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Celt Fest Report


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Part of the crowd at Celt Fest 2014.

by Scott Terry (Shotgun Barrel Straight)

I drove out to Knoxville for the Council of Conservative Citizen’s annual Celt Fest, and could feel the Devil’s oppression seep away along with the air pressure.

Whatever might be said of the dark wing of modernity, its shadow stops cold at the foot of the Appalachian mountains.  God’s sun lights those hills.  The warrior spirit of the Scots-Irish is still alive, and the clever merry-making of an ancient Celtic people lives on in the blue-collar traditions of a gruff, but hearty folk.

The higher my altitude, the closer to God I felt.  Seeing nothing but white folk pass you on the highway, is oddly exhilarating.  Stopping at restaurants and being served by bright-eyed young Southerners, or friendly old ladies, is refreshing. The mountain air smelled so much better, more alive, and more free, than that of the low-country metropolachia.

My good friend Tom, along with his family, hosts the event each year.  Tom claims he reads my blog, so I assume if I take any liberties, he’ll correct me.  Best to know that my praise of him isn’t exaggerated in the least:

Tom is, in the words of my friend Matthew Heimbach, one of the most unsung leaders in the alternative right movement.  He’s cocky in the lovable way all honest men have the right to be, but on top of it, he has the wisdom (born by life experience) to temper himself with the right amount of humility and kindness that all the heroes of European novels (and all the heroes of European history) display to their fellows.

His laid-back and archetypically Southern charisma, draws young and old alike to Council gatherings, where they can’t help themselves but to laugh along with his jokes.  Tom’s one of those guys who makes you feel, when you inevitably compare yourself to him, that you’ve never really lived – this man, the man in front of us who looks perfectly at home in kilt and Celtic woad – this man knows what it’s like to live.  The rest of us might have the shadow of a passion if we’re lucky to grab it; Tom has the whole beast.

His brother Levi, who also helps with the event, is, in my view, the spitting image of Owen Wister’s “The Virginian”; if he grew out a handle-bar mustache, he’d be perfect for playing Wyatt Earp in a Western, not just in looks, but in demeanor as well.  Levi has the Celtic gaze Wister gave his hero – light, merry, but willing (at a moment’s notice) to launch into the fiery stare of a warrior.

Of course Levi and Tom are the favorites to win the Celt games; they’ve been doing it longer than most of the others and have developed the proper form and techniques.  Tossing heavy object is, we’ve all learned, more about athleticism and heart, rather than brute strength (although, brute strength doesn’t hurt).

There were gym-rats in attendance; muscle-bound, heavy-built guys, who were itching to toss the rocks.  I also signed up, hoping to test myself against the elements.

It was pouring down rain when Tom grabbed up his tally sheet, called us all to attention, and waltzed out from under the porch.  A band of merry Celts followed him.

It was an epic moment – at least in my mind’s eye.  In slow motion, a group of sopping wet, young, Celtic warriors, many wearing kilts, strode, with looks of determination, toward the battle field. There, rocks, blocks, and timbers were hurled with the might given to proud men who suffer oppression.  The rain made the ground slick, and some of us lost our footing.

When lurching forward with the largest stone, I tripped; it hit me in the chin, and I dropped it, managing only to get it a few feet in.  The Celts, though, had a spirit of fair play, and I was given a second chance.  I put everything into the throw, launching into it with my entire body, and sent it hurling down the range.

If anything – that’s the theme to take away from Celt Fest.  We have a giant rock to hurl off our people, and it wont budge unless we put everything we have into the effort – all of our strength, all of our anger, and all of our hatred.

We must out-feel the enemy, who, along with their master the Devil, has a cold, mechanistic view of life – the view of a speculator.  They eyeball our women to abuse aesthetic appeal, and our men, to scientifically assess their labor.  They have no sense of the passionate love of Christian hearts, who were raised by the hearth-fires of Dixie.

But as long as men like those within that ten-mile district of Tennessee back-country are alive, the Devil and his millions will shake with fear whenever they hear a Celtic fiddle…