What an "A" Means, and What It Doesn't

A letter came this summer that I've been meaning to sit down and tell you about.

The NRA Political Victory Fund sent word that they've given me an "A" rating for the 2026 cycle. Their words, not mine: an "A" identifies "a staunch pro-gun and pro-hunting candidate, advocating for the Right to Keep and Bear Arms."

I'm grateful for it. But before I say anything else, I want to be straight with you about what that letter is, because I'd rather be plain than impressive.

A rating is not an endorsement

Those are two different things, and folks blur them all the time — sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. A rating is a grade. An endorsement is a group standing up and saying vote for this one. I got the first. I'm not going to dress it up as the second, and if you ever catch me doing it, you have my permission to call and say so.

I'd also rather you hear the distinction from me than from somebody running against me.

What a grade like that actually measures

The way I understand it, a rating like this one comes out of a record. Not a speech, not a mailer, not a photograph of a fellow holding a rifle he borrowed for the afternoon. Votes.

That's the part I'll take some quiet satisfaction in. Because votes happen on ordinary days. They happen in committee rooms at nine in the morning with four people in the gallery and no camera anywhere. Nobody's watching. Nobody's clapping. You just push the button the way you told folks you would, and then you go get lunch.

Do that consistently for long enough and it adds up to something a group like the NRA-PVF can actually measure. You can't talk your way to an "A." You have to have voted your way there, one unremarkable morning at a time.

Why I vote the way I do

I've never thought of the Second Amendment as a debate topic. Out here it's just part of how life works.

It's a family a good twenty minutes from the nearest deputy on a night when twenty minutes is a long time. It's a coyote in the wrong place at the wrong hour. It's a grandfather handing down a shotgun that's been in the family longer than the house has, and standing there while a kid learns to carry it broken open and pointed at the dirt.

That last one matters to me as much as any of it. The right and the responsibility come in the same package. Anybody who's taught a child to shoot knows the first lesson isn't about hitting anything — it's about respect. Where the muzzle points. Whether it's loaded. The answer to that second question is always yes, assume so.

I think that's the piece that gets lost when this argument gets loud on television. In a place like Cherokee County, gun ownership isn't a posture. It's a discipline, and it's usually taught by somebody who loves you.

The part I don't take for granted

A grade from an outfit in Virginia is a nice thing to get. It isn't the thing that matters most.

What matters is whether the people who sent me to Topeka would recognize the fellow who's voting up there. Whether what I said at the coffee shop in February is what I did in March. That's a harder standard than any letter grade, and nobody mails you a certificate for meeting it.

So I'll say thank you for the "A," and then I'll say the thing I'd say anyway: keep me honest. Call the office. Stop me at the fairgrounds. Ask me how I voted and why. The rating is somebody else's opinion of my record. You're the ones who actually own it.

Now — it's late August, and there's more to do outside than in here.

I'll see you over the cattle guard.

— Dale