Guess it's time for me to dust off my passport.
Stephen
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
One of These Days
I shall surprise my lovely wife with this morning view.
She has asked for a Tuscan visit for years.
Guess it's time for me to dust off my passport.
Stephen
Guess it's time for me to dust off my passport.
Stephen
Thanks & Welcome
I'd like to extend a warm welcome and thanks to DaveDog and Mr. Miracle for taking the time to hit my little blue follower button.
My new friends I promise to always answer your comments. It sometimes takes me a few hours, and on rare occasions, days, but I will leave a reply.
If, for some odd reason, I fail to answer please let me know. I'm funny that way.
Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.
Stephen
My new friends I promise to always answer your comments. It sometimes takes me a few hours, and on rare occasions, days, but I will leave a reply.
If, for some odd reason, I fail to answer please let me know. I'm funny that way.
Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.
Stephen
Monday, July 30, 2012
Just An Old Pair of Boots
I'm uncertain what it was that attracted her to our travel trailer. Perhaps it was, in her little mind, a big life-sized doll house. Maybe it was the fact it was locked and not easy for her to open and play inside. Either way, she loved it.
I was never surprised when I'd hear, "Papa, can we please play in the camper?" By 'play' she meant I'd escort her and she'd tell me what to do and when to do it. It wasn't always convenient and many days I just didn't need nor want the hassle. Never the less, I'd play.
I do not remember the last time she asked me to open the trailer - but I still remember her as she stood, pretending as she did, to cook breakfast. I was placed on the bed, just so, and given orders to not move. She stood by the stove and made pretend noise, "Whoosh, there goes the eggs, Papa. They'll be good just like yours, Papa, but I don't have milk stuff or that green stuff like you put in yours, Papa, but you'll like my eggs cause I'm gonna scramble 'em, Papa. Papa, what's that green stuff you put in your eggs?"
"Chives, Honey."
Her little arms swirl and swish as she cooks and then she puts a funny smile on her face as she grabs her imaginary plates and spatula and prepares to serve Papa breakfast in bed at four in the afternoon. With her 'meal' in hand she walks over and climbs into bed, sits and serves me. I liked her eggs. Then,
"Papa."
"Yes."
"See them old boots on the floor. They sure are old, and ugly. Are them your boots, Papa?"
"Yes, Honey, those are Papa's boots."
"Why don't you wear them, Papa? I bet you don't wear them because you have other boots, huh, and cause they're so ugly."
Just an old ugly pair of boots. Purchased so many, many years ago in Long Beach, California when twenty dollars was a huge sum of money and I was young and freshly married and still making adjustments to the real world.
My then love and I had taken a walk. I'm sure the day was sunny, and warm as is normal for southern California, I really can't remember. I do remember the old wooden pier was just a couple blocks away when I noticed the shoe store. It was the Red Wing sign that caught my attention, the dog. An Irish Setter - a Big Red touting boots.
I was in need of boots. A good civilian pair of hunting and work boots. I asked if we could afford a nice set of boots and she replied, yes. She was sweet that way.
"Papa."
I look over and she's sitting with her hands in her lap, a tiny concerned lip-set to her face. "What, Sweetheart."
"Are you okay, Papa?" I said yes. Just thinking. Then, "Papa, do you still wear those ugly boots?"
"Honey, the boots aren't ugly, they're just well used. They've traveled many miles and been worn all over the world. Papa loves those boots, Honey, and I guess I do need to oil them."
For much of the first year the boots were worn only in California. Weekends they accompanied us up into the foothills to places like Arrow Head, or our favorite, Ojai, where we'd spend time in the old bookstore located in an open air market under ancient oaks, the book shelves built for support tree to tree, and just down the street an old Indian sold fresh pine nuts from his roadside stand, and where just around the corner the hippies sold the best homemade oatmeal cookies west of the Divide.
She liked it all, too, and wherever she wanted to walk and shop I went along just to be near her side, to be able to reach over and smell her, to hold her hand. We'd been apart for so long.
"Papa, you're ignoring me. I don't like it when you do that, Papa." I said I was sorry, and we played.
