February 17th, 2025
Today is Presidents’ Day, the day Americans remember the more notable and benevolent of the presidents who have administered our collectively owned executive branch. As we are seeing daily, the chief executive has tremendous power not only over our military forces and federal agencies, but over things we rarely see behind the scenes, like how our tax money is spent.
Daily reports of outrageous payments of your and my tax money by rogue federal agencies are riling up Washington, DC, and are vindicating President Trump. Recall that President Trump stated that the Biden Administration was lawless in more ways than just politicized law enforcement and open borders. Turns out that for the past four years, American taxpayers have been sending our hard-earned money to the farthest corners of the planet for the most ridiculous reasons – promoting transgenderism and gender coordinators among climate change cultists in Asia, is just one such boondoggle. Hundreds of billions of dollars spent on subjects of dubious value, at best, and of fraudulent purpose. There is undoubtedly corrupt self-serving going on with these grants, as well.
In directly challenging these modern illiberal, really pagan, values that very nearly overran America, Trump is channeling something older and more powerful than himself, or even than modern America: His inner warrior is coming out. We are now seeing the spirit-man himself, no longer speaking from a sterile podium, but rather riding out on his horse, war paint on his cheeks, his Plains Indian headdress flowing in the wind, his reddened war club in his right hand, going straight at the enemy of all things good and sacred.
Mount Rushmore has the faces of our most famous presidents, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. Room remains for one more face, and various suggestions have been made about whose face it should be. Because Mount Rushmore is in the Black Hills, a place long sacred and special to various Plains Indians, and which was supposed to be set aside solely for the Indians, many people have suggested that the last face be Indian. Specifically, the same face that adorned the Buffalo Nickel.
A composite face, not necessarily Sitting Bull or Geronimo, but one that represents as many of the native tribes as possible, and thereby capturing the spirit of the carving: Indomitable and fighting to the very last. Truly American. Truly Trump.
While America forcefully defeated the many native Indian tribes, we then immediately put their faces on our coins and public symbols, because of our admiration for them. We liked to think that the deeply faceted spirit of the American Indians was in all of us. The American Indian spirit is something we still universally recognize and value, respect, and admire. So, I will put in with those who say the Indian head from the Buffalo Nickel should be the last face to go up on Mount Rushmore. Maybe just brush a little Donald Trump in there with it.
The way I see it, we will get a two-for-one out of it. It will be symbolic of not just the Indian, whose presence made our frontier more formative of the Yankee spirit that Trump now represents, our European settlers tougher, and our Declaration of Independence from tyrannical government stronger, but also of the inner Donald Trump, who was last in his generation to fight to the last, with everything at risk, everything on the table, against invaders and impure people.
That is the message this Presidents’ Day. Put an Indian chief up on Mount Rushmore, because the spirit of a free America has been defended, and it remains powerful medicine. It will really be Trump up there.
The spirit of Trump is alive, and defending America
America’s guardian
June 3rd, 2015
Since early childhood and Wyeth paintings of Captain Kidd and pirates bearing cutlasses and flintlock pistols, old timey guns and edged weapons have gripped my imagination.
No, there is no oddity here in that. There is no eccentric or weirdo behavior resulting from this affliction. In a sporting world increasingly enamored of stainless steel and plastic firearms, bearing Hubble Telescope-like magnifying scopes capable of coldly assassinating animals at half a mile or longer, being a nut for simple guns of old steel, open sights, and darkened walnut sets one apart more on the side of sanity.
When these old guns last hurt someone, the War of 1812 was a recent memory; maybe some time in the 1890s a kid playing with one hanging above the mantle managed to unintentionally bag his grandma in the living room.
In 1994, a pile of them were dumped into the trash by one of my neighbors in suburban Maryland, because they were “guns,” and therefore bad, apparently, despite each one being representative of one artistic school or another, each a canvas of steel and wood, not fabric. Together worth a new luxury car at that time, and today each worth a single car.
Dumping them in the trash was that recent widow’s own self-inflicted wound.
In general, these quality antique firearms and their “modern” descendants, including the black powder express rifles, double barrel shotguns, nitro double barreled rifles, and single-shot stalking rifles, pose no risk to humans and are a threat to four-legged animals only when used with hard-won, developed skill and hard-earned, focused woodcraft. After all, these weapons require their user to approach wary wild game within at least 150 yards, and well within 100 yards is preferred, where noses, ears and eyes easily tell the quarry “RUN! NOW! FAST!”
No assassinations here. Hunting skill is the key.
Many of these guns were made at a pivotal time in human and technological history when steels were dramatically improving in hardness and durability, explosives were well on their way to matching our best fireworks today, electricity-powered machinery was becoming more available and more precise, human labor was still abundant and relatively cheap, and standards of craftsmanship were still exceptionally high so that each item a worker produced carried his or her pride of best abilities applied.
Finally, remote stands of ancient walnut trees and other tree species, long neglected for their timber and enjoyed by the natives for their fruits and nuts, became known and available by steam locomotive, pack mule, and steam ship. Wood from these trees captured a time when few factors reared their hands against the relatively soft material, and so they grew slowly in peace and quiet in far-off lands and places, each decade adding a narrow band of dense and highly figured curl and figure to what would eventually become a stunning, valuable gunstock in London, Suhl, Ferlach, and Belgium.
Today, such firearms, and even reproductions of them, are highly sought after by harmless romantics seeking to hunt but not necessarily to kill, to capture the essence of bringing an aesthetically pleasing hand-craft to the necessary bloodletting in harvesting wild game; basically, to class-up and improve the joint a bit with style and understated elegance.
Certainly there are representations of this time period among our most favorite buildings around the planet, so if “guns” elude you, your emotions, or your tastes, think of beautiful, carefully constructed, famous buildings that inspire people (or furniture, or cars, or or or…). Then you should understand that those nerdy, harmless romantics actually carry such high art around in the woods, and that being a nut for such specimens of humankind’s best mechanical and artistic abilities is not such a strange preoccupation, after all.
It is an aesthetic pursuit, with a bang.
As this right here is not a book, and as it is merely my own small, off-hand, and brief attempt to say Thank You to people who have distantly but materially added to my quality and enjoyment of life, just three institutions are receiving mention today, though many many many more deserve kudos, too (Steve Bodio comes to mind, or Ironmen Antiques, and and and…).
First, a big thank you to the Cote Family, the hard working founding publishers of the Double Gun & Single Shot Journal (DGJ), 1989 to present. Without the DGJ, aficionados of old but not the oldest or most popular firearms would have but occasional and fleeting mentions in Grey’s Sporting Journal, American Rifleman, and hard-to-find tomes filled with errata and alchemy. DGJ captures both the spirit of old hunting tools and methods, and the details required to make the whole endeavor successfully fall into place now.
Without the DGJ, Capstick and Pondoro and similar oldies-but-goodies would be most of the reading available to us. Yes, yes, Roosevelt’s African Game Trails and his other hunting books are phenomenal, but how many times over can a person read them?
So a huge Thank You to the Cote family for keeping the DGJ going.
Second, DGJ hosts such gifted analysts as Sherman Bell, whose decades-long “Finding Out for Myself” series of articles has put to rest silly notions about using black powder and nitro-for-black substitutes (yes, you can kill a beautiful buck with style, elegance, and woodcraft, you do not have to be an assassin to be successful), the safety of Damascus barrels (yes, they are safe with modern shells), and other interesting myths and facts surrounding Grandpa’s old gun on the mantle. Thank You to Sherman Bell, for enriching my life in small but directly meaningful ways with these beloved and useful artifacts.
Finally, a huge Thank You to noted gun writer Ross Seyfried, whose introspective writings and wanderings in DGJ and elsewhere have inspired many others to pick up the double rifle or single shot, and shelve the plastic contraption, once again capturing the spirit, at least, of fair chase. And Thank You, Ross, for your own steady, incredibly patient guidance and knowledge as I walk my own path.
Yes, I know, you too had your mentors, and they too held your hand and guided you along your path. We have walked those paths with you in the Matabeleland of Rhodesia/Zimbabwe and the hills of Elk Song in Oregon. But in a culture of increasingly shallow or fragile relationships, expectations of immediate gratification, point-and-click ‘knowledge’, plastic contraption guns, brief patience, half-mile assassinations of unstalked animals, and so on, being a junior apprentice to someone like you is a pleasurable rarity, and an honor.
Ross, I pledge I will do my best to follow in your footsteps and do as you have done with me: Passing along all of my knowledge of the old things, the old ways, the class and the grace — what little I possess!, to those who want them. I will withhold nothing from that next generation.
