True Patriots know that yesterday was the 251st anniversary of the most important day in American history and observed it with due reverence. On April 19th, 1775, at Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts, brave colonists refused to be disarmed, stood their ground, and fought back against tyranny.
Without Lexington Green and the Old North Bridge, there wouldn’t’ve been a Declaration of Independence. Those “embattled farmers” were willing to die for Liberty rather than live as slaves to the Crown.
They chose Revolution, and we’ve dishonored their legacy. We’re squeamish about doing what it takes to remain free.
That must change.
The tricky thing about days like yesterday, weather-wise, is that it means heating the cabin in the morning and cooling it in the afternoon. And since my source of heat is a wood-burning stove — which I can’t simply switch on and off — timing is everything.
We woke up to 37°F. The afternoon high was a sunny 73°F. With a bit of juggling, we got through the day without turning on the AC.
Breakfast came from a vendor at Saturday’s farmers market — a big ol’ cinnamon roll.
It brought genuine home-baked Southern goodness. I brought the butter.
For a while, Smudge and I just hung out by the fire. It was one of those weightless mornings, nothing holding us down or pushing on us.
“The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time,” said the songwriter. Turns out he was right about that.
Around 8am, I shifted out of neutral and headed outside. The “re-purposed” cable spool at the original fire pit had become unnecessary since I moved the picnic table over there, so I decided to give it a new home. It nestled nicely into the bed of the Ranger, and I was off to the east slope.
As I often do when I roll up to this peaceful place, I pulled up a stump and listened to The Mountain come alive. Songbirds, of course. And yesterday, I heard the yip-yip-yip of a litter of gray fox kits in a dead tree downslope from the fire ring. That was cool.
I unloaded the cable spool, carried it 40 yards into the woods and set it down at the firing line of the 35-yard range I created recently. There it’ll serve its higher purpose — an improvised shooting bench.
The folding camp stool I keep in the Ranger is the perfect complement to the height of the bench.
This is a big win. Now, for the other range, I need to build a target stand.
Back at the cabin, I pulled out the cleaver project and a couple of files, brought them outside to the picnic table and set to work smoothing the tool’s roughest spots. In particular, I wanted to dress and square-up the spine — it had been crudely re-ground at some point, presumably to deal with mushrooming inflicted by a hammer.
It was slow going. I was in no hurry.
While I had the files out, I knocked off the shoulders behind the cutting edge and evened them up the best I could. I also roughly dressed the edge itself to erase a few of the more noticeable chips.
I think the spine turned out great. This cleaver still shows its character.
I took a break, had lunch, played with Miss Smudge and took a nap. Then I returned to the picnic table and hand-sanded the hell outta the blade.
Again, I wasn’t chasing a show-quality shine. I began with 120 grit — dry and backed by a block — and worked my way up to 1500 grit. Tedious work, but I think the results are worth it.
Finally, I broke out my diamond files and put a proper edge on this tool. It’s not at all fragile or fine, but it’s sharp enough to shave hair off the back of my arm. That’ll do.
The end of this project is in sight. I’ll re-attach the handle slabs (epoxy and new rivets), then sand and oil them. Last, I’ll give the entire cleaver a final, fine-grit sanding.
Won’t be long now.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable