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TK CUSTOM is also on AMAZON if you want to order through them. They are also on EBAY.

It seems that we southrons consider the words "pen" and "pin" as homophones and northerners get a good laugh at that. When you get a northerner to explain the differences they invariably, at least to my ears, treat "pen" and "pan" as homophones. They insist that there is a very subtle difference but, with my gunfire damaged hearing I cannot discern it.

The vast difference between southrons and northerners re. this subject is that we do not quite make fun at you all as heartily or as often for saying "pen" and "pan" the same like you all do us for pronouncing "pen" and "pin" alike. It is a subject of what the linguists refer to as schwa. I don't claim to understand it all at all but what I understand the professors to be saying is that vowels ain't always pronounced the way you'd think they should.

The "shift" part of all this apparently is the indefinite geographic zone delineating the different iterations. Now i know some of you learned folk opine that the term "iteration" is incorrect in the previous sentence but I took the time to look it up. According to the online dictionary, iteration is a synonym for verbiage and one of the definitions of verbiage is...."the way in which something is expressed; wording or diction.". Where was I ?

Oh, the so-called "shift". In the slightly east of the center of our great nation it is the ohio river that bounds the schwaery of pin/pan on the north shore and pen/pin on its southern shore. Cincinnati folk schwaing it one way and across the bridge Covington folk schwaing it another is but one (or is that two ?) example(s).

I bring up Cincinnati/Covington because it was there that this whole schwaery issue just about got me in trouble. I was there for a conference/convention in my line of work and my employer had graciously financed the whole trip. The whole trip was boring and uneventful with the exception of the following.....

One evening supper time found me in a steakhouse and the waitress was quite the looker. The red name tag on her blue apron advised she was Brenda. No, not beautiful in the classic covergirl sense and certainly on the wrong side of thirty with many miles on the odometer in the social sense, but she sure had the appeal and knew how to use it. She was one of those gals who could easily rake in $80 to $100 in tips even on a slow night just with smile and a sideways look with arched eyebrows and an easy swivel of her moneymaker.

I had just chosen my cut of cow and doneness thereof and type of spud when she asked in a sultry purr, "you want any vag with that ?" .....pronouncing it vahgzs in such seductive marilyn monroeish breathless delivery that I had little doubt that I was being propositioned for an after-work assignation.

I was struck momentarily speechless and had a brief memory lapse of inconsequential things such as marriage vows and sunday school lessons and fire/brimstone sermons. The.latent hound dog in me was waking and stretching and yawning. As stupid and unreasonable as it sounds, thoughts of letting this wench have her way with me was actually foremost in my thoughts. I said in an juvenile, optimistic voice that did not even sound like myself, "Yes ! I think I will indeed have some vag with that after all." I had no sooner got that out when an electric gong of sorts sounded..... much like the doink-doink you often hear on the telly on certain criminal investigation episodes..

"My shift's over." said Brenda. "You keep thinking about that vag and Jennifer will be here in just a sec. to finish taking your order." and she left with not even a phone number or address scribbled on a napkin.

"But wait ! " I protested to the empty space that she had just occupied. I was definitely let down and I think I actually cussed out loud when in wadled Jennifer, an obese whopper in the same styled blue wait-livery that Brenda had worn......there was just a whole lot more of Jennifer than there had been of Brenda.

"Okay, I've got an iced tea and flatiron, medium-well with fries." said Jennifer. "Have you decided on which veggie you want with that ?"

Sourdough Pancake by Simply Rugged. It was nice of Rob to include a Most Versatile Ammo Pouch (Small) ... it fits on your belt and will hide under a shirt nicely. And a 6 round speed strip fits it nicely.

They now call 32 caliber bullets .303. When you click on "caliber" .303 is the only option for 32 calibers. When you click on pistol bullets and then click on cartridge, they only show about 15 different calibers and not the first 32 of any kind is in the list. Plus, the new website constantly freezes up, and you have to start over.

Why couldn't they leave well enough alone is beyond me. It is like they either used the
3-stooges to design the new place or A.I.

Rant over.

At least the humidity is low .... for here ....

Once upon a time there was a plan to install as many as four state run "rest areas" on a busy four-lane east/west non-interstate highway and the funds (billions) were allocated. But that governor's administration self-destucted in fits of much publicized hanky-panky . The leaked audio recordings sound much like don knotts in character as "bernard fife" lewdly pitching woo to betty lynn in character as "thelma lou". The old lady lieutenant-governor who stepped-in nixed the rest area deal opining, "if you need to pee, there is a Jack's every 15 minutes on that highway !"

Jack's biscuits are much celebrated for flavour and texture but they have dramatically shrank in size over the decades. They (biscuits) are an estimated a third to half the size of the competition's. Recently I was complaining in a good-natured banter with one of the relatively "wholesome" much tattooed and pierced drive-thru window wenches when I said, "if those biscuits get any thinner you'll be able to read a newspaper through one of them !"

To which she queried, "what's that ?" The young "lady" did not know what a newspaper is/was !

https://www.eatatjacks.com/pages/our-story/

Arizona Fish and Game had authorized the .22 Magnum in a rifle for Javelina and that was what I needed. Looking around I had an old Stevens Marksman .22 rifle. It is the break open single shot that Stevens had made.

The barrel on the one I had was no good, but, the Marksman is a take-down! And I had a perfectly fine Mossberg barrel in .22 Long Rifle. All I had to do was rechamber the Mossberg barrel to .22 Magnum and turn it down to where it would fit the Stevens. The action was plenty strong for the .22 Magnum.

I worked on it and got it done. I did not have a .22 Magnum chambering reamer but I improvised. I used a drill bit a few thousands smaller than the .22 Magnum cartridge. Then, using a fired .22 Magnum cartridge on a home-made shaft, I polished out the chamber with my electric drill, valve grinding compound on the cartridge. It was slow but it worked very nicely. I fitted the barrel to the Stevens, got the sights lined up and sighted it in. Then my daughter started practicing with it.

Opening day found us out in the canyons near Oracle, Arizona. I knew where the different herds of Javelina were and we headed towards one that I thought promising. Coming down a hill towards a wash in the bottom, suddenly we both spotted Javelina on the opposite hillside, maybe 40 yards distant. My daughter said, "Look Dad!" and I said, "Shoot one!" She raised the rifle, cocked the hammer and fired. At the shot a pig rolled down the hill toward us. It raised its head and I told her to shoot it in the head, which she did.

We found that her first shot was high but had taken out nearly 2" of its spine above the shoulders. I was more excited than she was I think.

Those were good days and I am happy to have the memories.

We came upon the camp quite unawares. We did not know anyone was camped back in these hills and were not expecting to meet anyone. It was a long ways from anywhere. We had been backpacking, heading into the backcountry for several days and it was just about time for us to stop for the evening when we saw his fire several ridges over. We pushed on and made sure whoever was camped there heard us coming. We were quite far from civilization at that point and did not want to run the risk of getting shot by a nervous camper. Not to worry though. He heard us coming long before we called out, "Hello the camp!" And the answer floated back on the evening winds, "Come on in."

We made our way in the twilight and upon entering the clearing discovered a nice campsite complete with grass, a small spring in the rocks nearby and nice large trees. We said our hellos and asked permission to camp there for the night and received a welcome. The camper was an old gentleman, probably in his 80's. His camp was tidy with a small tent, a nice fire pit ringed with rocks, firewood nearby and a large horse under the trees in the heavier grass.

After getting our packs off we introduced ourselves. The camper said his name was "Smith," first or last name we never discovered. He was just getting ready to fix a meal and invited us to join him, which we were happy to do. We added some of our ingredients to the stew he was making and all in all we ended up with a fine meal; the meat was a bit different but had a very good flavor. He said it was mountain lion and gave no indication he was kidding us. We never did find out if that was true or not, but given the old man's resume, such as he shared, I am inclined to believe he was telling the truth.

He had a big pistol in a holster on his belt, on the right side. He carried a large fixed-blade knife also and later on I saw a smaller pistol in his boot. There was a short lever-action rifle leaning up against the front of his tent. The rifle attracted my curiosity as it had a very short barrel and a large telescope mounted on the barrel, forward of where the empty cartridges flew out the top when you levered the gun. The next day I remarked on it. He said it was a "Trapper" and he had set it up in the manner of a "Scout Rifle." When we got back to town several weeks later I looked those up on the Internet and saw he had described it correctly. He told me it was a "thirty-thirty" and at the time I had no clue as to what that meant, but assumed it was some description of the gun. From the way he spoke I figured it must be a fairly powerful gun.

As we ate we told him about our backpacking adventure and where we were heading, how long we were going to be in the mountains and we figured we would head back. He listened intently asking questions about the trail we were planning on taking and made some suggestions of his own. He had been up that way, he told us, and there were a few spots where there was a much easier way to go.

He also suggested some camping spots we had never heard of. He told us of the canyon, nearly hidden in the trees, where there was once a mining camp. He told us some of the cabins are still sound, the water there is good and there is plenty of game. Of course, we had no firearms with us which surprised him. He was amazed we would venture into the hills without any guns at all. Not for self-protection he had explained. That is rarely needed. But what if something happens and we would be stuck in the hills longer than planned for? Firearms are for helping gather meat as well as signaling long distances. None of us were familiar with guns and passed up his offer to let us take a shotgun he had. I never did see the shotgun but later on wished I had taken it. That's another story for some other time though.

