Illustrations to Go With All the Big Talk

Recently I shot off my mouth (and my keyboard and a couple of rifles) on this blog about the long distance shooting we'd been doing with .22 rifles, namely my Savage Mako and Aric's Model 925 Marlin in .22 WMR. Recently we took an afternoon and switched to centerfire rifles. Aric brought out his personalized Remington 710 in .300 Winchester Magnum. I just brought my old Swedish Mauser with the 29.1" barrel and the original tangent sights. Both of us scored hits on the gong which was set, according to Aric's laser range finder, 525 yards from our shooting position. We had a deeply satisfying time, getting a lot more hits than we had with rimfire loads and much louder "dings" with each hit.

The 109 year old Swede still knows how as Aric is about to demonstrate.

Here I've added a white spot to show approximately where we put the gong. The white spot is much larger than the gong.

Tolerating Change

A number of times in my life I've had the experience of coming home and opening the front door only to have the horrible feeling that I'm breaking into someone else's place. The chairs aren't where they're supposed to be, the couch is facing the opposite direction from its position only 9 or 10 hours ago, the TV is momentarily lost altogether, and the lamps seem to be on all at once for no apparent reason. A lingering air of dust and sweat completes the strangeness of the new atmosphere. I stare in consternation until I am at last able to recognize a few familiar things which have always belonged in my world and are therefore sure signs that I have not entered the wrong house.

If the date is somewhere between 1957 and 1969, I'll hear my mother's voice asking me to put my books away and help her shove a couch or bookshelf a little further into its new place. If the day has fried my brain too much, I'll slip up and ask something dangerous like, Why did you do all this?" If I ask this between 1975 and 1992, the response will probably be " 'M'on, Mims! It's fun!" "What's fun?" "Change, Mims! Making things seem new!" "Oh. Uh, huh."

If I have stumbled into the scene between 1992 and 1999, the answer will be "Hi, Honey! Guess what Bruce Benson and I found under the carpet. Red oak!" That alone was sufficient to cancel all other plans until the last coat finished drying about a week later. True, the floor was gorgeous, but I was exhausted and the lady next door had become infected with the desire to do the same thing. This left me feeling oddly guilty for her husband, Red, who was a truly nice guy and deserved a little time to sit in front of the tube and watch sports.

These days, the change might be announced with the pitiful tones of "Help me!" coming from another room. These words are spoken by one who knows perfectly well that I'm writing something on the computer or loading cartridges in the garage or deeply involved in a program on the History or Sci Fi channel. But there is nothing sacrosanct about a man's hobbies. Men are just overgrown children, anyway, and they have to be taught constantly that what is important to them is, by definition, not really important.

I learned the other day that our car needs to be replaced. This came as a great shock to me. I still think of it as a relatively new car. It is paid for, since we got it by trading the first Dodge Magnum of all time straight across for the little Neon which Dodge said was painted "Orange Blast." It had seven miles on it, a standard transmission with five forward speeds, and better visibility than the Magnum for which I had written a check of total payment about 4 months before. The Neon got great mileage, the chief reason we had decided not to keep the Magnum. We were just finishing up our world record race through my one-lump retirement package, and, since the Neon was new, I thought I wouldn't have to even think about buying another car for about ten years. I smiled a lot.

Our tires are, admittedly, shot. Our brakes need work. The starter is making a funny little sound, although it still starts the car with absolute fidelity. On the basis of all this, I am told we need a new car. Personages of no less note than the bishop and the father-in-law have joined in the chorus. So I guess we'll be getting a new(ish) car.

We have been looking at the Subaru Outback and the Mercury Mariner and a few others of that general ilk. I have never tolerated change well. Changing girlfriends back in my single days was terribly traumatic to me. Changing wives is a torment which has been inflicted on me twice. I did not handle the process well either time. Indeed, the first time, I would much rather have been shot. The second time wasn't much better, because, in addition to losing a companion, I was losing the frequent companionship of a tiny and much-loved son. All these experiences have made me less, not more, a fan of change. The only time I don't mind change is when it means getting something new without losing something old or familiar.

For example, I have rifles in four calibers right now. I could be reasonably happy with these four for the rest of my life, but I could be deliriously happy if I were able to add just a few more. See? Not change. Just addition. That's the best way to go.

Empathizing With Michelangelo

Many years ago a man wrote a novel about the relationship between Pope Julius IV and the artist, Michelangelo Buonarotti. It was called The Agony and the Ecstasy. Both men were trying to create something. One was trying to create a Catholic Empire that was too strong for the kings of Europe to assail. The other was trying to create a masterwork which he'd never wanted to do at all, but which, since he had to do it, he wanted to do in his own way. The alternating friendship and enmity between these two men made a fine story, although, I confess, I've only read AT the novel. But I've seen the film many times and even used to employ it in my Western Civilization classes at MHS.

As a teacher, I often lamented that I was answerable to anyone but God for what I did and how I did it in my classroom. I knew that my desire was to do a good job of teaching truly important things. The people who stood in judgment of me or in authority over me were an irritant to me unless they wised up and left me alone. For a long time they generally did leave me alone. At the end, of course, that ceased. But it was certainly an experience which gave me not just sympathy, I think, but real empathy with the great Florentine with the crooked nose. I loved to tell the stories of History, and teach them in my own way, a way which had proven to fascinate and educate young people. I even enjoyed telling the story of HOW Michelangelo's nose got so crooked.

Another thing that has given me empathy with Michelangelo in his creation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling is the religious training of Dante (my Dante, not the Florentine poet.) When I was finally talked into divorce by his mother, she stated several times that she would never stand in the way of his religious training. That was to be my sole bailiwick. To be fair, she has held up her end of that bargain fairly well. To my knowledge, she has abstained from virtually any such indoctrination of him, except for things like Christmas which is all to the good.

Sheryl and I used to take him to the Boise Temple when he was still little. We taught him songs from Primary and we taught him the proper form of prayer. When he came to our home, which happened more often when we lived in Boise, he got a pretty healthy dose of Church attendance, prayer, and doctrine.

But, since we've moved back to this side of the state to be close to our parents and other relatives, it has become mathematically impossible for us to travel back and forth to pick him up and return him. The price of gasoline, as everyone knows, had grown enormously, while our income has stagnated at a good deal less than I was making my last couple of years at Madison. For example, I had hoped to have Dante here for two stays this summer, but we were only able to afford the one in June.

It was during that June visit that he made a comment which hurt me a lot, although hurting anyone was the furthest thing from his bright little mind. He said, when I was talking about some Church-related topic, that "I'm not a very religious person." I don't believe that anyone had taught him to say that. I believe that he'd merely picked it up by observation as others represented their own position with such phrases. But hurt me it did. I knew it meant that I was failing and that I had virtually no chance to succeed in teaching him what the Doctrine & Covenants says it is our duty to teach our children.

A couple of years ago, as he approached his eighth birthday, I asked his mother whether we might not have the full-time missionaries come into their home and prepare him for baptism. I knew that I couldn't possibly get over there often enough, nor could I keep him here long enough to get him ready. She said that she was "not comfortable with that." So I watched his birthday come and go with a very heavy heart (to borrow a famous phrase from LBJ.)

Since then I've prayed many times about the situation. It is my duty to teach the little fellow the gospel, but I don't get the chance. Indeed, the opportunities to be with him and teach him seem to be coming less and less often. And I don't think that Michelangelo could have been more sick at heart if Julius really had taken the ceiling commission away from him (as he had threatened to do on a couple of occasions) than I have been about the divine project which I had so hoped to do and do well. My love for the little monster is so strong that hearing his voice on the phone, as I did this evening, is all it takes for me to start tearing up. I am not certain why I'm writing this particular post. There's nothing any of you can do about the situation. Except pray. Maybe that would be enough. If you would occasionally pray for me (or someone) to have the chance to teach the Restored Gospel, by the power of the Holy Ghost, to my little son Dante, then this situation could still be pulled out of the fire. Please give it some thought. And please pray for us in this regard. Thanks.

Speeches, Ridiculously Long Shots, and Children in Peril

Josh

For many centuries, public speeches were looked forward to and enjoyed the way we look forward to the next Harry Potter film today. A speech could be as entertaining as a play and much more easy to come by. One of the things I enjoyed most about History as a child was the many quotations from great speeches which showed up in all those biogs I used to read. I think that I had a fair idea of what a really polished and capable speaker was before I ever took that eighth/ninth grade speech class in which I first met Terry A. Lindsay.

I have a bunch of books which contain nothing but speeches. I don't really see how a person could teach History without such things. I used to read the Patrick Henry speech to my kids, as well as Pericles' Funeral Oration (selections,) the Fourth of July Speech from 1856 by Frederick Douglass, selections from the Webster/Hayne debate and the Lincoln/Douglas debates, and lots of other plums of spoken language which moved people and accomplished things. I've always loved speeches.

I still do. That is the main reason why I sat through the President's speech tonight. I was impressed. Favorably. Darn it! I rather like the fellow. He is a polished speaker. He might be almost as good as the greats of American history. In the fullness of time, he might prove to be every bit as good as them. As a speaker, I mean. He handled a sincerely angry heckler tonight with dignity and seeming sincerity.

That's the thing that got to me most. He really seems to believe that he can pull all this stuff off. I don't believe he can, but I don't think I can doubt the sincerity of his belief that he can any more. He spoke tonight about things that I'd been wanting and even longing to hear from an American leader for many years. Although the subject was health care, he referred pointedly to "civility" in American politics, a thing which has been lacking for a long time and most especially during the last several Presidential elections. If you know my mother, and most of you do, you know that courtesy and civility were paramount in her home. If you know my father, you know that he is the soul of decency and respectful communication. Therefore, these things have come to matter a great deal to those of us who were raised under their roof(s.) (We moved around a lot.) And that's why it touched me so much to hear Mr. Obama speak of this subject so appealingly and even, I think, persuasively.

There were times tonight when I believe the President actually had the nation entranced. There was a kind of awe-stricken hush (after the heckler subsided) for a long period of the speech. He was talking about things he believed would make the nation better, and he got others to share his dream, if only for a few minutes. That is the power of public speech. And that is why this president chooses to deliver speeches a bit more often than some others of recent memory have done. He knows that it is his chief strength as a leader. He can inspire people to hope for things in which they don't even believe.

Don't take this to mean that I'm changing parties. Far from it. I don't think I even have a party right now. For a couple of decades I've believed the Democrats to be fundamentally wrong-headed and the Republicans to be fundamentally cowardly in not fighting them more effectively. But the man can speak. Yessiree! There have been speakers like that throughout human history. Some were very good, even godly in their mission and intent. Others were the foulest kind of self-effaced children of God. Being able to move a crowd is a great power. It's a thrill and is a bit addictive. For some people it seems to come almost too easily. Adolf Hitler moved hundreds of thousands to tears of joy when he described the glorious future he had planned for the Fatherland. Their poverty would end. Their national shame and humiliation after the Treaty of Versailles would be but an unpleasant memory. They would be great again. Yeah. Right.

I think that I like Mr. Obama a little more now. I can at least believe that he believes. I suppose he won me over that much. But it was just today that I received an email (not yet passed through Snopes) which says that we will have to list our firearms on our income tax returns. It sounds absurd, but then a lot of things these days sound absurd. Some of them are just that. Silly. False. Made up. But how can I not at least listen to such a warning when persons like Mr. Obama, Sen. Feinstein, and Sen. Schumer are in power? They have dedicated their lives to such dangerous stunts. They are simply not to be trusted, at least on the Second Amendment and other parts of the Bill of Rights which protect us from having too much government with too much power.

Enough of that. Aric Armell and I have been having lots of fun lately. We go out for 2-4 hours at a time and try to hit milk jugs and steel gongs at long range with .22s! A couple of weeks ago we found that we could make fairly consistent hits on targets at 200 yards. With .22s! So we tried it at 300. Yes, the rate of success fell off a bit, but we still got lots of hits, many more than we'd thought possible. The scopes wouldn't adjust high enough for 400 yard shooting, so we had to start verbally describing to each other just how much we were holding over the target. It would sound like this: "OK, on this shot I'm holding the lower duplex reticle's point at the top of the big juniper behind the target, maybe a few inches above it actually, and I'm holding the vertical crosshair about one gong width left of the gong, because of the wind." And despite all the preparations and considerations, the shot might land a gong width to the right and six feet short of it! But just trying it was tremendously fun.

Yesterday and today we were shooting at a steel gong and a 2 gallon water jug which were at a
"lazed" (measured with a laser range finder) 525 yards. I hit the gong ONCE today. It was a thrill. I could barely make out the little metallic clang which came back to me long after the sound of the shot had died away. And the bullet had lost so much energy by the time it reached the gong that it couldn't dent it at all. It just sort of flaked off some of the paint we'd put on today. With Aric's .22 Mag we hit the gong about 7 times.

Now for the third topic of this post. Josh. He turns 23 on the 12th, but he'll be driving back to New York by that time, so we celebrated his birthday tonight with pizza and pumpkin pie. Those were his choices. Soon he'll be deployed to Iraq along with the entire 10th Mountain Division from Fort Drum, NY.

We're trying not to worry too much. After all, he works in the motor pool. He should be safe. But his secondary job is "SAW gunner."

The "SAW" ("Squad Automatic Weapon") is a light machine gun which shoots the same round that the M-16 and M-4 typically use, 5.56mm NATO. Its civilian name is .223 Remington. Its cyclic rate (push the cartridge into the chamber, fire it, extract it, eject it, and replace it with another cartridge) is very fast. He loves it. But, despite my admiration for such technology, I find myself hoping that he'll be bored to tears in the motor pool for the whole year. That he won't see any "action" at all. That he'll come home the same cocky, annoying little braggart he's always been, with no extra apertures or orifices in his hairy little body. That's the essence of what we're praying for. Perhaps you could join us in that from time to time. We'd appreciate it.