RECCE ROOM

Some time back, this class came to my attention. Specifically, see the wording here. "Unlike other local “Civilian Sniper” courses, this class is taught by instructors who have served in dedicated Army sniper roles, providing students with instruction grounded in professional sniper doctrine and practical field experience rather than recreational or theoretical approaches." Now, I have a rule of thumb. I do not disparage other firearms schools or instructors. It is not a good look, and frankly, any competent instructor could probably nitpick another instructor’s wording, methods, or marketing if they wanted to. To what end? That said, I got curious. So I searched. Guess what was the first entry in Google? Ghost Ring Tactical has a class called Civilian Sniper . I sincerely hope the entity from the first screenshot was not taking a swipe at Ghost Ring, because Ghost Ring is one of the best organizations in the industry. In fact, I am friends with one of their instructors, and ...

  Standing on that land, I realized something. My father didn’t just give me memories. He created the conditions for them. And now, whether my children ever connect to this farm the way I do or not… I carry that same responsibility. They will have their own places. Their own “farms,” whatever those may be. Places that mean something to them in ways I may never fully understand. And that’s okay. Because this isn’t about recreating the past. It’s about providing the present. One day, I hope I get to ask them the kinds of questions I’ve been forced to ask myself. I want to know what matters to them. What places shaped them. What memories stayed. Because the truth is, the things I remember from this farm… I am the only one who will ever remember them exactly this way. And maybe that’s reason enough to write them down. Not to preserve the land. But to preserve what it meant. This is the final post of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my gra...

  The farm is 18 acres, split into two main sections—east and west. At one point, even the town’s water tower stood on this land. Eventually, my father sold one acre to Madison County so they could officially own the ground beneath it. That’s how time works in places like this. Lines shift. Ownership changes in small ways. Pieces get carved out, repurposed, formalized. But the core remains. For decades, the same man has rented this land for pasture. He rented it from my grandfather. Then from my father. Now from me. Three generations of us. One continuous thread. The cows don’t know any of that. The land doesn’t care about names or titles. But there is something steady in that continuity. Something that says not everything resets when a life ends. Some things just… continue. Quietly. This is post seven of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my grandfather. This is written for me and my siblings. 

  There was a tree behind the house. Not directly between the house and the shed, but close—just offset enough to stand on its own. Maybe 8 or 10 feet in each direction from those structures. When I was a boy, my grandfather hung a tire swing from one of its branches. That tree felt big back then. It is massive now. More than 40 years have passed since I last swung from that tire. My grandfather has been gone since 1985. My father since 2018. The swing itself is long gone. But the tree remains. And it grew. Standing there today, looking at it, I didn’t just see a tree. I saw a connection. A living thing that existed then and still exists now. A witness to everything that has changed and everything that has been lost. It’s an old friend. One that doesn’t speak, but somehow still communicates. And for the first time in a long time, standing there… I felt it. This is post six of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my grandfather. This is writ...

  The Day Power Became a Choice I grew up in a violent household. There was not violence every day, but there was more than there should have been. We could count on a family fight about 4-6 times per year. Something that should never be aimed at a child from their parent or parents. But, it was aimed at my siblings and myself.  There are moments where you realize you’re no longer subject to something. This was one of those moments. The Story I was about 17. In our house, there were days where things escalated. Not constantly — but often enough that we recognized the pattern when it started. Again, 4-6 times per year. This was one of those days. Something minor set it off. It always did. My mother escalated. She always was the one who did. My father was home, and as had happened before, he joined in. His anger wasn’t really about us — but it still landed on us. He was angry with her, but he took it out on us. He mistakenly believed that if we capitulated just the right ...

There’s a corner on the property where two fields meet. It forms a clean 90-degree angle—an L-shaped boundary marked by barbed wire fencing. To the west lies the larger field. To the north, the eastern field stretches out. To anyone else, it’s just a corner. To me, it was a battlefield. My brother and I spent hours there with GI Joes and Transformers, turning that patch of ground into something far bigger than it actually was. The terrain mattered. The angles mattered. The fence line became cover, the dips in the earth became strategic positions. We didn’t know it at the time, but we were learning how to see space—not just as it is, but as it could be used. We lost things there. Accessories, probably a figure or two. Small plastic pieces that slipped into the dirt and never came back. And there’s a good chance they’re still there. Buried just beneath the surface, waiting for someone who doesn’t know what they’ve found. But I do. Because I remember not just the place… …but wh...