To See The Preacherman

After passing by my turn and traveling ten miles up and over an old iron bridge that I really didn't want to cross over again, I called the Padre. "You mean I have to drive over that sonovabitch again?" I exclaimed incredulously. My hidden phobia was out. Yes, I've walked across greasy wet aircraft perched tail over water 100 feet above heavy seas, but driving over a bridge with a superstructure creeps me out. I can ride a motorcycle over them just fine. I can drive a convertible across them with aplomb. Put me in an enclosed vehicle and my knuckles go white, my stomach churns and my heart says giddyap. I inched back across the thing with total annihilation racing through my mind.

When I finally arrived at Preacherman's bungalow, Lawdog and Tole were waiting for me. As we chatted, it was as though I had known the Texas lawman for years. Finally, Ambulance Driver arrived, and the conversation really took off. From disoriented patients and nurses to bizarre townsfolk, the discussion was animated and at times profane. It was a good time for all, and a welcome relief for me.

We ate at one of the Padre's favorite Cajun restaurants, and by necessity, the conversation became more sedate. Back at the bungalow, the Padre broke out his Kel Tec SU-16C to show around. It was a neat little carbine, light and quick. Before long, quite a few firearms were being uncovered, examined and discussed. Ambulance Driver expressed a desire for a 1911, but did not know where to turn. Here's your link AD.

After a while, Preacherman broke out spirits from South Africa, and the talk turned to world travels, Jeff Cooper on safari, scout rifles, and the various ways of holding and controling a firearm in different scenerios.

The sun came up this morning to find five gunnies sacked out around the house in sleeping bags. The previous night we had joked that if there were a home invasion, once the cordite cleared, AD could patch the misguided soul up and keep the airway moving air while I dug out the lead for Tole to reload. Lawdog could arrest and interrogate him and Preacherman could take his confession or administer last rites as needed. One stop home invasion intervention.

Back home now, I have to prepare for a hoity toity function with the wife. I'm not expecting nearly as much fun. Which tie goes with a Colt New Agent?

Road Trip

Your humble host at Xavier Thoughts is taking a couple of days to go on a road trip. He's planning to converge with Bayou Renaissance Man, LawDog and Ambulance Driver, as well as visit a couple of old favorite gun stores.

If time allows and equipment is available, blogging will continue. If not, put a reserved tag on your seats. Photos and an update to follow.

Godspeed Syd

I see my friend Syd is taking a hiatus......perhaps for good. Thank you for your contributions to our knowledge base and cause Syd. Your rational writing has been an impeccable example to us all.

Oleg

He's often called the "Minister of Propaganda" for "our side." My friend Oleg Volk's photography has been featured in Rods & Guns magazine. Oleg's original website, "A Human Right" is a classic resource to direct fence sitters to online. Oleg founded The High Road, a forum that strives to be an example of the best that gun owners can be.

Recently, Oleg's work garnered the attention of a sociological blog. Peruse the comments.........

You can find Oleg's most recent work on his blog.

There are some folks I'm proud to be associated with. Oleg's one of 'em.

The Bikini Pic

It was the stuff of myth. An inside wink and a nudge that would never go away. A mystery to be dreamed of and never discovered.

But now, Tam has come clean. There really was/is a bikini pic. Like LawDog, I was offered cash to just cough up a copy, but I never did. Call it respect if you want, I just always thought if the lady wanted it out there, she would post it again.

All I can say Tam is it was nice, but only a prelude to the captivating woman you are now.

Miss Myra's Gun

Miss Myra had never been afraid of what the future held. When she was a child of eleven years, her father had handed her a revolver and instructed her to take care of her little brother and sister while he went to look for work. He never returned. For her, the future was always uncertain, but she knew it would come regardless, so she had no fear. When she reached her 89th year, she knew she could no longer live on her own, and she would have to go into a nursing home. She called me to come get the one thing she had held dear all of those years, her talisman against the dark and unknown future. Miss Myra gave me the gun her father had given his young daughter. She said she could not keep it, and she would not need it where she was going. She refused to let me pay her for it. I accepted her kind gift with reverence. I felt so undeserving, but Miss Myra told me she only wanted me to have it.

Miss Myra's gun is a Smith & Wesson M&P 4th Change in 32WCF. It still held five cartridges, which I removed that afternoon. Miss Myra had never fired the gun, but it made her feel safe all of her life. It was the one connection to the man who made her feel safe and had disappeared into the Great Depression.

Miss Myra's gun may be a rust flecked anachronism in an obsolete caliber to some, but to me it is very special. As I hold it, I am reminded of a brave little girl, who left school and got a job in the fields to support her two siblings. I am reminded of a young woman who saw her true love go to war and never return. I am reminded of a woman who went to the big city to make a life for herself from nothing, who eventually fell in love again, married, and who ran a greater distance with her life than most people can contemplate. Miss Myra never did give up. To give up was to die.

It worried me that day, when she gave me her revolver. It had meant so much to her, and to face the unknown in a nursing home without it must have been frightening. I went to see her the next day, to make sure she was OK. She was adjusting well, smiling and playing dominos. A week later, Miss Myra was gone. She was right, she did not need her Daddy's revolver where she was going. Sleep well Miss Myra, sleep well.

Cussin' Bob's Gun Returns Home

I drove back out to Cussin' Bob's Flat Creek Debate Society today for a visit and some fine outdoor dining. The usual crew was on hand to argue the issues in the news from the price of gasoline to Nancy Pelosi. Hot wings, sausage, and steaks were grilling, and a taco casserole was ready to be consumed.

I was also returning Bob's 1911. I had installed a new Wilson Combat barrel in it. I had also given Bob's old Sistema a trigger job and fitted Nowlin springs. It was now a tack driving pistol that looked like a 70 year old beater. Bob kind of liked that.

Bob shot the gun a bit and he seemed pleased. I asked him to shoot about 300 rounds through it before tearing it down again, because I wanted the barrel, bushing and slide to polish themselves against each other. Once Bob has done that, I will tear it down, check the wear patterns, make adjustments if necessary, and put it all back together.

Bob was pleasantly surprised at the barrel fit, as well as the accuracy the pistol displayed.

After shooting several magazines of ammo, we returned to the pavilion to debate Kennedy driving skills and the function of potassium in the Na+/K+-ATPase cycle. All in all, it was a great afternoon with plenty of good food and good debate to go around. I hope Bob is happy with his pistol.

Brunching with a Legend

Prior to WWII, during the summer of 1941, 300 men posing as tourists and carrying passports that identified them as teachers boarded boats for Burma. These brave American men secretly infiltrated China, and took advantage of a clandestine opportunity to fly and fight Japanese imperialism without waiting for their country to enter the struggle. They were led by Claire L. Chennault, a retired Air Corps major who had served as special advisor to the Chinese Air Force since 1937. This group of men was secretly known as the American Volunteer Group (A.V.G) nicknamed the Flying Tigers. The squadron consisted of approximately 100 pilots and 200 groundcrew personnel and was equipped with obsolete P-40B airplanes. Months of combat ensued and the Tigers, greatly outnumbered in the air and operating with precious little resources on the ground scored a very impressive kill ratio against the enemy, 286 Japanese planes shot down at a cost of 12 A.V.G. pilots killed or missing in action. These were the men who wore the commonly seen "blood chit" in case they were shot down. This was the squadron who painted a shark's mouth on their aircraft and set out to fight the Japanese while their country waited for Pearl Harbor. These are men who performed a service that became the stuff of legend.

One of my patients is one of those men. Dick and his gracious wife invited my family over for brunch this morning, and we chatted for hours. He has been battling venous ulcers on his legs, all of which I recently helped him heal. I showed him how to don his compression stockings, and we sat down to swap war stories while the ladies prepared chicken salad sandwiches.

Dick shared a few stories of his combat days with my daughter and me, but he was much more interested in showing off his paintings of rural North Louisiana. He told about his recent visit to Barksdale AFB and seeing a young man in a fighter jacket with a 23rd Fighter Group patch sewn on. This made Dick not angry, but extremely proud. It wasn't until 1992 that the men of A.V.G. were finally recognized as members of the US military during that seven month period of combat. Finally, they were made eligible for veterans' benefits on the basis of that service, and survivors were awarded medals for their heroism. Any boy who has ever dreamed of flying has at least seen the squadron emblem of the Flying Tigers and wondered what it represented. Any boy who has dreamed of flying has seen the blood chit and puzzled at it's significance. Official recognition for these men arrived too late for many, but they had solidly made their mark on history. They had been part of something bigger than themselves, and a legend that will live as long as men take to the skies to combat aggression.

Cussin' Bob's Gun: Peanuts

I drove out to Cussin' Bob's place tonight to talk to him about his Sistema.
Bob had been wanting me to build up his Argentine 1911 similar to my own. After looking over Bob's gun, I saw it wore the original blue finish. It would be a shame to cut up such a gun, and I voiced my reservations. Bob agreed, and we decided to build a "sleeper" Sistema rather than a pistol like mine.
What Bob's gun will receive is a properly fitted Wilson barrel and bushing, and a top flight trigger job. I will replace all the springs and possibly trim the edge off the wide spur hammer if it bites Bob. We might put on some rubber double diamond grips, and a Wilson 47D magazine. Bob gave me my first installment (I work for peanuts) and I took the pistol home.

A Woodsman and Water Rattlers

It's not uncommon for a patient or one of their family members to produce a firearm when they learn I have an interest in shooting. Usually I quickly check the chamber, then inspect the weapon and return it to it's owner, who regales me with tales of it's legendary accuracy, or the number of cottonmouth water rattlers it has exterminated.

Duffy was one such family member. He was a craggly faced old man with bright blue eyes peering from underneath his weathered ball cap. I had been working to heal a decubitus on his wife's hip for over a year. Duffy lavished the most gentle care on his wife as he learned to change her dressings. Finally, a year later, I could pronounce the ulcer closed with nothing but skin across the top. Duffy still had his hands full with her Alzhiemer's disease, but at least he no longer had to worry about that wound. As we talked about her continued care, and the strain Duff was under, he turned the conversation to shooting. Then he said "I've got something for you." Duffy went rummaging across a closet shelf, and withdrew a Colt Woodsman. He locked the bolt back with expert skill and handed me the weapon grip first.

The pistol was hardly original. The upper rounds had been blasted, and the pistol had been reblued at least once. The barrel was a Colt replacement barrel. Someone had drilled and tapped a hole behind the trigger to accept a set screw, which served as a trigger stop. The grips were some swirled plastic panels. The pistol had been stored in a floral carved holster.

Duffy went on to tell me how he had literally shot the previous barrel out of this pistol. He had replaced the springs at least twice. He told me it was his wager gun, that he would bet his friends that he could hit something far away, and then bring home gambling money as well as a rabbit or squirrel. The old man had purchased this Woodsman new "right before the war" and had used it to put food on the table and money in the bank. He chuckled and said he would have used it on "them damned Japs" too, if he had the chance.

I asked Duff when the last time he shot the pistol was. He said he did not know, it had been a while. His eyes lit up and twinkled when I told him I had some .22 ammo in the car. We did not have any suitable targets so Duff rounded up a few shell casings and instructed me to line them up on an old Farm-All tractor rusting in the Louisiana sun behind his house. After I walked back to Duff, he loaded five rounds in the magazine. He stated "I don't reckon I'll need no more'n this." Duff fired the little Woodsman five times, sending the shell casings flying. I spent almost a half hour looking for the punctured brass among the weeds.

When I had our improvised targets collected, I went back to where Duff was snoozing in a lawn chair, the pistol in his lap. When he woke, he smiled and handed me the Woodsman. I hesitated and the old man said "Go on boy, it's yours now. My son doesn't want it, and I don't need it anymore. It's not a gift to a nurse. It's a gift to a friend." I could not refuse a gift such as this. To do so would be an insult.

I do not know which I will cherish most, the brass Duff shot that day, or the pistol he gave me. On my way back into town, I stopped by the drug store and paid off the balance Duffy owed on his bill. I hope he never finds out who did that.

My Friend

I got the call on Saturday morning and I went to his home. He had been a patient of mine since 1994. He had also become my friend, and my teacher.

I don't think I will ever meet another man as crusty as him. I hope I never do. He was paralyzed from his neck down, the result of an active duty military training accident at Fort Bragg in 1981. He was a member of a motorcycle gang, even though he was forced to ride in a custom sidecar. He was a bouncer in a strip club, using his 700 pound chair to pin offenders to the wall. Before his injury, he had been a rodeo cowboy, and then joined the Army to enter the Special Forces. He enjoyed taking risks. As a quad, the only real risk he could take was alienating his care givers.

He found it horribly ironic that celebrities could suffer the same injury, and have all the influence and dollars at their disposal and still succumb to the inevitability of their injuries before he did. He took a morbid pleasure in outlasting Christopher Reeve. So many times, through so many complications, sheer strength of will was what kept him alive.

He taught me how to approach paralyzed people, and communicate honestly and without prejudice. He used to divide people into two groups......walkers and rollers. He rolled like few others. He did not let paralysis stop him. He conquered it. He never stopped living. He wanted to be seen as rough and hard. I knew a different man. I knew a man of simple words, but profound understanding. I will help carry him to his maker in a couple of days. I will miss my friend.