Special to The Libertarian Enterprise
"A well-regulated population being necessary to the
security of a police state, the right of the Government
to seize and destroy arms shall not be infringed."
Go where the land meets the water, anywhere in New England, and
you will begin to understand how deeply the region of my birth lies in
bondage to the Cult of the Omnipotent State.
Town and state governments throughout New England traditionally
buy and dump tons of sea sand -- or whatever will pass for it -- along
the shorelines of their municipal beaches and parks. It doesn't
matter whether the shoreline of the lake, river or ocean cove in
question was originally a reeded marshland, naturally filtering away
pollutants while offering pristine habitat to waterfowl and a hundred
other creatures -- the kind of place in which I (for one) would far
rather spend my time communing with nature during that nine months of
the year when it's not "time to turn, so you won't burn."
No matter: what the majority of taxpayers want is a sandy beach
for picnicking and sunbathing (in fact, precious little "swimming"
ever transpires), and that is what they darned well get.
Actually, the institutionalized destruction goes much deeper than
this. "Urban Renewal," in New England, often includes development of
new office complexes and highways on "unused" or "blighted" land. For
40 years now, the larger New England cities have bulldozed interstate
highways through the "seedy, decrepit" areas of docks and profitable
but low-rent private businesses which used to line their waterfronts,
throwing small business owners on the dole and erecting their new
throughways atop impassable 20-foot concrete embankments, until two
whole generations have grown up within a mile or two of the ocean or
the navigable Connecticut River in Hartford, Springfield, New Haven or
Boston, without so much as seeing the water that gave their cities
birth, except as a distant glitter far below the highway bridge they
take to work.
But let a private citizen try to turn a slice of his own
private, rocky shoreline into a boat dock, a sliver of sandy beach, or
even a well-intentioned but "unpermitted" refuge for turtles and wood
ducks (yes, I know of just such cases, in Connecticut and New Jersey)
-- let him try to similarly adjust nature to his needs or wishes --
and suddenly the state authorities descend like locusts, seizing and
destroying the privately-held turtles, demanding to see all the
required permits, showering liens and injunctions like a freak April
What's more, the very populace who blithely speed along on the
shore-destroying freeways, who consider it their civic right to lie in
pure white sand where geese and fox and a hundred other creatures used
to raise their young, cheer with glee as these "greedy" private
"despoilers of nature" are brought low, for daring to offend against
the state-enforced religion of Environmentalism ... on their own
How dare such troglodytes tamper with sacred resources belonging
to all the people, doing whatever they please with no more
justification than the fact they happen to hold some bogus "private
Of course, the notion that one need only "apply for a permit" is
nothing but misdirection, equivalent to telling the Jews as they
boarded the trains to the East that they should be careful to "label
your luggage carefully for when you return."
Big commercial developers who make big campaign contributions may
well get some kind of hypocritical "certificate of environmental
compliance" for their plans to pave and channelize the local
waterfront ... requiring yet more government seizure of private
property for another big "flood control project" upstream ... but the
little guy faces years of hoop-jumping as his permit applications are
lost, or returned for re-filing on updated forms, before they're
At which point, the poor sad sack will learn to his dismay that
it's too late to declare, "Well then, your whole permitting process is
bogus, and I'm going ahead anyway."
At that point, the long-suffering citizen will be advised by a
stern-voiced judge that he waived his right to appeal the validity of
the permitting process when he filed his application (way back in the
days when he was told "That's all there is to it,") thus tacitly
acknowledging the right of the state to either grant or withhold its
permission for the project in question!
Just ask 67-year-old carpenter Carl Drega, of Columbia, N.H.
Laughed Out of Court
In 1981, 80 feet of the riverbank along Drega's property collapsed
during a rainstorm. Drega decided to dump and pack enough dirt to
repair the erosion damage, restoring his lot along the Connecticut
River to its original size.
A state conservation officer, Sergeant Eric Stohl, claimed to have
spotted the project from the river while passing the Drega property on
a fish-stocking operation. (The river's natural ecology harbored huge
runs of shad and Atlantic salmon, as well as native pike, pickerel,
and brook trout. So most New England states -- these devoted acolytes
of environmental purity -- now routinely stock bass, and brown and
rainbow trout, none of which is native and few of which survive long
enough to reproduce.)
The state hauled Drega into court, attempting to block his tiny
This was piled atop earlier actions by the town of Columbia, some
dating back more than 20 years, and starting when the town hauled
Drega into court and threatened him with liens, judgments and
(ultimately) property seizure over a "zoning violation" which was
comprised of his failure to finish a house covered with tarpaper
within a time-frame which the town considered reasonable, former
selectman Kenneth Parkhurst told the Boston Globe.
Drega tried for years to fight the authorities on their own terms,
in court. Needless to say, as a quasi-literate product of the
government schools, and no lawyer, his filings became a laughing stock
both in the courts and in the newspapers to which he sent copies,
begging for help.
"The dispute, punctuated by years of hearings and court orders,
became an obsession for Drega," wrote reporters Matthew Brelis and
Kathleen Burge in an Aug. 20 follow-up in the Boston Globe. Drega
"filed personal lawsuits against the state officials involved and
contacted newspapers, including the Globe, imploring them to write
about the injustice being done to him."
In court in 1995, the Globe reports that Drega explained, "The
reason I'm like this on this case, when I started my project 10 years
ago I was issued permits and everything I needed. When I reapplied 10
years later, that's when Eric Stohl came in and the Wetlands Board had
absolutely no records ... I am liable for everything that's done
there. In the New Hampshire Wetlands Board, if it's not done
according to the plan, they can take it out. And if I don't have the
money to take it out, they'll take it out. And if I can't pay for it,
they'll take my property."
I sort the incoming letters-to-the-editor for a major metropolitan
newspaper. The receipt of such sheafs of heartfelt, illiterate
pleadings from folks at their wits' end (child custody leads the list,
though property rights also feature prominently), pleading for help
from someone, has become an almost daily occurrence.
Since such tirades are too long, rambling, and "not of general
public interest" to run as letters, I diligently forward them to the
city desk, in hopes an editor there may occasionally assign a reporter
to check them out.
They never do ... unless the author shoots somebody, at which
point there ensues a mad scramble through the wastebaskets.
In newsrooms around the country, the running joke when a large
number of such missives or phone calls come in on the same day is that
"It must be a full moon."
Reporters cover the bureaucracy. The bureaucracy is adept at
putting out its version of events in reasonable-sounding,
easy-to-quote form. Those who can't get with the program are
generally ridiculed by reporters as "gadflies," "malcontents," and
(more recently) "black helicopter conspiracy nuts." Their rambling,
disjointed stories don't tend to fit well into the standard 12 inches.
By 1995, it was obvious that Carl Drega was running out of
patience. Town selectman Vickie Bunnell, 42 (since appointed a
part-time state judge) accompanied a town tax assessor to Drega's
property in a dispute over an assessment. Drega fired shots into the
air to drive them away.
(In New England, special property tax assessments are common, and
especially cruel to old folks. The courts have ruled that if the town
decides to run a municipal water or sewer line along a street fronting
one's property, the property owner can be assessed the amount by which
the town figures the property's value has been enhanced -- usually in
the thousands of dollars -- even if the property owner has a perfectly
good well and septic system, and opts not to tie into the new
municipal lines. Failure to pay can eventually lead to eviction and
Carl Drega could see what was coming. He couldn't have been
ignorant of the government tactics used to ambush and murder harmless
civilians at Waco and Ruby Ridge. He bought a $575 AR-15 -- the
legal, semi-auto version of the standard military M-16 -- in a gun
store in Waltham, Massachusetts, a state with some of the most
restrictive gun laws in America. He also began equipping his property
with early-warning electronic noise and motion detectors against the
inevitable government assault.
Too Light a Round
But they didn't come for Carl Drega at home. On Tuesday Aug. 19,
at about 2:30 on a warm summer afternoon, New Hampshire State Troopers
Leslie Lord, 45 (a former police chief of nearby Pittsburg) and Scott
Phillips, 32, arrested Drega in the parking lot of LaPerle's IGA
supermarket in neighboring Colebrook, N.H.
("Arrest" comes from the French word for "stop." Whenever agents
of the state brace a citizen, stop him, and demand to see his papers,
he has been "arrested," no matter whether he has been "read his
rights," no matter what niceties the court may apply to the various
steps of the process.)
Why was Carl Drega arrested that day? New Hampshire Attorney
General Phillip McLaughlin pulls out his best weasel words, reporting
the troopers had stopped Drega's pickup because of a "perception of
defects." Earlier wire accounts reported they were preparing to
ticket him for having "rust holes in the bed of his pickup truck."
But Carl Drega had had enough. He walked back to Trooper Lord's
cruiser and shot the uniformed government agent seven times. Then he
shot Trooper Philips, as the brave officer attempted to run away.
Drega then commandeered Lord's cruiser and drove to the office of
former selectman -- now lawyer and part-time Judge -- Vickie Bunnell.
Bunnell reportedly carried a handgun in her purse out of fear of
Drega. But if so, she evidently had no well-thought-out plan to use
it. Bunnell ran out the back door. Drega calmly walked to the rear
of the building and shot her in the back from a range of about 30
feet. Bunnell died.
Dennis Joos, 50, editor of the local Colebrook News and
Sentinel, worked in the office next door. Unarmed, he ran out and
tackled Drega. Drega walked about 15 feet with Joos still clutching
him around the legs, advising the editor to "Mind your own (expletive)
business," according to reporter Claire Knapper of the local weekly.
Joos did not let go. Drega shot Joos in the spine. He died.
Drega then drove across the state line to Bloomfield, Vt., where
he fired at New Hampshire Fish and Game Warden Wayne Saunders, sending
his car off the road. Saunders was struck on the badge and in the
arm, but his injuries were not considered life-threatening.
Police from various agencies soon spotted the abandoned police
cruiser Drega had been driving ... still in Vermont. As they
approached the vehicle, they began taking fire from a nearby hilltop
where Drega had positioned himself, apparently still armed with the
AR-15 and about 150 rounds of ammunition. Although he managed to
wound two more New Hampshire state troopers and a U.S. Border Patrol
agent before he himself was killed by police gunfire, none of those
injuries were life-threatening, either.
(Those preparing to defend themselves against assaults by armed
government agents on their own property should take note that these
failures do not appear attributable to Drega's marksmanship -- after
all, he scored plenty of hits -- but rather to his dependence on the
now-military-standard .223 cartridge, which has nowhere near the
stopping power of the previous NATO standard .308, or the even earlier
U.S. standard 30.06. Some states won't even allow deer to be hunted
with the .223, due to its low likelihood of producing a "clean kill"
with one hit.)
Fertilizer and Tractor Fuel
Immediately, the demonization of Carl Drega began. A neighbor
told the Globe about seeing a police cruiser pull up to the Drega
house at 2:50 p.m., and leave at 3:10 p.m., minutes before smoke began
to pour from the house. Ignoring the likelihood that a uniformed
officer might have been sent to see if Drega had gone home,
"Authorities believe the fire was set by Drega," the Globe reported
on Aug. 20, thereafter reporting as a matter of established fact that
Drega burned down his own home.
Isn't it funny how they always do that?
Searching the barn and the remaining property later that week,
"Authorities found 450 pounds of ammonium nitrate, the substance used
in the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City bombings, as well as cans
of diesel fuel," came the breathless Aug. 31 report by Boston Globe
reporter Royal Ford.
Trenches on the property held PVC pipe carrying wires to remote
noise and motion detectors. No remote booby-traps were discovered,
though the barn and a hillside bunker contained ammunition, parts for
AK-47s and the AR-15, "and a few boxes of silver dollars," as well as
"homemade blasting caps, guns, night scopes, a bullet-proof helmet
(sic) and books on bombs and booby traps," as well as "the makings of
86 pipe bombs."
"The makings," eh? I wonder how many wholesale hardware outlets in
this country currently stock "the makings" of 860 pipe bombs? Or
The FBI was johnny on the spot, of course, helping New Hampshire
State Police Sgt. John McMaster search the three-story barn, with its
"concrete bunkers" containing not only ammunition, but also "canned
food, soda, and a refrigerator."
(I wonder if my basement would suddenly become a "concrete bunker"
if I had a run-in with the law? How about yours?)
