On Fathers Day

Passing the torch.
Grandfather. Father. Son.

Baseball.

As it should be.

Seems Only Fair

Since I wrote rather disparagingly about a gaggle of liberal women the other day, it was suggested in an email that it was only fair if I let everyone know what I look like, so that they could return the favor.

Seems only right:

That's me, sitting in McDonald's Playland, contemplating thoughtfully of my next "From On High" post.

Either that or I'm waiting for my Big Mac.

No Match For the Big Dogs

Cocked, locked, and ready to rock.
What you see above is what I used to call my "groundhog rifle." It's a .22-250 caliber Remington model 700 ADL bolt action rifle with a 12X Weaver scope and Harris bipod. I had removed the "iron" sights from the barrel because they were unnecessary for the kind of shooting I did back then. With this little hummer I could "drill nails," as they say.

On the right day, under the right conditions, and with a bit of luck, I was pretty good at hitting my target, even out to 200 to 250 yards. I could say that I was even a reasonable marksman with this rifle out to 400 yards, but I'd be stretching the truth. Shots that far out were more luck than anything else.

As any Marine sniper will tell you, putting the crosshairs on the target is a small part of achieving pinpoint accuracy. On long-distance shots, before one pulls the trigger, one needs to take into account such things as windage, elevation, and bullet weight (I used a 55 grain Remington bullet with standard factory loads) (the heavier the bullet, the more it drops).

Estimating windage (the amount of drift that occurs between the muzzle and point of impact as a direct result of air currents) comes with experience. Calculating elevation (or trajectory) doesn't have to. It's done for you. I used to carry a small sliding-scale chart that I used to figure how high I needed to aim based upon that bullet weight and the distance to the target. For example, if I was 250 yards away from the target, knowing that I had my rifle "sighted in" at 200 yards, I might calculate that I needed to aim 3 inches above the point of intended impact in order to hit that which I was aiming at. (The purist will say that barrel length makes an appreciable difference as well, and that's fine.)

All that said, I considered myself to be a pretty decent shot, in the day.

But I don't hold a candle to the big boys. The big "boys" being the men and women in the armed forces who are trained to do that which I did for fun and relaxation.

400 yards involved, for me, a whole lotta luck.

For them, it's little more than a stone's throw.

The record? In Afghanistan it stands at 2,657 yards. But we aren't talking groundhogs.

Imagine trying to hit a target a mile away - or more. How is it even possible?

I see that and I know I'm out of my league. I'll stick to throwing snowballs.

These guys rock.

* I'm told they are using .50 caliber rifles but I have no way of knowing that.

True Story

A letter to the editor of the Roanoke Times about gays in the military reminded me of an incident that took place several years ago, when I was young and stupid. For having consumed great quantities of alcoholic refreshments at premium prices on a regular basis.

I was sitting at the bar one night in a dump outside Detroit with a couple of friends, where I'd been downing bourbon at a pretty steady clip (the night was warm, the bourbon on ice was cold, the rest is fond memory; fuzzy but fond).

At some point, after a few hours of fun and relaxation, I needed to urinate.

So off to the (really awful, disease-infested) restroom I went.

When I came back to the bar, I looked at the two guys sitting there and said, with eyes popping open,

"Hey, you're not going to believe what just happened in the men's room."

"What?" they asked in unison, with a certain amount of trepidation.

I said, "You know how, when you're standing at the urinal sometimes and there's someone at the next urinal beside you, you raise up on the balls of your feet and peek over the side to see how big his penis is?"

They stared.

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about. When you're sometimes standing at the urinal and there's someone standing at the urinal next to you, you raise up on the balls of your feet and peek over the side to see how big his penis is. Don't tell me you guys never do that."

Silent disbelief.

"So I peeked over the rim of the urinal next to mine, where a black guy was taking a squirt, to see how big his penis was, and - to my total surprise - happened to notice it was tattooed."

"What?! You're making that up!"

"No. I swear, he had tattooed on his penis a woman's name."

"It said, 'WENDY.'"

"Wendy?"

"Yeah! The entire length of his penis!"

No."

"Yeah! So I asked this fella, who had dreadlocks going in all directions, 'Sorry to interrupt you at a time like this but I'm curious. I notice that you have the name WENDY tattooed on your penis. What's that all about?'"

And in my best Jamaican accent I tossed out the punchline:

"He looked at me rather oddly ... then replied, 'Oh, no, mon. That doesn't say Wendy. That's ...

... WELCOME TO JAMAICA. HAVE A NICE DAY.'"

They hit the floor.

I ordered another round.

True story. I don't make things up for the weblog. Ever. Well ...

An Announcement

It is with great pleasure that I announce the marriage of my favorite daughter, Jodi. Michael Kasprzyk, the lucky groom, is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps, currently assigned to the general staff with the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force, stationed at Camp Lejeune.

Wedding plans had to be abruptly altered recently as a result of his being ordered to Afghanistan on May 1. When he gets there, he will be in the Combined Security Transition Command, which involves itself in the training of Afghan forces. Michael specifically will be the Liaison Officer to ISAF, the International Security Assistance Force, which is run by NATO.

Paula and I are very proud of his accomplishments and of the work he does for our country, and admire his unwavering loyalty to duty, honor, and country.

We are also proud to welcome him into the family, and for putting up with my daugh ... uh, skip that.

We hope that Michael has a safe deployment to the war zone, knowing that, and being grateful that, in going there he makes this chaotic, strife-torn world a better place.

We also hope that he and Jodi have a long, rewarding, loving, sharing life together.

Our best wishes to the two of them.

I Raise 'Em Right

Daughter Jodi sends a message: "Dad, this is what I want for my birthday."

Here she is aboard the U.S.S. North Carolina recently.

So where does a guy go to buy a 20mm anti-aircraft gun for his favorite daughter?

* Note: I'm not sure if the trash can in front of the weapon is a replica of an original or if the Navy was kind enough to provide waste receptacles like this for the North Carolina's sailors for their used Kleenexes after they blew their noses (between kamikaze attacks).

Fishing Is About Family

The good-looking guy you see above is a Fuhrman.

We Love Nature But ...

... I'm not sure we want one of these little fellas in my back yard every night.

These two photos (above and below) were taken of a mature adult black bear (200 pounds?) standing on my patio at about 7:30 yesterday evening. He had just hauled down a bird feeder from a nearby poplar tree and devoured the suet cake inside. A tender morsel that cost me 92¢ plus tax at Walmart.
He's seen here, wondering why Paula and I were interrupting his meal (for the record, I was about thirty feet away).
We were able to convince him, after a considerable amount of coaxing, to head back into the Jefferson National Forest, which is just behind our house.

But he'll be back. We are now a food source. I hope not literally ...

The Few, The Proud ...

Young Chase getting instruction on what I think is an M240 7.62 mm machine gun over at Camp Lejeune last weekend from one of America's finest:

The kind of lesson one retains for a lifetime.

A Look Back Into Our Past

If you ever have the opportunity to peruse "greatest movies of all time" lists, you'll usually find included the 1915 D.W. Griffith epic, "The Birth of a Nation." Problem is, because of its overt racism (behavior that was cultivated a century ago), you'll never find it being televised on Turner Classic Movies. Or anywhere else. Station heads don't have a death wish.

So we're faced with a situation in 2008 where a movie is considered by the experts to be one of the greatest of all time, and few people alive today have seen it.

One exception being me.

I ordered the movie from Netflix the other day and sat down to watch it yesterday evening.

All I can say is ... wow.

For a number of reasons. Not least of which had to do with the fact that the Ku Klux Klan was once held in such high regard by mainstream America that a blockbuster movie (by all standards, this one was a smash hit when it was released) glorifying efforts - manifested in physical assaults, lynchings, and terror tactics that an Osama bin Ladin could appreciate today - to suppress the then-newfound freedoms of the African-American community after the Civil War ended and Reconstruction began could be so blatant in its hatreds, animosities, stereotypes, and venomous prejudices and be so well received.

The movie having been made in 1915, there is no verbal dialogue. As was the practice in the days of silent movies, there are only the occasional slides offering up narrative between sometimes over-the-top melodramatic scenes of love and war (the innovative sweeping panoramic battle scenes provide critics the primary reason for considering this movie one of the best of all time) and suffering and hatred and fear and all the other stuff that goes into an epic flick.

Absent dialogue, one is confronted with captions that read:

The result. The Ku Klux Klan, the organization that saved the South from the anarchy of black rule, but not without the shedding of more blood than at Gettysburg.

And:

We shall crush the white South under the heel of the black South.

And, at the end:

"Liberty and union, one and inseparable, now and forever!"

Union. The Birth of a Nation. That nation being a Klan-protected white America. Now and forever

All I could think about, as I watched this (3-hour) classic was: Man, we've come a long way. And thank God for it.

- - -

Special note: the theme is really repugnant so if you're angered or revolted by such things, I'd not recommend that you rent the movie. For the historian, though, it provides a window into our post-Civil War past that you'll not see captured anywhere else in cinema.

For the curious - like me - who wonder how it is that the Klan could have had such a following as to bring about a parade down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. in the Griffith years that was attended by tens of thousands of celebrating participants and on-lookers ...

... it all becomes clear.

A Day Out With The Boys

Thought I'd post a few photos of the paintball excursion I went on recently.





The good-looking guy in the front row, far left is me. The others are all drunks and derelicts.









The shirt (left photo) says "Annihilator" Jerry Fuhrman. An executive assistant's idea.


It was at this point that I'd prepared a list in my mind of which people I wanted to take down. A lengthy list, as it turned out.



The limp-wristed guy in the photo to the right is me.




Note the fella on the right. He got shot in the mouth with a red paintball. When asked what it tastes like, he replied: "like paint."

The field of battle.

Great fun had by all. Came away with only four nasty bruises from paintball impacts.

What a Joint

I told someone yesterday that I'm probably out of my element when I find myself staying in a hotel that, if I were the manager, I wouldn't allow a lowlife like me to enter. But staying here I am. Welcome to my temporary home away from home - the Rosen Shingle Creek Hotel.

I had to get a map in order to find my way around.

I need (but haven't been supplied with) a shuttle bus to get from the reservation desk to my room. 

The hotel logo is on the toilet paper in my room, for God's sake. (Think I'm not swiping that? - no pun intended.)

Nice digs.

On Deer Hunting

I've given you my reasons in the past for my having given up hunting deer. The mystique died long ago. My favorite line is this: It takes some of the fun out of the sport when I can simply walk out in my back yard and club one over the head with a hammer.

You think I exaggerate.

See the cute little creature in the photograph below? He (she?) is about to raid the bird feeder in my back yard. I walked to within eight feet of the animal this morning, snapping photos along the way, before it sauntered off. Unafraid. Unconcerned. At a leisurely pace. A bit annoyed, I think, that I interrupted breakfast. It's momma was about fifteen feet further on.
My choices:

Hunting license, wallet with IDs, topographical maps, aerial photos, toiletries, medicines, toilet paper, toothbrush & toothpaste, soap & shampoo, comb, first aid kit, binoculars & lens cleaner, spotting scope, seat cushion, water and other beverages, food & snacks, watch, knife (skinning/pocket), sunglasses, scents, backpack w/ pack frame, gambrel and pulley, game/meat cloth or bags, bone saw, electronic rangefinder w/ GPS, flashlight (small & large), extra batteries (AA, AAA, C, D, 9volt), headlamp, camera w/tripod/lenses/film/batteries, camcorder w/tripod/light/mic/charger, AM/FM radio, ammo, gun cleaning kit, bipod, camo clothing, fanny pack, gloves, mittens, wool/Nomex rain gear, poncho, cold weather boots, jacket/light/heavy, socks, wool/Polypro thermal underwear, hat, blanket, blaze orange jacket, deskunking kit, space blanket, lighters, firestarter & waterproof matches, compass, handheld two-way radios and chargers, cell phone w/ cigarette lighter cord, signal mirror, survival signal strobe, water filter/tablets, ax, tables & chairs, lanterns w/ extra mantles, cook stove w/ propane, trash bags, shovel for latrine, sleeping bags, pillows, chain saw (w/ fuel/oil/sharpener), portable heater, rope, tree limb loppers, playing cards, tarp/canopy, tent, ground cloth, water jug(s), 5 gallons of water.

Oh, and a gun.

Price tag $4,285.26.

Or:

Bird seed - 79¢ - and a pocket knife - $3.88. 

Now you understand.

A Day Of Warmth & Celebration

Jodi and Chase at the D-Day Memorial in Bedford last weekend. They were there for the gathering of Rolling Thunder. And to enjoy a wonderful day.

A Family Outing

Some of you may have been troubled to find, when you dialed up your favorite weblog on Sunday morning, that I hadn't posted anything. The world probably seemed out of kilter.

"Fuhrman didn't blog. What's going on?"

Well, there was a good reason.

There's only one thing I enjoy doing more than weblogging and that's ...

... being with family.

We had a camp-out the evening before toward the back of my property.










We hunted for newts in a mountain stream ...
















We learned all about nature ...




















We took the kids on ATV rides ... (Paula has her own ass-kickin' machine)













And we slept ...








I love you guys. But family will always come first.

The Circle Of Life

This is a butterfly bush.

Paula and I plant them because they are lovely.

And because they attract lots of butterflies.

Hence the name.

Of course the butterflies attract scads of praying mantises, which look exactly like butterfly bush stems.

The praying mantises like to eat the butterflies.

Crows love to eat praying mantises. Especially the ones fattened by the butterflies we attract.

Teenagers in the area like to shoot crows.

And when I get my hands on those teenagers ...

Thus, we come full circle.

A parable.

Why I Became A Conservative

I've told this story before but the subject matter finds its way into the news again.

Years ago, I was reading some magazine (Time? Life? Look?) and came upon an article that was depicting the adventures of Peace Corps volunteers in some faraway land. They were constructing a well for the local natives. And they were gleeful and full of pride.

The village natives too were all smiles, standing behind the white boys and girls who were building their well for them. Everyone was happy.

Except me.

I reacted by yelling at the magazine: Why can't these people dig their own well?

I understand the need and the offer of assistance, and I realize that the poverty-stricken masses may very well have required, and were probably grateful for, the donation of the materials and tools necessary to construct the well. But why did it require that these wide-eyed Americans come in and labor for them? Why couldn't they have just taught the natives how to construct their own well? Why didn't the locals already know how to dig a well? Why hadn't they dug their own well?

What was going on? What kind of people fly half way around the world to do for others that which others should easily be able to do for themselves?

Well, that was long ago.

Let's go to July, 2007:

I received my copy of Time magazine and came upon a story entitled, "Vacationing Like Brangelina." The first paragraph of the article:

Getting in touch with your inner Angelina Jolie is easier than it used to be. The so-called voluntourism industry, which sends travelers around the globe for a mix of volunteer work and sightseeing, is generating almost as much praise and criticism as the goodwill ambassador herself. Are volunteer vacations--which have become so mainstream that CheapTickets recently started letting online customers book volunteer activities along with their vacations--merely overpriced guilt trips with an impact as fleeting as the feel-good factor? Or do they offer individuals a real chance to change the world, one summer jaunt at a time?

The article was accompanied by the photo above. The caption: "Volunteers with the group Globe Aware dig a trench to lay a water pipe in Costa Rica."

Affluent white boys and girls, presumably from the USA, went down to Costa Rica to dig a trench for the locals. And were happy for having done it. And the natives, who stood around watching these northerners dig the trench for them were gleeful ...

"Overpriced guilt trips with an impact as fleeting as the feel-good factor."

I didn't get it then. I don't get it now.

Birthday Boy

Is it possible that Chase is five years old already?

Photo taken at his birthday party in Longwood Park, Salem, Virginia.

Happy birthday, Chase.

Tackling The Big Issues of the Day

I'm watching a movie on TV this morning about the life of Moses, and I'm wondering:

Why is it, whether a flick involves biblical stories from the Middle East or tales of ancient Rome, that the characters in the movie speak with a highbrow British accent?

Shouldn't Moses have a Palestinian accent? Shouldn't Nero have an Italian accent? Why British?

Just wondering.

A Fine Day For A Family Outing

Some families go to the park on a nice warm and sunny Sunday in May. Others enjoy the lake. We go shooting.

This is a photo of Kaid Fuhrman, heir to the Ponderosa, heading to the back of my property with me to shoot the livin' hell out of a dead tree with a new Beretta 9mm.

Jarrod taking careful aim. He said the tree kept moving on him. we were a bit skeptical ...
We made some noise, frightening the area wildlife. And more than a few poachers. A two-fer.

We let the kids draw rings around the results with magic markers. The groupings narrowed as we went along and as we became more familiar with the feel of the Beretta (it's very light-weight, by the way; nothing like my Colt .45 auto). Toward the end, we started keeping score. I won.

With steaks on the grill and a few Buds to top off the day (Jarrod drank that sissy beer - Sam Adams), a fun time was had by all.