get back with the herd to your advantage. All that sort of thing; basic horsemanship skills, and there's nothing wrong with that.

More importantly, it was exhilarating to ride out fast in comparatively untamed country and get away from everything. Just you and the horse. 

There's a freedom in that.

Gun rights,

LSP

Get Out And Ride

People say to me, "LSP, if that's your real name, which we doubt, how come you don't ride very much, seeing as how you're so country?" Good question, and to set the record straight, I drove out to a friend's place and got in the saddle.

We rode out around the 600 acre ranch, walk, trot, gallop, and surveyed the territory. A beautiful place to ride, with plenty of room to put the foot on the accelerator and several vistas that suddenly opened up in the light of the setting sun.

Somehow we picked up a small herd of horses that followed us about and played a little rodeo. You might want to be careful with that; a loose horse in front of you could decide to kick. Your chest. That didn't happen, fortunately, and we lost the herd.

There is a sense of expansive freedom being on horseback in Texas, and my mind goes back to the people who settled this land not that long ago. It was hard for them and the difficulties were great, but so too was the advantage. 

I've been invited back, "Come out any time! But if you see a rattlesnake you have to shoot it."

That sounds fair to me.

Ride on,

LSP

Hill County Outlaws

Pedro Vial, a Frenchmen hired by the Spanish to find a route between San Antonio and Santa Fe, was possibly the first European to enter the territory that became known as Hill County, Texas. That was in 1789.

In 1870, a 16 year old John Wesley Hardin was busy in the county, drinking, gambling and killing. By January of that year, Hardin had shot and killed 8 men, the first in a long list of 42 slayings that Hardin claimed before he was shot and killed in an El Paso saloon, in 1895 by Constable John Selman. Hardin wasn't alone.

In the years following the Civil War, Hill County was reportedly "infested with outlaws and desperadoes" who actively resisted Governor Edmund Davis' State Police. Davis had fought with the Union and was oddly unpopular in Hill County, along with the Reconstruction Government and its law. 

When the latter moved against the Kinch West -- who may or may not have ridden with Quantrill's Raiders -- and Cox Brothers gang, locals didn't give their support and martial law was declared in 1871. 

The outlaws have gone now and Hill County is comparatively law abiding. But reflect on this. 1871 isn't that long ago.

LSP