But it was the 400 pounds of ammonium nitrate (the estimate kept
dropping during the week) and the 61 gallons of diesel fuel in
five-gallon containers that gave authorities the willies.
"Realizing the he had walked into the most dangerous private
arsenal he had ever seen, McMaster began climbing the stairs to the
second floor," reported Brian MacQuarrie and Judy Rakowsky of the
Boston Globe on Aug. 22. "Halfway up, (State Trooper Jack) Meaney
shouted for him to stop: he had just picked up a bomb-making manual
opened to a chapter on how to booby-trap stairs ...
"The large stores of dangerous materials, combined with the
discovery of three instruction manuals on explosives and booby traps,
helped persuade N.H. authorities that they should destroy the barn
with a controlled burn and explosion," which they promptly did.
"Some federal agents initially questioned the plan to destroy the
huge cache of evidence that may have shown whether Drega had links to
militia groups or criminals," the Globe also breathlessly reports,
though the paper at least had the decency to note no such affiliations
were ever established.
(One wonders whether the newspaper would have given equal play to
someone lamenting that they thus lost the chance to search for
hypothetical links between Drega and the Irish Republic Army, Drega
and the Ted Kennedy campaign staff, or Drega and the Buddhist nuns who
laundered campaign contributions for Al Gore.)
Ammonium nitrate is, of course, a common fertilizer, sold in
50-pound bags to anyone who wants it -- no questions asked -- in
garden stores in all 50 states.
Farmers all over the nation store more than 60 gallons of diesel
fuel at a time, and even know how to combine the diesel fuel with the
ammonium nitrate to make a relatively weak explosive, useful in
blowing up tree stumps. Purchase of blasting caps for this purpose is
also perfectly legal. If this and a few hundred rounds of military
surplus ammo constituted "the most dangerous private arsenal" the head
of the New Hampshire state police bomb squad had ever seen, he must
not get out much.
Anyway, the buildings are all burned to the ground now -- just
like at Waco -- and the newspaper reporters -- trained to just report
the facts and never express opinions -- had ruled within days that
Carl Drega was "diabolical and paranoid."
The remaining question is, did government agents Vickie Bunnell,
Leslie Lord, and Scott Phillips deserve to die? Did Carl Drega pick
the right time and place to say "That's as many of my rights as you're
going to take; it stops right here?"
Or is that the right question? The problem with the question is
that the oppressor state and its ant-like agents are both devious and
clever: except when faced with overt resistance and a chance to make
an example of some social outcasts on TV, they rarely send black-clad
agents to pour out of cattle trailers in our front yards, guns ablaze.
No, they generally see to it that our chemical castration is so
gradual that there can never be a majority consensus that this is
finally the right time to respond in force. In this death of a
thousand cuts we're always confronted with some harmless old
functionary who obviously loves his grandkids, some pleasant young
bureaucrat who doubtless loves her cat and bakes cookies for her
co-workers and smilingly assures us she's "just doing her job" as she
requests our Social Security number here ... our thumbprint there ...
the signed permission slip from your kid's elementary school principal
for possessing a gun within a quarter-mile of the school ... and a
urine sample, please, if you'll just follow the matron into the little
"Those are the rules," after all. "Everybody has to do it; I just
do what they tell me; if you don't like it you can write your
When ... when is it finally the right moment to respond, "I'll
tell you what; why don't you take this steel-cored round of .223 to my
congressman? In fact, take him a whole handful, and tell him to have
a nice day ... when you see him in hell!"?
Carl Drega decided the day to finally say that, was the day they
came to arrest him on the private property of a supermarket parking
lot, supposedly for having rust holes in the bed of his pickup.
Does anyone believe that's really why they stopped Carl Drega?
Lots More Coming
I am not -- repeat, not -- advising anyone to go forth and start
shooting cops and bureaucrats. To start with, one's own life
expectancy at that point grows quite short, limiting one's options to
continue fighting for freedom on other fronts. Most of us -- unlike
Carl Drega -- also have families to think of.
Third, there may be other solutions. Just as much of the farmland
near Rome sat vacant by the fall of the Roman Empire -- it simply
proved cheaper to move on than to endure the confiscatory Roman taxes
-- so do James Dale Davidson and William Rees-Mogg predict in their
new book, The Sovereign Individual, that iternet encryption may
allow many to spirit their hard-earned assets beyond the reach of this
newer, oppressive slave state, making "the tax man in search of
someone to audit" the laughing stock of the 21st century.
And finally, such a course invites obvious risks of mistaken
identity, collateral damage to relatively innocent bystanders (witness
newspaperman Coos), and an end to due process ... a concept for which
I still harbor some respect, even if our government oppressors do not.
What I do know is, in little more than 30 years, we have gone from
a nation where the "quiet enjoyment" of one's private property was a
sacred right, to a day when the so-called property "owner" faces a
hovering hoard of taxmen and regulators threatening to lien,
foreclose, and "go to auction" at the first sign of private defiance
of their collective will ... a relationship between government and
private property rights which my dictionary defines as "fascism."
Carl Drega tried to fight them, for years, on their own terms and
in their own courts. We know how far that got him.
What I do know is that this is why the tyrants are moving so
quickly to take away our guns. Because they know in their hearts that
if they continue the way they've been going, boxing Americans into
smaller and smaller corners, leaving us no freedom to decide how to
raise and school and discipline our kids, no freedom to purchase (or
do without) the medical care we want on the open market, no freedom to
withdraw $2,500 from our own bank accounts (let alone move it out of
the country) without federal permission, no freedom even to arrange
the dirt and trees on our own property to please ourselves ... if they
keep going down this road, there are going to be a lot more Carl
Dregas, hundreds of them, thousands of them, fed up and not taking it
any more, a lot more pools of blood drawing flies in the municipal
parking lots, a lot more self-righteous government weasels who were
"only doing their jobs" twitching their death-dances in the warm
afternoon sun ... and soon.
When is it the right time to say, "Enough, no more. On this spot
I stand, and fight, and die"? When they're stacking our luggage and
loading us on the box cars? A fat lot of good it will do us, then.
Mr. Jefferson declared for us that "whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the
People, to alter or abolish it."
Was Mr. Jefferson only saying we have a right to vote in a new
crop of statist politicians every couple of years, as the
pro-government extremists will insist?
No. The Declaration fearlessly declared that the Minutemen of
Lexington and Concord had been right to shoot down Redcoats who were
"only doing their jobs" in Massachusetts the year before. And it put
the nations of the world on notice that Gen. Washington was planning
to shoot himself a whole lot more.
"You must be kidding!" come the outraged cries. "This guy shot a
fleeing woman in the back."
Oh, pardon me. Did Judge Bunnell propose to fight a
straightforward duel with Mr. Drega, one on one, mano a mano, to
determine who should have a right to decide whether he could build a
tarpaper shack on his own property?
Of course not. The top bureaucrats generally manage to be sipping
lemonade on the porch when the process they put in motion "reaches its
final conclusion," with padlocks and police tape and furniture on the
sidewalk ... or the incinerated resister buried in the ashes.
Go watch "Escape from Sobibor." When the Jewish concentration
camp inmates finally start to kill their German oppressors, tell me
how long you spend worrying that they "didn't give the poor,
jackbooted fellows a fair, sporting chance."
Each and every one of us must decide for him- or herself when the
day has come to stand fast, raise our weapons to our shoulders, and
(quoting President Jefferson, this time) water the tree of liberty
with the blood of patriots, and of tyrants. Give up the right to make
that decision, and we become nothing better than the beasts in the
field, waiting to be milked until we can give no more, and then
shuffling off without objection, heads bowed, to the soap factory.
Carl Drega was a resident of New Hampshire. On the day Carl Drega
decided was a good day to die -- on the day they towed it away -- the
license plates on his rusty pickup still bore the New Hampshire state
motto: "Live Free or Die."
Carl Drega was different from most of us, all right. He believed
it still meant something.
Vin Suprynowicz is the assistant editorial page editor of the Las
Vegas Review-Journal. Readers may contact him via e-mail at
email@example.com. The web site for the Suprynowicz column is at
http://www.nguworld.com/vindex/. The column is syndicated in the
United States and Canada via Mountain Media Syndications, P.O. Box
4422, Las Vegas Nev. 89127.