We sat around the flickering campfire sharing coffee and asked him how he came to be so far out in the hills. He was quiet for a long time and we began to wonder if he chose not to answer the question but then he cleared his throat and began to tell us a story. He spoke of his youth and a girl, an exciting vibrant young lady who stole his heart and changed his life. He told us of hunting adventures with her in the mountains, in the deserts and in foreign countries. He spoke of her beauty and strength and of the children they had together. And with tears in his eyes he recounted her passing after 50-some years of being together. "I am glad she went first" he said through the tears. "I would not have wanted her to face this loneliness and heartache by herself."

After her death he said he felt lost. Useless. His reason for living was gone. And apparently he became depressed. His children were worried about him and had taken him to a doctor who prescribed pills he threw away once he got home. He said they made him "crazy." His behavior worried his children and they decided that it would be best to have him live in an Assisted Care facility. More like a jail he said. Wardens watching your every move. So he decided to leave. Figuring out how to get out of town and where he wanted to go energized him and he found some of his old stamina returning.

With the help of some old friends he purchased a pickup and a horse trailer. A friend on a nearby ranch let him have an older gelding at a good price and all the rigging with it. It had been years since he had been on a horse but he snuck out to the ranch and spent some time getting acquainted with his horse and getting the feel of taking care of him. Over a few months he stocked in supplies and one evening he just left. He loaded up the pickup and the horse and drove off into the night, not telling anyone where he was going.

We asked when it was he did that and he told us the date. We were surprised and told him that was a year and a half ago! He was startled and said, "Really?" So we showed him on our GPS. He said he sort of lost track of time and wasn't sure what the date was but he knew it was going on Fall and Winter would be coming soon. He was heading South, wanting to get into the southern part of the state before cold weather. He said the cold weather bothered him anymore and he liked staying warm and was even thinking about slipping into Mexico.

When we asked him where he'd been for all this time he just pointed North of the mountains and said, "I started in Colorado. Worked my way into Utah and then came down into Arizona. Went over into Western New Mexico for a while. Not a lot of people in the mountains there and the ones that are there leave you alone." He paused and then added, "Except for government people." At that point we were not sure what he was referring to.

He said sometimes he would ride into a ranch or a small town and buy or trade for supplies; we didn't ask about what he was using for money, fearing that was not our business. He said some of the ranchers let him camp out on a waterhole or let him use a line shack or even a bunkhouse for a few weeks. He told us stories of the country and the land and the mountains and the game. He did not speak of people much and we got the impression he stayed clear of most folks. He said he had some Forest Service people looking for him a couple of times but was able to evade them. When we asked where that was he got quiet and simply said, "Not around here." We didn't push it for we all were thinking the same thing. This was the guy who had shot at a Forest Service helicopter and who had led them on a chase in Western New Mexico last year! They had sent a huge posse of men in to round him up and never found any sign of him.

The next morning before we left I spoke to him privately and asked him about that. He just looked at me and grunted something like, "There are some folks just can't let a man be." I asked him how he had gotten clean away from them and he laughed. He said he just stole a sheriff's department jacket, put it on and rode into their camp and helped them hunt for himself. He said the grub was good and it was a pleasant way to spend the week.

We left his camp before the sun was very high and headed on into the hills. A bit over a week later on our way out we stopped at the same place and made camp. Firewood had been cut and stacked as if waiting for us. Other than that and the fire pit in the clearing and some horse manure under the trees there was no sign of him ever having been there.

I often wondered where his journey ended. Now that I am getting older I have envied the man. And I am thinking of buying a horse .........

(I wrote this article in 2013. John Taffin liked it and graciously published it in his “Campfire Tales” column in GUNS magazine – the December 2013 issue)

Look at this image. Imagine that it is you. Imagine that the unthinkable has happened and random asocial violence has found you. What would you do? Really think about it. What is your first move?

While you are thinking let me tell you what I would do.

My first move would be to continue choking my attacker. As his focus moves to getting my hands off him, it will expose his midsection and I will drive my knee into his groin. Bent over now, with his head leaning forward, his center of gravity will be out past his knees, which will allow me to grab his head and slam him into the ground .....

You were expecting me to think of myself as the figure on the right, weren't you? If you're anything like the overwhelming majority of people who attend my seminars, you answer that way because seeing yourself any other way is unthinkable .... be honest with yourself. Where did you see yourself? The one being choked or the one doing the choking? That self reflection is important.

(excerpted from chapter 3 of "When Violence Is The Answer" by Tim Larkin)