George’s RIFLE
On November 18, 2020, I was sitting in a shooting house in West Texas overlooking some CRP ground. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and as I sat there hoping a good buck would come into view, I found myself having a conversation. Not with a hunting companion – I was alone – but with my rifle.
“George,” I whispered, “how you doing? Making any putts? Keeping that head down? I sure wish you were here to give me some advice. The country is upside down, it seems, and I’m afraid. It seems like we’re living “Through The Looking Glass,” where black is white and up is down. It’s like the “Wizard of Oz” — Dorothy: ‘How can
