I had a blog post written yesterday, a long-winded one at that. From a working title of “It’s a long way from Bowdil to the Big Island,” and prompted by a social-media exchange with several of my high-school classmates, I talked about what moves a person to flee their roots and abandon traditional American values.
I also wondered aloud about the existence of “old liberals.” I mean, we’re supposed to get smarter as we get older, and aged progressives have done the opposite.
But then my Tuesday got away from me. By evening, I had no interest in publishing what I’d composed — the process of writing it had exorcized whatever crankiness I harbored and, like the potter, I smashed (deleted) it.
Deb left work early yesterday morning and returned to The Mountain. From here I drove her to see her doctor in Mountain Home, to address a persistent issue she’s been having.
That consumed several hours, most of which I spent waiting in the truck, parked next to the clinic. The only excitement was the tornado siren at the adjacent firehouse sounding at noon, like it does every day.
Didn’t expect that. I nearly pissed myself.
Storms rolled through. Gusty winds. Heavy rain for an hour.
When Deb came out, our next order of business was to pick up prescriptions. That meant killing another hour or two.
We picked up fast food and ate in the truck. We stopped by a used-books emporium and browsed an indoor flea market. No purchases.
It was late afternoon when we got back to The Mountain.
The more time I spend in Mountain Home, the more I miss Harrison.
There’s no disputing that Mountain Home offers a wider array of goods and services, and certainly more national chains. The attitude of the people, however, generally speaking, couldn’t be more different — there’s nowhere near the Ozarkansas hospitality so common in Harrison.
There are exceptions, of course, and the welcoming vibe increases the farther one travels from concentrated retail strips. Natives and long-time residents attribute the surliness to an influx of transplants from Illinois and California. They might be onto something there.
People who tend to favor Mountain Home over Harrison are likely to say that the biggest difference between the two cities is crime. And while the latter certainly appears grittier than the former, statistics don’t support the perception.
The crime rate (violent crime as well as property crime) for Mountain Home (city) and its surrounding communities is more than twice that of Harrison (city) and the area around it. Yet the stereotype persists.
Zooming out, the overall crime rate for Boone County (Harrison) is higher than that of Baxter County (Mountain Home). That’s not surprising, given the socioeconomic disparity between the two, nor is a greater incidence of crime uncommon in more rural areas of Ozarkansas, in the grip of poverty.
The crime rate in Marion County, where we live, sandwiched between Boone and Baxter, is higher than either of its neighbors. Still, virtually all of these crime stats, whether city or county, are well below national averages.
To give herself the best chance of kicking what ails her, Deb stayed home from work today — a good call, I think. I did my best to make sure that she was settled this morning before I left to run a couple of errands.
The Yellville post office, at last, had the first aid kit I ordered way back on July 29th. It shipped from Salt Lake City on August 1st and immediately took a wrong turn — two days later, the package was in Anchorage, Alaska. It’s been working its way down to Ozarkansas ever since.
And now it’s here. More about the kit in a bit.
I drove on to Miller Hardware and picked up what I need to finish the woodstove hearth — a couple of tubes of construction adhesive and a small tub of stove cement (gray). Because the adhesive is packaged in tubes larger than typical caulk, I had to buy a bigger caulking gun. I added a 98-cent plastic putty knife, just in case. And a five-gallon bucket, just because.
We can always use another bucket.
And then I came Home.
I don’t know how many first aid kits I’ve assembled over the years — households, backpacks, cars and trucks and motorcycles, general preparedness and general purposes. Fifty, maybe? That’d be a conservative estimate.
Rolling my own has let me customize a kit’s contents to the mission. It’s also saved me money (or at least that’s what I tell myself).
About the time I realized that maybe, just maybe, someone smarter than I am could put together a better kit than I could — I’m by no means a go-fast first responder — I discovered a company called My Medic. It offers an impressive range of mission-specific products, from bare-bones IFAKs to complete trauma kits.
One of the things I really like is that My Medic makes its kits modular. Color-coded packs — which can be purchased separately to supplement or re-stock — address things like bleed, burn, sprain and fracture, airway and so on.
Pretty slick. And let’s face it, that suits the way most regular folks use a first aid kit.
Fair warning — My Medic kits, at any level, can be pricey. Waiting for coupon codes and periodic sales is the ticket to saving significantly.
We allocated $200 a few years ago to a turn-key kit for the Wrangler. (If that seems like a lot, you need to check your priorities and consider what’s at stake.) Equipping my truck in a similar way was long overdue. I chose the My Medic MyFAK Mini Pro.
The only change I’ll make is to replace the supplied field tourniquet with a C-A-T (Combat Application Tourniquet GEN 7).
I’ve had a rudimentary first aid kit in the Silverado since the day after I drove it home. I’m embarrassed that it took over two years to do the right thing, but now it’s done.
That’s a weight off my shoulders. If you know, you know.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB