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Only Part Way Home | by: E.M. Burlingame The fire’s down to coals. I let it go. This room held more voices once. Now it holds me and the wind at the eaves, worrying the gaps like it knows what’s missing. The bottle gave out on Tuesday. I think. I don’t remember if it gave out on me or I gave out on it. Some nights I talk to the worrying wind. Mostly, the wind has the good sense to stay quiet. Four decades answered to the call. What came back through that door was what was left of a boy and the rest of something replaced what never made it back. The rest of him still out there. Scattered along roads that don’t run all the way here to the town I left. The town I left that kept its roads but changed them anyway. While the people it kept never did. Thing is. A boy leaves like that, he only ever gets to come part way back. Well, the town moved on without the pieces I lost. Honestly, so did I. I let friendships go — some to the ground in the town cemetery, the rest to the years I was gone and the not knowing what to say anymore. Meant to write. Meant to call. Meant to get back before the leaving set up hard as concrete. Before they and I both became versions the other didn’t recognize. The table shrank. Chair by chair. Now it's just me and a coffee cup with a chip in the rim my thumb still finds every morning. My folks live close, just down the street. School friends from the old days less than a few miles beyond. Sometimes, I drive past their houses, look, and keep driving. The remainers quit waiting on a man who kept saying: tomorrow. Tomorrow came. Too many of them didn’t get to see it. Now only the dark answers when I say their names — the ones in the ground and the ones still breathing who wouldn’t know what to do with what’s left of me. Old memories of old visits won’t go. The houses I pass are still lit. I let good women turn away while I was still learning what a man owes the ones who stay. I gave them the road. The next fight. And the silence a man brings home when he’s looked death in the eye too many times to flinch. Their doors closed soft as snowfall. I called it clean at the time. Fool. Pretty line. Don’t matter. Snow melts. And so do I. The call never asked me to lose them. I did that all on my own. I ran hot because heat kept me alive when nothing else would as the work broke me worse than dying. Said words I can’t call back. Slammed doors that don’t un-slam. Left the old men’s wisdom on the shelf gathering dust I never wiped away while I chased what I figured mattered more. They died before I learned the questions worth asking. Guess that's just how aging men come wise. Wisdom didn’t come cheap. Didn’t come quick to the boy who answered before he could count the cost — and the cost didn’t itemize. It just kept compounding and taking. I stood for what was right — till right cost more blood than one man’s got. Then I kept standing. For causes already turning to ash before I got there. For men already becoming ghosts. I poured my fire in anyway just to leave behind more ash. I spent myself like exhaustion was the proof I needed. All it proved was I couldn’t tell a hill worth dying on from one that would just bury me in the end. I never refused the call. That was the problem. Even when nothing answered back. I went anyway and kept going after the mistake was obvious. And still I won’t disown the whole of it. I was one man. Rough hands, hard head and heart, with whatever soul made it through the smoke. I walked the road I drew and I won’t curse the deeds that did the hammering. This man was forged in the same blasts that burned him. That’s not pride. That’s just the maths. But if the wheel came around once more — some old god, some trick of the fates offering one more turn for this fragile spark I carry — I’d take it without asking the price. Not to call the women back. Not to unsay the temper. Not to win what was lost to time and dishonesty. Not even to unmake the leaving. Only to stand one more time in front of friends whose names still move this aged man like they might still answer and say the goodbye that never made it out of my chest. Look them in the eye, living or leaving, and give them what the between years stole: You mattered. I should’ve said it while you could still hear. Clasp the hands I let go last, long ago, to feel them close around mine again in friendship, before letting the end do what it must. Maybe then, I’d come home a little more whole than the part way this town and I allow each other. Every man who answered comes home wrong. Some just come home worse than others. I was one of the worse ones. That’s the only mercy I’d ask of the years. Leave the road. Leave the scars. Leave the fire low and the ache that never quits aching. Leave the boy at the door with his bag still packed. He’d off again before the question finished. We both know it. All of it stays where it landed — except the words I carried too long and too late. Words not said to those long gone. The only things still haunting. I’d spin the wheel no matter the cost, with what’s left of these hands to say those very words alone.

The vibes are insane. Driving through the great state of Louisiana on our way to New Orleans. It’s crazy how diverse this country is, every day the scenery looks different.

To quote Bob Norris in a letter to a young man wondering whether to join the Air Force or the Navy. It applies to Navy versus the other services too: Young Man, Congratulations on your selection to both the Naval and Air Force Academies. Your goal of becoming a fighter pilot is impressive and a fine way to serve your country. As you requested, I'd be happy to share some insight into which service would be the best choice. Each service has a distinctly different culture. You need to ask yourself "Which one am I more likely to thrive in?" USAF Snapshot: The USAF is exceptionally well organized and well run. Their training programs are terrific. All pilots are groomed to meet high standards for knowledge and professionalism. Their aircraft are top-notch and extremely well maintained. Their facilities are excellent. Their enlisted personnel are the brightest and the best trained. The USAF is homogenous and macro. No matter where you go, you'll know what to expect, what is expected of you, and you'll be given the training & tools you need to meet those expectations. You will never be put in a situation over your head. Over a 20-year career, you will be home for most important family events. Your Mom would want you to be an Air Force pilot...so would your wife. Your Dad would want your sister to marry one. Navy Snapshot: Aviators are part of the Navy, but so are Black shoes (surface warfare) and bubble heads (submariners). Furthermore, the Navy is split into two distinctly different Fleets (West and East Coast). The Navy is heterogeneous and micro. Your squadron is your home; it may be great, average, or awful. A squadron can go from one extreme to the other before you know it. You will spend months preparing for cruise and months on cruise. The quality of the aircraft varies directly with the availability of parts. Senior Navy enlisted are salt of the earth; you'll be proud if you earn their respect. Junior enlisted vary from terrific to the troubled kid the judge made join the service. You will be given the opportunity to lead these people during your career; you will be humbled and get your hands dirty. The quality of your training will vary and sometimes you will be over your head. You will miss many important family events. There will be long stretches of tedious duty aboard ship. You will fly in very bad weather and/or at night and you will be scared many times. You will fly with legends in the Navy and they will kick your ass until you become a lethal force. And some days - when the scheduling Gods have smiled upon you - your jet will catapult into a glorious morning over a far-away sea and you will be drop-jawed that someone would pay you to do it. The hottest girl in the bar wants to meet the Naval Aviator. That bar is in Singapore. Bottom line, son, if you gotta ask...pack warm & good luck in Colorado. Banzai PS Air Force pilots wear scarves and iron their flight suits.

I think a lot of people forget that guns don't just give us the ability to keep things in check. But they also increase the temperature at which it takes a country to boil. I think most firearms owners understand that unlike most places, if that door opens you can't just close it again. The house will burn down. You can only sift through ashes and rebuild at that point.

We can never be an expert at everything! I apply this same mentality to the business and network accordingly to ensure the best possible product at the best possible price for the customers. That’s why I exclusively use @TX_LRC for my merch and surrounded myself with other experts in CAD and manufacturing like @Zer0andSons @rougarouxpew @weaporize @textacdesigns @TripleATactical We all have this train of thought and started a group called the American Gunslingers Association or the AGA for short. We use each other’s expertise to truly be as well rounded as possible!