My grandfather had a Colt New Service in .44 russian in the glovebox of his old Stubabaker truck. I was told it went in there when John Dillinger was terrorising the midwest. He was building chicken coops for Clark Gable in Encino when a drunk hit a horse. The story is Gable punched out the drunk and grandpa Jack shot the horribly maimed horse. He, and my parents were from the generations that lived through the great depression. You didn't throw things away, waste food or ignore ( I think it's called 'discrespecting' in our ever changing english tongue) somebody physically shabby. They often as not were very well mannered and educated people down on their luck. Later I enlisted in the Coast Guard, to the tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth ( mine) by my grandmother. I come from a Navy family <img src="/images/graemlins/shocked.gif" alt="" />. The survival schools and my adventures just polished and refined my mindset. I don't let it consume me though. Life is supposed to be fun. On a recent hike I horrified my companions by producing bread, sausage, brie cheese a nice Merlot and CD player with Ravel from my supposedly survival gear packed rucksack. <img src="/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />