Suppose you lived where the locals don’t cuss much in everyday conversation but aren’t bashful about hanging a “FUCK BIDEN” banner from their porch. Imagine that there’s also a Confederate flag waving atop a pole in the front yard, and a similar sticker on the bumper of a pickup truck, bearing the words, “Heritage, Not Hate.”
Think about what it’d be like to step outside your house and hear gunshots, at all times of the day and night — rifle and pistol, some of it rapid fire — and not give it a second thought. Consider how you’d react if a neighbor confided that “militia” are known to occupy a holler not far from where you’re standing.
Imagine a visitor to your home looking up at the wooded ridge behind you and revealing that the fella who lives there gave Randy Weaver a place to stay after the dust from Ruby Ridge had settled.
Ponder, if you will, living among ordinary people of extraordinary kindness toward everyone save an overbearing and tyrannical government. Suppose that talking about State restrictions, bans and who-woulda-thunk-it mandates is met not with derision but with resolve and resistance.
Picture in your mind a county courthouse where elected officials’ office doors are adorned with flyers for gun raffles, or a small-town diner where breakfast conversations are as likely to be about ammo shortages as about the weather.
It’d be a place where you wouldn’t have to apologize for being a lover of Liberty. Nor would you need to explain to anyone why an “anti-government” attitude is essentially American.
Can you imagine?
Well, boys and girls, welcome to my world.
I think I’ve made a respectable effort here to trigger some of the Nanny State’s favorite algorithms. Moving on now….
When they go racin’ on Friday nights at North Central Arkansas Speedway, and depending on which way the wind blows, it can sound like they’re right here in our lap on The Mountain. We don’t object to the “noise” — Deb and I share a love of motorsports, and besides, it’s the sound of hell-bent southern boys, the echo of flag-wavin’, God-fearin’ Country folk all across America.
This week’s races on the 3/8-mile dirt paperclip would be the season’s last. Deb’s cousin suggested that we drive down and take in the scene last night, and we happily signed up for the field trip.
With Deb on crutches, we were advised to get to the track early, so we went ahead of our group. (The contingent from The Mountain last night included neighbors, friends and visiting family, numbering ten in all.) As the crow flies, the speedway is just two miles away — but since we’re not crows, it’s a nine-mile drive that takes 20 minutes.
By the time we arrived, the sun was setting, drivers and their machines were rolling in, and the stands were just beginning to fill. We planted our folding chairs on a grassy area behind the top row, right at the start-finish line — the perfect perch.
And then we had time to kill until hot laps and heats got underway. We grabbed a burger and fries, a couple of hot dogs and drinks from the concession stand. All around us was the beating heart of America, the best slice of our country, simple and gritty and honest.
Before qualifying began, five cars paraded onto the track, each flying an American flag from its roof. An invocation. The national anthem.
And then they got down to business.
What unfolded in front of us was racing the way Nature intended. It was fierce, almost desperate, a rough and dangerous game played by regular people. They race their guts out for big trophies and small purses that don’t make a dent in what they invest.
Almost a hundred cars, in various classes, took to the banked track — stockers and modifieds, pro and sportsman and hobby. They slid through the tight corners, slamming and grinding metal-on-metal as they fought for position.
It was glorious.
We didn’t stay to the end — it was a chilly evening, and by 10pm Deb’s aching foot had had about all it could take. But we had a blast. We’re definitely comin’ back next season.
The racing continued well past midnight. We knew that because, back on The Mountain, we could hear it.
‘Merica.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB
