Just like
every weekend for the past six months, on Sunday the
trophy wife and I were working on our house. She was
stuffing insulation in the loft walls while I was
stringing wire on the main floor. “It looks like
someone shot a coyote,” Druann hollered pointing out
the window towards the neighbor’s pasture where
three young men were wrestling with something heavy.
A thin willow patch obscured our clear view, but we
could see one boy trot ahead to their car parked
along the road, leave his rifle, and then return to
help his two buddies. Their prize was heavy—real
heavy. The group would struggle three or four steps
before dropping the load to rest.
“It is not a coyote,” I thought, “but why would
anyone pack a cottonwood log down the road.” Minutes
later the three explorers crossed the fence onto our
driveway and began rolling a heavy bowling ball
sized object towards their car. “What in the world
are they doing?” I thought. “Since I need run to the
hangar for some more wire, I’ll buzz down and see
what is up,” I shouted to Druann. The distant roar
of my four-wheeler inspired the trekkers to quicken
their pace and they reached their car about the same
time I did.
“We’re sorry we were on your road,” the spokesman of
the group blurted.
“You’re kidding me?” I fired back with a chuckle. “I
zipped down here because my curiosity was eating me
alive. What in the world are you doing?”
“Well mister, we found this chunk of iron out in the
hills and we are packing it home,” the tallest of
the salvage trio excitedly offered. Sure enough,
there in the barrow pit was a 50 pound ball of
metal. It was flattened on the ends and round in the
middle as if it were formed by molten iron having
been cooled in a bucket.
“What are you going to do with it? I asked.
“Recycle it maybe,” one proudly mumbled, “or just
leave it in the yard when we get home.”
“Well, good luck,” I offered before turning my
four-wheeler towards my hangar. I smiled as I had
seen their look of self-satisfaction before. When my
youngest, Tyler, was in high school he had a buddy,
Adam, who lived a privileged childhood on the banks
of the Clarks Fork River because his family had a
small sagebrush gully where old farm equipment,
pick-ups, and appliances went to die. Every weekend,
Tyler, Chad, Eddie and Adam, hauled some chunk of
metal from Adam’s to the scrap pile behind my hangar
intending to eventually build the mother of all
go-carts. In spite of depleting my hangar of
grinding discs, welding rods and acetylene, nothing
remotely resembling a four wheeled vehicle ever
emerged from the heap. The go-cart gang eventually
graduated high school and disbanded. Every member is
now employed, married and raising sons of their own.
Their turn is coming and this brings me to my point.
The ruling class is purposely crushing the
adventuresome spirit of young men because
independence, self-reliance and courage impede
acceptance of the collective where all outcomes are
predetermined and identical. In the leftist utopia,
everyone works the same hours, eats the same food,
drives the same kind of car, lives in the same
government owned housing, and receives the same
government delivered healthcare. Boredom is the
national past time in nirvana. Before the rugged
individualist can be bent to fit the mold, their
spirit must be broken. Proof of the left’s hidden
goal to do exactly such was recently revealed when
Harvard Professor Paul Reville spoke fervently in
defense of Common Core at an event sponsored by the
Center for American Progress. “The children belong
to all of us,” he stated while dismissing opponents
as being extremists. Leftists, such as Hillary
Clinton, have advanced this takes a village idiocy
for years and parents not alarmed by their
intentions are either ignorant or complicit in the
government sanctioned destruction of boys and the
American family. Liberty will survive only if we
raise the next generation to believe success comes
to those who work, take risk, are creative, and fear
only God. To my thinking, the chunk of iron was not
the treasure; it was the three sweaty boys
ambitiously dragging it home. I hope their parents
were as proud of them as I was. What appears as
worthless metal to the untrained eye of a
non-patriot; just might be the start of a great
go-cart.
|