Country Freedom

It was all go this morning with tractors, trailers, heavy metal and country life. All under the big blue sky of Texas, and what's wrong with that? Nothing at all. But what hard workers! Which made me feel guilty, "Don't worry brother, you're supervizin." 

Soon an sho 'nuff the job was done, trailers strapped down, metal hauled off and all was well with the world. You see, what we've been doing is getting a property ready to sell and it's live right now. Good result, and big thanks to ES without whom everything would've been overwhelming, and to neighbors G&D, who work like Trojans.

And so back to the Compound, but not before checking the news, and what news it was. War with Russia "imminent," what? Trudeau tripling down on the working class, Doug Ford in Ontario declaring a "state of emergency" and my pal setting up a stage in a covert location, somewhere in California.

"This might be a long day," he offered, and I agreed. In the meanwhile, looks like there's a party going on in Ottawa. To the beat of the drum.

Freedom,

LSP

Maundy Thursday Pistol

 

One of the things which happens on Maundy Thursday is that the priest gets to wash peoples' feet, as Christ washed his disciples' feet. My MC doesn't like it because he thinks it's "hokey," which perhaps it is. That in mind, most definitely a lesson in humility.

Regardless, there I was, about to wash a rancher's right foot, and there on a sock next to his boot was a compact S&W(?), a 9 or 40 I think. So I looked at the pistol, looked at the foot and did some quick math.

Should I bless the pistol and make it part of the rite or not? I chose the latter path, deciding to store up value for a later a date, a churchwide blessing of guns. Go long and hold, went the arithmetic.

Later, at the Pax, I told  my friend, "That was the safest footwashing I've ever seen." He replied, embarrassed, "Padre, I just forgot it was there, in my boot!" He needn't have worried, "Brother, next year we'll make it mandatory."

And that, all five of you readers, is the story of that. A short tale of God, country life and guns in Texas.

God bless,

LSP

Tight Lines

Inspired by tales of trout in the mountain streams of the White Wolf Mine, I drove to the lake in search of fish. Would there be any and if there were, would they bite? Two weighty mysteries to conjure with on the way to a date with piscine destiny.

And at first it seemed as though the answer was negative on both counts. No fish. No bites. Yes, it was all very beautiful, blue sky, autumnal Texan sun reflecting off the water, and all of that, so good for the soul, but where were the fish?

Then, just as I was about to head somewhere else there was a vicious tug on the line, hookset, and whatever was on took off like Trump Train 2020. Rod double, line out, reeling action, especially when the cunning leviathan made a mad bid to dive under the pier. It failed, but only just, and there he was, at last, a mighty catfish.

I hauled the monster up on the dock for a photo op before putting him back in to fight again another day. What a good fish. And there you have it, a short story of aquatic adventure in the Texan countryside and yet another testimony to the power of worms, small hooks and a light rod. Amazed the thing didn't break, to be honest.

Great fun, and a welcome break from staring in slack-jawed consternation at the corruption and malfeasance of our nation's political elite and their lying shills in the media. But that's a different sermon.

Fish on,

LSP

Fishing Isn't God But I Still Love It

"Man," reminds Archbishop Fulton Sheen, "is engaged in a threefold quest for life, truth and love." Would I find that after Evening Prayer, fishing? Only imperfectly. Fishing, you see, isn't God.

Still, I won't deny that the sport's up there, especially when the watery beasts are switched on, for real and love what you're throwing in the water, which is pretty much the way it was yesterday evening.

The pier was empty, no pressure, and the spillway pool beckoned with submarine life. You could see it gliding about the water in search of prey. Big Gar, Catfish, a few Bass and a lot of Drum, some large; time to cast off.

Out went line #1 into the middle of the pool and stayed there, a stationary rod, then out went line #2 for casting. And sure enough, the fish wern't only live but loving the bait, with both rods popping. And that meant a bit of running around. 

There you are, reeling in a fish when the other rod starts jumping, bends double and off you go. Quick, sort that fish out and get on the other rod!

Big fun, I tell you, and while it's not God it does  make for a better evening than staring in slack-jawed consternation at some computer screen.

So get out and fish. Shoot and ride too, but those would be different stories.

God bless,

LSP 

Hot Tub

Because this popular mind blog's all about Texan country life, it seems only right to include rural street art. I call this installation Hot Tub.

Keep it clean,

LSP

A Prayer Poem For The Feast

It's the evening of the Feast of St. Matthias and all's quiet here at the Compound, apart from the sharp click of magazines going into their wells, rifle bolts being worked and pistol slides racking in the action. And the sound of sirens filling the air as the local PD heads West over the railway tracks to take down a meth lab under the light of a silver moon.

As you reflect on this comforting scene of rural Texan tranquility, here's something to steer the mind towards holier things. It's from the Eastern Breviary.

O apostle Mathias! thou didst complete the sacred college, from which Judas had fallen; and by the power of the Holy Ghost, thou didst put to flight the darkness of idolatry by the admirable lightnings of thy wise words. Do thou now beseech the Lord that he grant peace and much mercy to our souls.

He that is the true Vine sent thee, a fruitful branch, bearing the grapes that give out the wine of salvation. When they drank it that before were slaves to ignorance, they turned from the drunkenness of error.

Being made, O glorious Mathias, the chariot of God's word, thou didst break for ever the wheels of error, and the chariots of iniquity. By the divine power, thou didst defeat the idolaters, and destroy the pillars and the temples; but thou didst build up to the Trinity other temples, which echoed with these words All ye people, praise Christ above all for ever!

The drunkenness of error. I'd say there's a surfeit of that, right about now.

Your Old Friend,

LSP 

Satan's Storm, Kopperl Texas

Perhaps the most startling remains of the storm was in what had been the cotton patch at Pete and Inez Burns' farm. The cotton was about knee high and a 'lucious crop' the day before, according to the couple. The next morning all that was left were carbonized stalks peeping out of the ground. The corn fared little better.

That was caused by a freak storm, which broke over the small town of Kopperl, Texas, shortly after midnight on June 15, 1960. Within minutes, temperatures climbed to 140° Fahrenheit, brought on by superheated winds gusting at 75 miles per hour as a dying thunderstorm collapsed over the rural community. Locals called it Satan's Storm.

Who knows why, or on account of what wickedness, Satan was allowed to strike Kopperl and not much remains of the town today. A hardware store sits abandoned and slowly falling into ruin across from the train station, and a fire truck rusts in the morning Texan sun. All stricken, I imagined, by the superheated wind of Satan's Storm.

The town was named after Galveston railway tycoon Moritz Kopperl and founded in the 1880s as a Bosque County shipping point on the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe railway. At its peak in 1904 the town boasted 394 souls, it has some 200 today.

There may not be a lot to see in Kopperl and maybe there never was, but you can hear the birds sing and the air is clear.

God bless,

LSP