Here’s a piece I wrote in back in December. We all know one; the guy who checks his car for a GPS tracker every morning.
Well, because I don’t have enough to do already, I’ve decided to try my hand at blogging. My name is Pat McLene, and I am a author and columnist on all things prepper, self-sufficiency, and country living. You can find my weekly column over at WND.com
I’ve been involved (as in lived my life) with self-sufficiency for many years. I own a small ranch (or compound if you write for the NYT) in what is now often referred to as the American Redoubt (exactly where, I decline to state). I raise livestock, build most everything I need, have a LARGE garden, hunt, fish, work wood, can, dehydrate, log, and never have enough time in the day to get everything done that could or should be.
I have a couple of degrees from reasonably prestigious schools in the areas of the physical sciences. I’m married (happily so for 25 years) and have a couple of wonderful kids.
I’ve written a couple of hundred articles for various magazines, usually under different names; almost all of which are related in some way or another to self-sufficiency. most recent a non-WND.com article just appeared on the American Hunter website.
My weekly column at WND.com came about because it was driving me nuts that a whole lot of prepper sites seemed to be more interested in selling parachord rather than teaching what you could do with it (Or how you could make do without it.).
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the fort
Not a creature was stirring, the sentries report;
The rifles were hung by the gun ports with care,
in hopes that this evening there’d be no warfare.
The mid-watch was nestled all snug in their sacks,
dreaming McLene would get off their backs.
And Mom in her balaclava, and me in my vest,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s rest.
When out by the moat there arose such a clamor,
I took up my rifle and cocked back the hammer.
Away to the window I flew at a run,
Tore open the blast door, and threw up my gun.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave my night-vision scope a clear view of below.
When, what to my quartering eye should appear,
But a miniature MRAP towed by eight tiny reindeer,
With a small turret gunner, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than bullets his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Benson! Now Boston! Now Duffy and Niven! On Tappan! On Lundin!
On Cooper and Stevens!
To the top of the glacis! To the top of the walls!
Now dash away! It’s easy! This isn’t the Rawles!”
As liberals that meet ‘The Donald’ will fly,
Quickly to ‘safe-rooms’ where they will cry;
So up to the keep-top the coursers they flew,
With the light armored car – and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each armored hoof.
As I drew in my barrel, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his face was all painted with grease stick and soot;
A rucksack of packages flung on his back,
Like a terrorist bomber he opened his pack:
His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
My first inclination was to shoot for the head,
But my wife grabbed my arm so I missed him instead.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk
I near shot again, but she wouldn’t let go
So I gave her the gun and I reached for my bow.
But he moved pretty fast for a fat little fellow;
Jumping in the chimney as I searched for an arrow.
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his rig, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight: Arrrgggg … !!!!
May your Christmas be merry, your holiday bright
And I wish you a joyfully and sweet silent night.
But come down my chimney without my okay,
You’d best be prepared for a fast getaway
because eight reindeer power will not get you free
when you try to outrun a 50-cal BMG
(A note at the insistence of my wife: No Santas were harmed in the bald-face plagiarism of this poem. Mr. Claus was, in fact, not hit by any flying munitions, although the 50 did remove the ball from his hat. There. Satisfied?)
Alright, I may be biting off more than I can chew, but what is heaven for?
My name’s Pat McLene and I’m a writer on most all things pepper-related. It’s a big subject because it includes:
Why and how you should prepare for the almost certain coming hard times.
How you can prepare for these hard times and profit from doing so.
When you should begin your journey towards self-sufficiency (Now would be good.)
And some other stuff that will certainly occur to me when I get to them.
So why should you listen to me? Because I’m an expert, that’s why. I must be one. I have a weekly column on prepping with WND.com that can be accessed here Go ahead, look around. I’ll wait.
I’ve also appeared in other publications both e and print on the subject of self-sufficiency.
Just a little bit about me.
I’ve been a prepper before the word had a meaning. I live in the Rawles defined area of The American Redoubt on a ranch where I garden, raise livestock, cut and burn wood for my heat, and can-dehydrate-smoke-dry my food. I hunt, fish, camp, and can gripe about the weather with the best of them.
So here we go.