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Bubba, Thanks for the information. As you probably already know, Jackrabbit Joe probably has a carrier already set right for good timing. When the carrier ramp starts to wear, even just a few .000's, it creates SLOW timing, which causes that jamming problem. Another good fix is sending it to Gunner Gatlin, as mentioned above. I got just one more question and a test for you to do, which is an EASY test. Question: Have you started using ammo that is a bit shorter than previous ammo? TEST: Measure a few pieces of your current ammo, and then load up a few pieces that is a tad longer, maybe .010 or thereabouts. I'm curious as to your results. My guess is that your timing is too slow for the OAL of your ammo and testing your ammo loaded out a little longer might help. BUT..... even if it helps your situation, you still should consider getting your timing ramp repaired correctly. ..........Widder

My Alias, My maternal Grandfather died when my Mother was six years old. Although my Grandmother remarried before I was born, she always told me of her “First Love”. John Calder was a pure blood Scot, born in the United States of immigrant parents. I don’t know if ever was called Jack, but he worked in a lumberyard and likely the men in the yard used nicknames for each other rather than their full name. I named our second son after ‘Grandpa Calder’ which delighted my Grandmother no end. The life and times of Cactus Jack Calder: Born in Rochester, NY of Scots immigrants, John (Jack) Calder was apprenticed to a sawyer (A man who turns trees into lumber) at a very young age. After several years of grueling labor, he decide sawdust would not make him rich and ran away at the age of fourteen. Of course at this point he was just Jack Calder, the Cactus part came later. Who knows there might be more to the story.😉 CJ

Largest repository of cheese in America

$1,500 each or total of $1,500 for the pair of them? Kajun

In Ohio you can’t hunt 30 minutes after sunset and 30 minutes before sunrise. https://ohiodeerhunter.com/can-you-hunt-deer-at-night-in-ohio/

You're one of the lucky ones. Enjoy, and keep the lead goin' downrange. Al

Little Friday Bump.

THE DRUMMER, THE DANCER, THE DOG Mike Hall was a motorhead. It was Mike's car Willamina commandeered to stop a truckload of stolen livestock, by virtue of asking Mike if he'd help her, for she needed someone who could drive as if the Devil himself were in pursuit, and he had the fastest, most maneuverable hotrod she knew of. It was Mike's car from which a pale eyed Sheriff stood, an M1 Garand with corrosive primed, metal penetrating ammunition: it was Mike's car that came screaming around the tractor-trailer, slowing just enough for Willamina to dump a clip of metal penetrating into the sidewall of two driving duals, before Mike shot ahead: he held station, grinning, as Willamina drove in another clip of her late Uncle's nearly depleted stock, as she turned and faced rearward and dumped another eight through the truck's radiator and lower engine block. She turned, dropped into the passenger seat, rifle upright between stockinged knees: she rose enough to stick the ducky antenna up through the roof hatch, she shouted instructions to Dispatch, then she dropped again and barked "GO!" Mike's grin -- had he died in that moment -- was broad enough it would have taken the mortician a hammer and chisel to remove it. This selfsame Mike Hall, who custom built his cars, who fine tuned the engines in the Sheriff's cruisers (using technology that violated both proprietary agreements and certain statutes), who balanced their suspension, and who otherwise made Willamina's lead footed Navajo segundo very happy indeed. Mike was well on in his years now, but he still had magic in his hands, and as Sheriff Linn Keller observed with admiration, "Mike, you can do more with a rounded screwdriver and a wore out pair of slip joint pliers, than I can with a whole toolbox!" Mike was currently standing on a mechanic's stool, bent over, swearing steadily, quietly, without heat: he profaned the idiot who claimed he could tune up the Irish Brigade's military surplus Jeep-manufactured truck, now set up and serving admirably as their quick attack and grass/brush fire vehicle. Linn came into the firehouse, not because he had any real business there, but because he knew how genuinely unhappy fire chief Charles Fitzgerald had been when a working truck drove from the firehouse to the so-called mechanic, and was returned on a wrecker hook, "deader'n a whore's heart," to quote the incensed whitehat. Mike was finishing the last connection. The Jeep was surplus military, and a military vehicle has to work, no matter what: the ignition wires ran through individual metal conduits -- the so-called mechanic removed them, threw them away, replaced them with common automobile ignition wires, then wondered why they would not work: Linn waited until Mike had the last connection tightened down to his satisfaction, wiped the corrosive proof compound from where a little squished out as he'd tightened them down, waited until Mike straightened, stepped back, wiped his wrench and then his fingers. Mike looked at him and grinned, and it was still the grin of that high school kid he'd been. "Let's try it," he said quietly, then nodded to the German Irishman. The truck started with only a brief touch on the starter, idled smoothly. The German Irishman tilted his head back, raised his hands to the truck's ceiling. Linn read the man's lips as he uttered a silent "Thank You!" Outside, a whistle, a pop: fireworks, for they were crowding the Glorious Fourth. Fitz came over with the rolling gait of a man who knew what it was to walk a ship's deck on the salt water sea: he did this when he intended to make some grand pronouncement, or when he was ready to stuff someone's boots -- which meant that's how he walked most of the time. Fitz shoved his head over the fender, squinted at the now-immaculate engine, turned his head to squint at Mike, then in a reedy, fake-old-man's voice: "How's the muffler bearing, young man?" Fire Chief and Sheriff laughed and Fitz laid a gentle hand on Mike's shoulder: "Story at eleven," he said in response to Mike's skeptical expression, then he leaned back: "Is she ready to go?" "All set, Chief. Full tank, too." "Good." Fitz turned: "ALL RIGHT, GET HER READY TO ROLL! FIREWORKS AND DRY GRASS!" "ROGER THAT, CHIEF!" came the unified shout. Linn leaned back and frowned toward the kitchen deck, then saw movement through the back windows. Linn was a curious man, and he followed his curiosity to the patio behind the firehouse: it was sizable, it was cut into the hillside and lined with big blocks of native granite, and around its edge, pipe railing. Two of the Irish Brigade were naked to the waist. Two of the Irish Brigade were drumming on the railing with what looked like short pieces of plastic pipe, thick as your finger and long as two hands. Two of the Irish Brigade were half-singing, half-chanting, "Law-id, let it rain, "Law-id, let it rain!" Linn drew back from the window and smiled quietly. He'd been known to address the Almighty, and not always in what could be called conventional prayer. If these Irishmen have their way of singing their supplication, he thought, far be it from me to comment! The offworld Church was quiet when Marnie and Gracie slipped in. Marnie opened the front doors just a little, slid in sideways. Gracie, on the other hand, grabbed the handle and hauled it open as if she owned the place. Marnie looked around, cautious as ever, then she pushed through the inner doors, eyes busy, sizing up ambush points, exits, cover, concealment. Gracie shouldered a closing door and followed. Marnie turned as she walked, still looking for ambush or danger. Gracie tucked her curlyback fiddle under her chin and raised her bow. Marnie walked with a dancer's grace: her turns were bigger now, her arms came up, and she closed her eyes. Marnie was no longer the suspicious, veteran, blood-scarred Sheriff's deputy, nor was she still the dignified Ambassador, mindful of every nuanced gesture, or expression, or word. Marnie laid her head a little to the side and raised her arms, turning as she did, her steps in time to the waltz shimmering from a mountain fiddle, and she, too, danced before the altar of the Lord. "Engineering, we're ready to start. Can you ramp up the air handlers?" "On it, Boss!" came the cheerful reply. Sheriff Jacob Keller handed the firestick to a little boy who was bouncing on his toes and just plainly quivering with excitement. Their main assembly area, cafeteria, auditorium and do-almost-anything room was built in a natural, rather sizable hole -- tall enough that when the excited little boy extended the shivering firestick to twisted green fuses, when children squealed with delight and anticipation as yellow sparkling fires hissed and sizzled into the fireworks' tubes, when small skyrockets seared upward, then burst in small starbursts and muffled pops, almost every last schoolchild in the Firelands Local School District (Mars) held their hands over their ears and jumped up and down and shrieked in juvenile approval, while The Bear Killer reared on hard-muscled legs and joined the joyful confusion with a loud and happy YOW WOW WOW! The Firelands colony seized on any excuse to celebrate: the Fourth of July was an anticipated holiday, a designated day of celebration: air handlers drew the smoke-contaminated air up, through the Rippers that turned it back into good clean air and returned it at floor level: grinning men turned sizzling meat on smoking grilles, and wore aprons that said KISS THE COOK and DEATH FROM WITHIN. Races were run, trophies given: the celebration continued through midwatch and nightwatch, allowing all hands, even those who labored while most slept, could partake, and could enjoy. Drummers, dancers, Dog, all addressed the Eternal with joy.

Nope, I was wrong. A few paragraphs later, and the CPS lady is narrating. >Most of my days are paper-work drudgeries, and I get REALLY tired of all the lame excuses from lousy parents about their lousy child-care efforts. One of ‘em was from (can’t say her name here) a woman who’s in jail, along with her boyfriends. Meth is NOT your friend.< That last sentence. So it was drugs.

They don't specify. Meeting between the girl (Kelly), the DA (Jerry) and the CPS lady (Ruth). The DA is narrating. >She nodded and didn’t say anything. I said, “Kelly, I want to tell you that you’re not in any trouble at all. Do you understand that?” Again, she nodded. I continued, “However, we DO have a problem, because your Mom is in jail. She’s physically fine, but she isn’t able to care for you right now, which leaves us with the responsibility to take care of you. Do you understand that?” She nodded and asked, “So, what happens to me now?” Ruth started to speak, but I held up my hand and asked, “Kelly, let me reverse that question. What would you like to happen?” She said, “I don’t know, but I don’t like living the way we do now. I don’t like Mom’s boyfriends, and I don’t like living in our trailer. The best food I get is lunches at school, and people always point at me and make fun of me. They laugh at my clothes, and they get mad at me because I make better grades than they do. It sucks.” I asked, “One more question, Kelly -- how old are you?” She said, “I’m almost ten!” Ruth interrupted, saying, “Jerry, we suspect gang involvement, so we need to get her out of town quickly, for her protection.”<

Where do you get that from? Her name was Frances, but that's the only thing of "France" about her. She was born in Texas. French?

That company had a genius bit of Sabotage in WWII They were small actions of resistance at first, like refusing to meet with German officials other than through intermediaries. After all, PJB wasn't going to just roll over and let the Germans take over his factory without a fight. It’s just that the ‘fight’ had to be subtle, micro-aggressions that would go undetected in day-to-day life while still stymieing the occupiers in reaching their objectives. So, short of refusing to build trucks for the German army, a resistance that would have seen him executed, Boulanger instead came up with more cunning ways to resist the occupying forces. His first act of resistance was to order a ‘go-slow’ on the Citroen T45 production line, keeping the Germans waiting for their crucial transport infrastructure, a move that affected the movement of troops and supplies throughout occupied France. It was a minor victory for PJB and Citroen, but by such small actions do bigger victories come. Boulanger’s next act of resistance was far more ingenious, and one that had bigger repercussions for the German army. And yet, it was beautiful in its simplicity. ........... As Reynolds wrote in his 2001 book, The Citroen 2CV, Boulanger, however, had other ideas, and every new T45 that rolled off Citroen’s production line destined for the German army, was equipped with a custom-designed dipstick, one where the notches that indicated engine oil levels had been significantly lowered. And that meant when it came time for German engineers and mechanics to service their T45 trucks, the tampered dipsticks would indicate that there was plenty of oil in the T45’s sump when in fact, the French-built warhorse was running desperately low. ‘Alles gut, wir brauchen kein öl,’ was, in all likelihood, a common refrain heard in German mechanical workshops, before sending their supply trucks to the front with a golden seal of approval little realising they were critically short on oil. You can imagine what happened next. Starved of the golden lubricant, a motor engine’s elixir of life, the Germans’ Citroen T45 transporters broke down with alarming regularity, their engines seizing up leaving troops and supplies stranded by the roadside while the French celebrated their small victories with a glass of vin rouge while puffing insouciantly on a Gauloises.

@Calamity Kris, when did this occur? Nothing that I've seen on the local news channels.

What was he charged with? Shooting from the road? I know most places, these days, that is illegal. Shooting a fake deer? Is that illegal? It just seems like that would be easy to beat in court. Be like buying drugs from an undercover cop, but the "drugs" you bought were actually baking soda, not cocaine. I can see getting tried for "attempting to buy drugs", so maybe he was arrested for "attempted poaching"?

PM sent .

BTT. Reduced.

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One last time around, all gone but the 44 mag Marlin

My grandson was taken from his biological parents and adopted by my son and daughter in law.

Saw my first Tesla dumpster in person the other day. It was much larger than expected! And definitely undesirable! The body was wicked tarnished. Ugly beast!

I remember the IO and the Gulf, was there in '88 when we sank 3/4 of the Iranian Navy, never knew it could get that hot on the water. Snipes could only spend 20 minutes of every hour in the Main Space before they'd get exiled to Main deck for 40 minutes to cool off! We Gunner's mates had it good - the ammo holds had GREAT air condition, so we didn't have any melted C4 leaking out of the bombs! Compared to that, Phoenix ain't that bad at all.

To them, we’re down under! (I know they don’t call it that, but…)

I wish I had one, myself!! Used to.