Time for Grandpa Crawford's Lesson

The duly elected President of the United States and the Constitutional structure of our government are under attack by traitorous criminals in both wings of the Washington Party, the national news media, and members of the judiciary. We are in the midst of nothing less than an attempted coup d'etat, a blatant and arrogantly overt effort to subvert the Constitution and impose the agenda of collectivist thugs who intend to destroy the country and subjugate its population.

This is an organized orchestrated assault by an army of bullying thugs, in and out of government. The assailants include political bullies like Chuck Schumer and John McCain, judicial tyrants like those of the 9th Circuit, direct action mobs like Obama's OFA and Black Lives Matter street thugs, and virtually every national news and entertainment media outlet. The attackers are immoral criminals and deserve to be treated as such. Instead, they are allowed to continue, regardless of the law and public outrage. How can this be?

It's very simple. There is no downside for the aggressors. They experience neither pain nor penalty for their behavior. We must change this result!

Many years ago as an enlisted man I took a solemn oath. Millions more have done so since. That oath is as follows:

(a) Enlistment Oath.— Each person enlisting in an armed force shall take the following oath:

"I, (state name of enlistee), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

That oath has no expiration date and it is now time to fulfill it. We must put all those participating in the effort to overthrow the President on notice that they pose an existential threat to peace and freedom and, if they persist, they should not expect to die a natural death.

Many Americans have been so thoroughly conditioned that the very thought of self-defense is alien, repugnant, and perhaps impossible. How could it be otherwise? By now generations have been taught that to physically resist an attack by a school yard bully is to earn a suspension. “No tolerance” policies make no distinction between aggressor and victim. Self-defense requires the use of force and that is not to be allowed. Toy guns—even pictures of guns—are forbidden by imbecilic administrators and school boards across the country. “Dodge ball” is banned because it encourages aggressive behavior.

I never knew how much formal education he had, but my Grandpa, Francis Marion Crawford, was one of the smartest men I have ever known. He was named after "The Swamp Fox", the American Revolutionary War General who led a band of irregular fighters against Cornwallis in the swamps of South Carolina and is generally identified as the Father of Guerilla Warfare. Grandpa knew things that most people had long since forgotten, important things, like how to shoot, how to hunt, what plants one could safely eat in the woods, and how one could catch a fish using string and a safety pin if all else failed.

He was a gentle man and I never once heard him raise his voice in anger. The closest I can recall occurred when I was about five. Grandpa and Grandma lived on a farm on the edge of the woods. He was teaching me how to shoot his Remington .22 bolt action rifle, targeting tin cans in the driveway. Grandma heard the shooting and stepped out on the porch. "Do you think his mother would approve of this?" she asked with concern in her voice. Grandpa never looked up or changed his tone. He just said quietly--and not at all  unkindly, "Go back in the house, Woman. This is important." Today's Gods of Political Correctness would not have been pleased but Grandma did so without objection.

I was by far the smallest child in my kindergarten class, quite near sighted and equipped with thick wire-rimmed glasses without which I was as blind as a bat. Think "Ralphie" of the Christmas Story. To top it off, it was my great misfortune to be named "Francis", (a "girl's name" or so my tormenters would falsely taunt) at the very moment the movie "Francis the Talking Mule" became popular. By the time first grade rolled around, I was a favorite target of school yard bullies, often reporting home with a bloody nose and broken glasses.

Then one sunny September Saturday morning after a particularly rough week, Grandpa Crawford called me aside to teach me what would prove to be one of the most important lessons of my life. "Francis," he said quietly, "there is a very important difference between the sport of boxing and a fight. In the sport of boxing, there are rules that must be followed. A fight is not a sport and there are no rules."

"What do you mean, Grandpa?" I was genuinely puzzled.

He smiled. "The next time a bully intends to do you harm and you KNOW he's going to hit you, I want you to double up your fist and hit him on the end of his nose just as hard as you can."

"You want me to START a fight?" I was incredulous. My Mom (Grandpa's daughter) had taught me never to start a fight and she had been quite firm about it.

"No, Francis," he said with a smile, "if you do this right, there won't be a fight."

As it happened, Butchie Halstead, the biggest bully in Arlington, accosted me on my way back to
class at recess on the very next Monday. For no reason at all, he offered to "beat the crap out of me". Butchie was at least a head taller than me and had already acquired a reputation of being "meaner than hell." I was terrified, but somehow I summoned my courage and, as Butchie approached with a practiced expression of sneering confidence on his face, I swung an overhand right that had every one of my 40 plus pounds behind it. The punch landed squarely on the end of his nose with a satisfying crunch and blood flew everywhere. Butchie staggered and ran off bleeding wearing an expression of total shock. He never bothered me again.

The next time I saw Grandpa, after making sure my mom wasn't within ear shot, I told him what had happened. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Most bullies are cowards. They are bullies because there is no downside for them. No one will stand up to them so they continue to get away with it. When they run into someone who understands that the first punch usually wins the fight, they'll fold like a cheap suit. Never forget that."

I never have.

FJB

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