Yes, I have one, too. It is a fine pistol.

Thomas Cole
-- "Daniel Boone Sitting at the Door of His Cabin" / 1826

Some people idolize film stars, some idolize politicians, some idolize musicians, some people idolize trash. Daniel Boone is one of the few men I idolize. I think he is one of the more important men in the history of 18th and 19th Century America, but few have any concept of what he actually accomplished as an individual, free man. History is lost on the typical American today, but that is just fine because the seed of history is the story of Lemmings (excuse me, civilizations) rushing headlong toward a cliff. It always has been that way and, I believe, always will be that way. Whatever, the bottom line is that I would wager hard cash Daniel had plenty of explosive residue in the form of spent gunpowder on his jacket. Read on, if you are curious ....

Gun! .... No, no, no -- no gun ....
Part 2 of 2 (or, maybe, 3)

This episode will be brief (comparatively speaking), and (hopefully) without any lecture regarding the fall of the United States as we know it (although, I actually believe we are on the eve of it).

When I was departing Frederic Chopin Airport in Warsaw, I crossed over from the land of milk and honey into the "forbidden zone" and exchanged waves and blown kisses with the beautiful one. I then proceeded to the first checkpoint, which includes placing coats, computers, etc., etc., etc. in baskets and walking through a metal detector. But, the big difference here from American airports -- the shoes (in my case, cowboy boots) stayed on the feet.

Mind you, this was in the Spring, just a few days after more stringent rules, searches and other "feel good" procedures had gone into place for anyone and everyone flying into America from foreign land.

So, I proceeded to the passport check. There, a young lady skidded to a visible stop when she noticed that I had overstayed the ninety-day time limit specified for anyone without a visa. I could see her mind was turning, deliberating, as she stared at the page, mentally counting up the days. Several long seconds later, she stamped the exit marker and pushed the passport back without a word.

Finally cleared to head on out, I thought, I proceed to the boarding area. Thirty minutes later, those of us there were chased out and had to proceed through another checkout point. Again, I emptied my pockets and had my carry-on items physically searched by a pair of men in black uniforms and carrying Glock pistols at their sides.

I was asked to enter what looked like an old-fashioned telephone booth. I was hit by a gust of air. A few minutes later, I learned that I had tested positive for residue from explosive materials.

One guard was very young. He looked like a teenager but, obviously, was older. He knew a bit of English, was very friendly, and not shy about talking and laughing. The other was about four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than I am, and knew less English than I know Polish -- which is next to none. He appeared to be approaching age forty, looked and acted like a bouncer at a bar, and avoided all eye contact.

After some discussion, they me put into into a second booth. Again, I was hit by a gust of air, again made my silly, surprised expression at it and enjoyed the big smile and friendly laugh of the younger guard. The results were the same from this machine. The "explosive sniffer device" had tested me as positive for explosive residue.

While the older guard was comparing the test results from the two machines, the younger was more forthcoming. He asked me if I had been handling explosives recently.

I was wearing a black, leather jacket, which is ancient and has the appearance of a blend between a military jacket and a biker jacket. I probably have fired several thousand rounds of rifle and handgun ammunition while wearing that jacket, and said to the guard: "This is my shooting jacket. I have fired a pistol hundreds of times wearing this jacket. Could that cause the positive result?"

The young guard's eyes widened like proverbial saucers. "Gun!" he exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to attract the attention of the older guard. "Gun! Gun?"

"No, no, no, no gun!" I exclaimed. "This is shooting jacket. I wear it when I am shooting pistols. Maybe there is gunpowder residue on it."

He understood what I said, and his broad smile returned in an instant. "I like the Glock," he said, patting his holstered sidearm.
"Yes, I have one, too. It is a fine pistol," I said. His eyes began to widen again. "At home. At home, in America," I quickly added.

To bring this to a happy resolution, I was asked to enter a room not much bigger than a large closet. My jacket pockets were emptied for a second time (third, actually, counting the initial checkpoint examination earlier). I had to take my money belts off. The older guard squeezed them affectionately. I had not even emptied all my pockets completely -- nor had I taken my boots off this time, either -- before the older guard mumbled something and left. The younger guard waited and we chatted while I put myself back together.

He said he was twenty-four, married and had two children. I asked him if he liked his work. He said it would do for how, but he did not think of it as a career.

We eventually boarded an aircraft nearly filled to capacity. I am not certain how many passengers this type carries, and I am too lazy right now to check out its capacity, but there must have been a couple of hundred or more people aboard it on the return flight. Among them, I only noticed one other man besides myself who was run through the "explosive sniffer." He had the look of a moonshiner from Appalachian hill country.

I am curious still why I was selected to be "sniffed." As an ex-Marine, I like to think it was because I had the look of being the "meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley." I hope it was not because I look like a moonshiner from Minnesota. I do not look like that, do I?

I also like to think that the younger of the two guards went home that night with a big smile and a laugh and a story to tell his wife about the close call and dangerous encounter he had experienced at work at the airport that day. Maybe, he said something like this to her: "You would have been proud of me, honey, the way I handled a situation that could have been explosive."

I guess this post did not turn out to be very brief. Maybe, I will do a third piece. Ain't life a laugh and a half ????