RECCE ROOM

About 30 to 40 feet west of the house stood a two-car garage. It wasn’t tall—maybe ten feet at most. Low enough that my grandfather’s 1985 Dodge Ram barely cleared the opening by a couple of inches. Pulling into that space required attention. You didn’t just drive in. You placed the vehicle there. The driveway in front of it still exists. Concrete doesn’t forget as easily as wood does. Inside the garage, the front half was for vehicles. Functional, straightforward. But behind that, partitioned off, were two smaller rooms. Storage rooms. The kind of spaces where things went when they were no longer needed daily, but not yet ready to be discarded. You could access those rooms from the main garage or through a side door on the east. They weren’t glamorous. They weren’t organized in any modern sense. But they served a purpose. Like everything else out there. The garage, the shed, the grain bin—these weren’t aesthetic choices. They were solutions. Each one answered a question: Where...

  The house is gone now, but I can still walk through it. It faced south, like it was meant to greet the day head-on. There was a front porch that wrapped across the front and leaned slightly toward the west, as if it wanted a better look at the setting sun. A side door sat on the west wall, and a back door on the east—each one used for a different purpose, each one part of the rhythm of daily life. Inside, everything revolved around a central fireplace. Not tucked away on a wall, but planted right in the middle like a heartbeat. The rooms spread out from it—bedrooms, bathrooms, the kitchen off to one side. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t modern. But it worked. There was a small room near the kitchen, something like a utility space. My grandfather used it as a laundry room. It also served as a kind of back entry—one of those in-between spaces where outside life met inside life. Upstairs, there was an unfinished attic. No insulation. No drywall. Just exposed structure and stored item...

Shameful One: "You lost me at not needing a sling. Unsub." Reply: "LMAO - this is not an airport. No need to announce your departure. And LMAO2 - you were never subbed."  Context: Video explains the insanity that is people who advocate a sling on a home defense firearm, then use a rubber band or similar to immediately tie it up so the sling doesn't snag on things. Solution offered: simply don't put the sling on the home defense firearm. If a sling is needed, store it with a go-bag. 

  Death tried to take Chuck. Chuck, of course, was Chuck, and kicked Death's ass. However, Chuck over did it. The final roundhouse kick was too much, and Death himself was literally kicked out of existence. Chuck is many things, but dishonorable is not one of them. As such, Chuck took up the mantle of the Grim Reaper for the rest of Time. Moving forward, the scythe? It’s just a fancy training prop. Chuck can harvest souls with a glance and a one-inch punch if he likes. This is not a mourning of a loss, this is an Origin Story. And you found it here first: In the time when mortals whispered the name of Death with dread, a shadow walked the earth that even the void feared. Death, the eternal collector, came to claim its latest prize. It was a challenge unseen in all the eons. But the mortal before Death was no ordinary man. He was Chuck Norris, the man whose fists rewrote the laws of physics, whose gaze made mountains reconsider their stance, whose roundhouse kick could split oceans...

  It was 65 degrees when I stepped out onto the farm in Mercer, Tennessee. Not a cloud in the sky. The kind of late afternoon where the sun lingers just long enough to remind you it won’t be here forever. Birds were calling to one another across the open land, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. But everything had. It was a little after 5 p.m., and the quiet hit differently than I remembered. Not empty. Not lonely. Just… still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t ask anything from you, but quietly invites you to notice it. There was no movement from the neighboring property. No distant machinery. No voices. Just the land, breathing slowly under a soft sky. I didn’t walk the whole 18 acres. I didn’t need to. My feet carried me toward what used to be the center of everything—the place where a house once stood, where a garage once echoed with the sounds of work, where life once gathered in predictable, meaningful patterns. That’s the thing about land like this. You...

Rifleman.  noun - "a person skilled at the use of a rifle" The pistol is a tool for daily carry - to prevent others from imposing their will on you. A shotgun is a hunting tool and a home defense tool - and in home defense, it dominates the handgun distance fight. A rifle, however, is different. It is a tool that can be used to impose your will on others. History is filled with examples of force used without moral governance. Therefore, if you are going to be a Rifleman, you must strive to act with righteousness!  A warrior and a Rifleman are not interchangeable terms, though they are often spoken as if they are. The key difference is that a warrior may or may not act in righteousness, depending on to whom he is conscripted. A Rifleman must must strive to act with righteousness . At the center of this distinction stand three commitments that define the Rifleman’s place in the world: Life, Liberty, and Responsibility. These are not slogans or borrowed phrases, but guiding ...