The boots were worn to other places, afterwards. They took me to Idaho on a few bird hunting trips, were scraped and scrubbed by sage and lightly ripped by rocks and brambles. A few times small drips of grouse or quail blood stained their toes but I cared less - added character.
The boots were worn on a few cross country trips. The Irish Setters stepped inside Judge Roy Bean's old store. Splashed along the Pecos river and were soaked in Mississippi mud. Once, in a fit of stupidity we took out across the sands of some Arizona desert. Two hours later they found their way back to my truck. That night in my motel room I spent quite a long time banging sand from my leather friends.
A few months later they took me to Canada where I fought huge stocked rainbow trout in the most beautiful lake I'd yet seen. Then to Alaska where God certainly finished His creations in style. They tracked Elk in fresh snow. Walked behind my old dog, Dixie, as we searched for Ruffed Grouse. My old boots liked to hunt.
"Papa, do you like them old boots more than me?" I remember I reached and took her into my arms. She is so little. I hugged her and told her no, Papa loved her more than anything in the world. Still do.
"Then why are you looking at those ugly old boots and not playing with me?"
"Tell 'ya what. Let's step outside a moment while Papa takes a couple of pictures." She said, "Fine, but then you're playing with me. We're gonna play 'dead woman,' okay...."
For several years the boots helped me climb Six Mile Ridge over on the eastern side of Washington State just outside Winthrop. We'd camp at a local lake where I'd rise just before dawn and pouch trout for breakfast then set out for the ridge as the cry of coyotes bounced thru the thin air. It was always cold. I'd begin my climb to the plateau and reach the top just as the sun peaked its bright light on the far horizon.
I'd take a few minutes to recover at the top. I'd place my pack and rifle aside and sit to sip coffee from my thermos. The view was wonderful. Later, on the far side of the ridge the boots would begin the descent. Two, maybe three soft steps then to stop and listen and watch. Always, we'd finish with a mule deer, quartered, and hung for our return climb.
On our way back to camp we'd stop at the old barn where one was able to drive close and reach and drop a dollar in a box and take a gallon glass jug of freshly pressed apple cider. The cider cold and sweet with bits and pieces of apple-flesh loose inside. Resistance was futile and half would be gone before we'd reach camp and the old canvas tent.
We were so young, so very young.
Not long afterwards my young wife asked if I'd take her to the Badlands. She wanted Black Hills gold. So the boots were tied and they took us to the Dakotas. That was the year we found St. Maries. Afterwards I wanted to move, lock stock and barrel, to Idaho. The boots didn't want to leave. She said no, just like that.
So, the boots walked. They strode Montana. Ambled around Rushmore. Stood silent where Custer killed his men. She got her gold, but the boots remembered and were sad. They never fully recovered.
"Papa."
"Yes, Sweetheart."
"Papa, please can we go back inside and play. Are you okay, cause you seem sad." I told her I was fine. How does one explain.
Time passed. The young wife, and a child, were lost. I wore the boots aimlessly for a few years. Then one morning I rose and made a few calls and placed my home on the market, sold my business then laced up my boots. I packed a few items, mostly firearms and books, and me and my boots drove away.
We drove without destination in mind. Sometimes for hours, or days. We'd stop and walk many paths. I can remember a rocking chair in Montana where I took a seat and propped the boots on a rail and just stared for hours at the mountains. I'd ask, 'should we stay here, or travel.' The boots wanted to leave. In Minnesota they walked away from a campground and a beautiful lady, just kicked sand on the fire and said goodbye.
The boots turned south and then west again and one morning, as they were laced, I watched rabbits nibble grass along a set of railroad tracks outside my motel in Sheridan. The evening before the boots asked me to put the handgun back into its leather. I complied. The boots were restless, so we drove east.
Days later we entered the great state of Tennessee. The nose of my truck insisted we drive further south....the boots, never at rest, wanted to go home. There is life after death.
"Papa."
"Yes, My Love."
"Do you think we should oil the old boots?" She was always able to read my mind. "Yes, Honey, let me find my mink oil."
We sat and gently rubbed the oil into the old dried leather, her little hands a blur. She pushes mine away as I try to help. "I can do it, Papa. You just watch." After a few minutes she asked, "Papa, did you buy these when I was a baby?"
"No, Honey, Papa bought these boots long ago."
"Are they special, Papa?"
I thought about it for a while. Considered my answer. Then, "No, Honey. You are special. They're just a pair of old boots."
We sat them aside.
"I love you, Papa."
I'm sure I answered her with the same. I can't remember for sure, it was a long time ago, now. I haven't unlocked the trailer since.
The old boots sit and wait.
Stephen
I was never surprised when I'd hear, "Papa, can we please play in the camper?" By 'play' she meant I'd escort her and she'd tell me what to do and when to do it. It wasn't always convenient and many days I just didn't need nor want the hassle. Never the less, I'd play.
I do not remember the last time she asked me to open the trailer - but I still remember her as she stood, pretending as she did, to cook breakfast. I was placed on the bed, just so, and given orders to not move. She stood by the stove and made pretend noise, "Whoosh, there goes the eggs, Papa. They'll be good just like yours, Papa, but I don't have milk stuff or that green stuff like you put in yours, Papa, but you'll like my eggs cause I'm gonna scramble 'em, Papa. Papa, what's that green stuff you put in your eggs?"
"Chives, Honey."
Her little arms swirl and swish as she cooks and then she puts a funny smile on her face as she grabs her imaginary plates and spatula and prepares to serve Papa breakfast in bed at four in the afternoon. With her 'meal' in hand she walks over and climbs into bed, sits and serves me. I liked her eggs. Then,
"Papa."
"Yes."
"See them old boots on the floor. They sure are old, and ugly. Are them your boots, Papa?"
"Yes, Honey, those are Papa's boots."
"Why don't you wear them, Papa? I bet you don't wear them because you have other boots, huh, and cause they're so ugly."
Just an old ugly pair of boots. Purchased so many, many years ago in Long Beach, California when twenty dollars was a huge sum of money and I was young and freshly married and still making adjustments to the real world.
I was in need of boots. A good civilian pair of hunting and work boots. I asked if we could afford a nice set of boots and she replied, yes. She was sweet that way.
"Papa."
I look over and she's sitting with her hands in her lap, a tiny concerned lip-set to her face. "What, Sweetheart."
"Are you okay, Papa?" I said yes. Just thinking. Then, "Papa, do you still wear those ugly boots?"
"Honey, the boots aren't ugly, they're just well used. They've traveled many miles and been worn all over the world. Papa loves those boots, Honey, and I guess I do need to oil them."
For much of the first year the boots were worn only in California. Weekends they accompanied us up into the foothills to places like Arrow Head, or our favorite, Ojai, where we'd spend time in the old bookstore located in an open air market under ancient oaks, the book shelves built for support tree to tree, and just down the street an old Indian sold fresh pine nuts from his roadside stand, and where just around the corner the hippies sold the best homemade oatmeal cookies west of the Divide.
She liked it all, too, and wherever she wanted to walk and shop I went along just to be near her side, to be able to reach over and smell her, to hold her hand. We'd been apart for so long.
"Papa, you're ignoring me. I don't like it when you do that, Papa." I said I was sorry, and we played.
The boots were worn to other places, afterwards. They took me to Idaho on a few bird hunting trips, were scraped and scrubbed by sage and lightly ripped by rocks and brambles. A few times small drips of grouse or quail blood stained their toes but I cared less - added character.
The boots were worn on a few cross country trips. The Irish Setters stepped inside Judge Roy Bean's old store. Splashed along the Pecos river and were soaked in Mississippi mud. Once, in a fit of stupidity we took out across the sands of some Arizona desert. Two hours later they found their way back to my truck. That night in my motel room I spent quite a long time banging sand from my leather friends.
A few months later they took me to Canada where I fought huge stocked rainbow trout in the most beautiful lake I'd yet seen. Then to Alaska where God certainly finished His creations in style. They tracked Elk in fresh snow. Walked behind my old dog, Dixie, as we searched for Ruffed Grouse. My old boots liked to hunt.
"Papa, do you like them old boots more than me?" I remember I reached and took her into my arms. She is so little. I hugged her and told her no, Papa loved her more than anything in the world. Still do.
"Then why are you looking at those ugly old boots and not playing with me?"
"Tell 'ya what. Let's step outside a moment while Papa takes a couple of pictures." She said, "Fine, but then you're playing with me. We're gonna play 'dead woman,' okay...."
For several years the boots helped me climb Six Mile Ridge over on the eastern side of Washington State just outside Winthrop. We'd camp at a local lake where I'd rise just before dawn and pouch trout for breakfast then set out for the ridge as the cry of coyotes bounced thru the thin air. It was always cold. I'd begin my climb to the plateau and reach the top just as the sun peaked its bright light on the far horizon.
I'd take a few minutes to recover at the top. I'd place my pack and rifle aside and sit to sip coffee from my thermos. The view was wonderful. Later, on the far side of the ridge the boots would begin the descent. Two, maybe three soft steps then to stop and listen and watch. Always, we'd finish with a mule deer, quartered, and hung for our return climb.
On our way back to camp we'd stop at the old barn where one was able to drive close and reach and drop a dollar in a box and take a gallon glass jug of freshly pressed apple cider. The cider cold and sweet with bits and pieces of apple-flesh loose inside. Resistance was futile and half would be gone before we'd reach camp and the old canvas tent.
We were so young, so very young.
Not long afterwards my young wife asked if I'd take her to the Badlands. She wanted Black Hills gold. So the boots were tied and they took us to the Dakotas. That was the year we found St. Maries. Afterwards I wanted to move, lock stock and barrel, to Idaho. The boots didn't want to leave. She said no, just like that.
So, the boots walked. They strode Montana. Ambled around Rushmore. Stood silent where Custer killed his men. She got her gold, but the boots remembered and were sad. They never fully recovered.
"Papa."
"Yes, Sweetheart."
"Papa, please can we go back inside and play. Are you okay, cause you seem sad." I told her I was fine. How does one explain.
Time passed. The young wife, and a child, were lost. I wore the boots aimlessly for a few years. Then one morning I rose and made a few calls and placed my home on the market, sold my business then laced up my boots. I packed a few items, mostly firearms and books, and me and my boots drove away.
We drove without destination in mind. Sometimes for hours, or days. We'd stop and walk many paths. I can remember a rocking chair in Montana where I took a seat and propped the boots on a rail and just stared for hours at the mountains. I'd ask, 'should we stay here, or travel.' The boots wanted to leave. In Minnesota they walked away from a campground and a beautiful lady, just kicked sand on the fire and said goodbye.
The boots turned south and then west again and one morning, as they were laced, I watched rabbits nibble grass along a set of railroad tracks outside my motel in Sheridan. The evening before the boots asked me to put the handgun back into its leather. I complied. The boots were restless, so we drove east.
Days later we entered the great state of Tennessee. The nose of my truck insisted we drive further south....the boots, never at rest, wanted to go home. There is life after death.
"Papa."
"Yes, My Love."
"Do you think we should oil the old boots?" She was always able to read my mind. "Yes, Honey, let me find my mink oil."
We sat and gently rubbed the oil into the old dried leather, her little hands a blur. She pushes mine away as I try to help. "I can do it, Papa. You just watch." After a few minutes she asked, "Papa, did you buy these when I was a baby?"
"No, Honey, Papa bought these boots long ago."
"Are they special, Papa?"
I thought about it for a while. Considered my answer. Then, "No, Honey. You are special. They're just a pair of old boots."
We sat them aside.
"I love you, Papa."
I'm sure I answered her with the same. I can't remember for sure, it was a long time ago, now. I haven't unlocked the trailer since.
The old boots sit and wait.
Stephen
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Again
And again they try for our rights. Don't be surprised if they succeed.
Read it here.
My only advice for you good folks is to purchase bulk ammunition online while you still have the opportunity. If you lack for a battle rifle get one, because afterwards the price for a basic rifle will triple in value. If you have a gun show in your neck of the woods anytime soon, visit. It's the last bastion of free thinking men and women.
Stephen
Read it here.
My only advice for you good folks is to purchase bulk ammunition online while you still have the opportunity. If you lack for a battle rifle get one, because afterwards the price for a basic rifle will triple in value. If you have a gun show in your neck of the woods anytime soon, visit. It's the last bastion of free thinking men and women.
Stephen
What To Do, What To Do
So many options.
The lower is a Rock River.
Please forgive the spacing between these photos...no matter what I do it won't change.
I understand we're to have thunderstorms this afternoon....guess I should select the bits and pieces and build something. I like old parts.
Later,
Stephen
The lower is a Rock River.
Please forgive the spacing between these photos...no matter what I do it won't change.
I understand we're to have thunderstorms this afternoon....guess I should select the bits and pieces and build something. I like old parts.
Later,
Stephen
Friday, July 27, 2012
Gun Control
Do not allow this to happen. Contact your congresscritter.
Chuck Schumer's backdoor plan.
He wants to ban your high cap magazines and certain ammunition sales....
Stephen
Chuck Schumer's backdoor plan.
Stephen
Tick, tick, tick
As some wise man said, timing is everything. I can either blog or make money. Not both. Work here is wonderful, I'm busy. The coffers need to be filled and I shall not waste this great bounty.
Yesterday I stepped through the door of my shop, flipped the open sign and did not sit down. I missed breakfast and lunch with a smile on my face. The computer was the last thing on my mind....I must make hay while the sun shines.
So, please excuse me while I make a living....
It's as if everyone in town jumped on the phones and said, "Let's all run over to Stephen's."
I promise I shall write a piece as soon as this great business slacks off....promise.
Thank you for your patience.
Stephen
Yesterday I stepped through the door of my shop, flipped the open sign and did not sit down. I missed breakfast and lunch with a smile on my face. The computer was the last thing on my mind....I must make hay while the sun shines.
So, please excuse me while I make a living....
It's as if everyone in town jumped on the phones and said, "Let's all run over to Stephen's."
I promise I shall write a piece as soon as this great business slacks off....promise.
Thank you for your patience.
Stephen
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I'm Here
just very busy. I haven't the time to write, sorry. I suppose I should set aside a few hours each evening and at least try and compose a few pieces for those days when I'm just too busy to post.
Writing, as you well know, is a solitary experience. When the prose begins to flow it only takes the slightest interruption to damn the stream, and then I just wave goodbye to Ms. Muse.
*****
The Colorado shooting sure has set a fire under the membership of the gun culture. Over the course of the last three days, if we are to believe the media, sales of firearms and related items have gone through the roof.
Listen folks, if you are a seasoned Survivalist, then you have your firearms and ammunition stored and ready. Move on. Concentrate your efforts on food. Think about it - you and your family will need far more food than you will firearms and ammunition. You can't eat brass and lead.
Besides, even if by some weird chance the government clamps down on our freedoms and spits on the Constitution and demands you hand over your rifles - will you.
Now if you are new to the world of Survivalist, and to a lesser degree, the prepper movement and you do not own a battle rifle and a box or two of ammunition, then by all means find a cheap SKS or AK clone and a few hundred rounds and stash it away...after you first fill your pantry with beans and rice.
*****
I came across a copy of 'American Terrorist,' the story of Timothy McVeigh. Interesting book. Seems he made his living by selling various items at gun shows. Anyway, if you haven't as yet read the book give it a shot.
Gotta run, later.
Stephen
Writing, as you well know, is a solitary experience. When the prose begins to flow it only takes the slightest interruption to damn the stream, and then I just wave goodbye to Ms. Muse.
*****
The Colorado shooting sure has set a fire under the membership of the gun culture. Over the course of the last three days, if we are to believe the media, sales of firearms and related items have gone through the roof.
Listen folks, if you are a seasoned Survivalist, then you have your firearms and ammunition stored and ready. Move on. Concentrate your efforts on food. Think about it - you and your family will need far more food than you will firearms and ammunition. You can't eat brass and lead.
Besides, even if by some weird chance the government clamps down on our freedoms and spits on the Constitution and demands you hand over your rifles - will you.
Now if you are new to the world of Survivalist, and to a lesser degree, the prepper movement and you do not own a battle rifle and a box or two of ammunition, then by all means find a cheap SKS or AK clone and a few hundred rounds and stash it away...after you first fill your pantry with beans and rice.
*****
I came across a copy of 'American Terrorist,' the story of Timothy McVeigh. Interesting book. Seems he made his living by selling various items at gun shows. Anyway, if you haven't as yet read the book give it a shot.
Gotta run, later.
Stephen
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Bits & Pieces
My friend, Duke, has written a very thought provoking piece this morning. Sally forth and read, then get your skinny butts back here. We Are Headed, part one.
*****
Worked my tail off yesterday. I hit the lawn at 0900 and afterwards, as I dripped sweat, showered and changed and began to run errands. When night fell I was one tired puppy. Then, I cooked dinner. It's nice to be back at 'work.'
*****
Guy walks into my shop this morning and hands me a coin. Its a 100 Italian lira minted in 1965. Said, "Here 'ya go, Stephen. I know you have a thing about silver."
I smiled and said, "Thanks." And, I meant it. Nice guy.
"What 'ya think about it?" I'm pretending to give the coin close scrutiny. "Its great, Bubba, but it isn't silver."
His smile slowly fades. Then, "What the hell do you mean, its not silver."
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"Bubba, I'm sorry. Its a fine gift and I deeply appreciate the thought but it isn't silver. Now, if it were a 500 lira coin then it indeed would contain ninety percent silver."
"Well, kiss my butt. You sure."
I smiled and said, "Yes."
He reached and took back the coin, flipped it a couple of times, then took a long hard look at it. "Then tell me, Mister Know-it-all, what's it made of?"
I placed my magazine on the counter and said, "Stainless Steel."
He gently put the coin back into my hand and turned and walked over and took a seat. Then, "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. I didn't even know they made stainless steel back in those days."
Kids.
*****
I've had to make a few changes to my linked blogs. If you'll take a moment and glace at my right sidebar under 'My Blog List' you'll notice I've had to delete a few old friends. Two or three just quit blogging. One went private and since I wasn't invited to read their blog I ditched it. One or two hadn't written in over five months, so sadly, they too are gone.
I did find a couple of old friends that had switched from Blogger to WordPress, they've been updated with new links.
This isn't personal. If you feel I've mistakenly removed your blog from my list, drop me a line and I'll make corrections.
*****
Hey, when you have the time today drop by my friend, That Guy's, blog and give him a read. He's a nice man. Spread the kindness.
*****
Just for Little Bit.
I miss you, Sweetheart. It's been one month and three weeks since I've held you in my arms. I pray for you every day. Be at peace.
*****
Hey, duty calls. It's once again time for me to be an evil Capitalist and make a few dollars. My coffee maker needs to be cleaned too....
Until then.
Stephen
*****
Worked my tail off yesterday. I hit the lawn at 0900 and afterwards, as I dripped sweat, showered and changed and began to run errands. When night fell I was one tired puppy. Then, I cooked dinner. It's nice to be back at 'work.'
*****
Guy walks into my shop this morning and hands me a coin. Its a 100 Italian lira minted in 1965. Said, "Here 'ya go, Stephen. I know you have a thing about silver."
I smiled and said, "Thanks." And, I meant it. Nice guy.
"What 'ya think about it?" I'm pretending to give the coin close scrutiny. "Its great, Bubba, but it isn't silver."
His smile slowly fades. Then, "What the hell do you mean, its not silver."
"Bubba, I'm sorry. Its a fine gift and I deeply appreciate the thought but it isn't silver. Now, if it were a 500 lira coin then it indeed would contain ninety percent silver."
"Well, kiss my butt. You sure."
I smiled and said, "Yes."
He reached and took back the coin, flipped it a couple of times, then took a long hard look at it. "Then tell me, Mister Know-it-all, what's it made of?"
I placed my magazine on the counter and said, "Stainless Steel."
He gently put the coin back into my hand and turned and walked over and took a seat. Then, "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. I didn't even know they made stainless steel back in those days."
Kids.
*****
I've had to make a few changes to my linked blogs. If you'll take a moment and glace at my right sidebar under 'My Blog List' you'll notice I've had to delete a few old friends. Two or three just quit blogging. One went private and since I wasn't invited to read their blog I ditched it. One or two hadn't written in over five months, so sadly, they too are gone.
I did find a couple of old friends that had switched from Blogger to WordPress, they've been updated with new links.
This isn't personal. If you feel I've mistakenly removed your blog from my list, drop me a line and I'll make corrections.
*****
Hey, when you have the time today drop by my friend, That Guy's, blog and give him a read. He's a nice man. Spread the kindness.
*****
I miss you, Sweetheart. It's been one month and three weeks since I've held you in my arms. I pray for you every day. Be at peace.
*****
Hey, duty calls. It's once again time for me to be an evil Capitalist and make a few dollars. My coffee maker needs to be cleaned too....
Until then.
Stephen
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Well, Perhaps To A Fudd
that Colorado idiots ammunition supply was 'mind boggling' but to a shooter he was nothing more than a slacker, or a Fudd.
Just read the following headline on the Drudge Report:
Sure, they're people that believe a twenty or fifty round box of ammunition is sufficient for their lifestyle. Hunters just prior to buck season, that will head to the range and fire three rounds and call it good. Then climb their tree stands, and if they're lucky, get a shot off climb down and yell, "See you next season, Mr. Buck." For a Fudd a twenty round box of thirty-thirty could conceivably last them the rest of their lives.
I believe the news media printed he had six thousand rounds. To a shooter, like me or my friends, six thousand rounds makes you a slacker. I'm sure some liberal weenie just read the last line and has her thong in a bunch, but I don't give a damn. Six thousand rounds says to me you're goofing off. I can hit the range and fire Mr. Fudd's fifty round box in under thirty seconds.
Guess what, I too have purchased from BulkAmmo.com, wonder if this makes me a criminal too. I guess the lib's next target will be to slap bans and regulate access to our on-line ammunition purchases. They'll try at least.
I said, even made a vow, I'd not get into this debate, and here I've made a liar of myself.
The guy's mind is twisted, he's sick. It's not the amount of ammunition you own that makes you a walking zombie with a desire to kill, it's those little voices inside your mind. Seek help.
Stephen
Just read the following headline on the Drudge Report:
'mind-boggling' stash of ammunition in killer's lair.
Sure, they're people that believe a twenty or fifty round box of ammunition is sufficient for their lifestyle. Hunters just prior to buck season, that will head to the range and fire three rounds and call it good. Then climb their tree stands, and if they're lucky, get a shot off climb down and yell, "See you next season, Mr. Buck." For a Fudd a twenty round box of thirty-thirty could conceivably last them the rest of their lives.
Guess what, I too have purchased from BulkAmmo.com, wonder if this makes me a criminal too. I guess the lib's next target will be to slap bans and regulate access to our on-line ammunition purchases. They'll try at least.
I said, even made a vow, I'd not get into this debate, and here I've made a liar of myself.
The guy's mind is twisted, he's sick. It's not the amount of ammunition you own that makes you a walking zombie with a desire to kill, it's those little voices inside your mind. Seek help.
Stephen
Sunday Morning, Church & Fried Chicken
Before I begin with my ramble I have a request; will the person that clicked my blue follower button yesterday (or the day before) please give me your name. I'd like to properly thank you.
*****
Now, as you well know my blog has suffered of late. Our life has become hectic and busy and filled with anxiety, and to a degree, sorrow. My writing has had to take a place far in the background of my daily life, and for this I do apologize.
Sweet Wife has a bad case of butt dragging depression. I have asked her to seek medical help. She turns to her Bible, which is fine, but I feel it lacks the proper support I know she badly needs. Enough.
*****
Now, as you well know my blog has suffered of late. Our life has become hectic and busy and filled with anxiety, and to a degree, sorrow. My writing has had to take a place far in the background of my daily life, and for this I do apologize.
Sweet Wife has a bad case of butt dragging depression. I have asked her to seek medical help. She turns to her Bible, which is fine, but I feel it lacks the proper support I know she badly needs. Enough.
She came into the family room this morning and asked if I'd attend church with her. She had spoken to a close friend this week and the friend had recommended a local Methodist church located in the university district not far from our home. She asked and then said, please.
I'm not a church man. I don't like to attend church. Please understand the Good Lord and I are close friends. I believe in God and I hope the Lord believes in me. I'm fairly certain if Christ were to honor me with His presence we'd both sit and share a fine cigar and either a glass of wine or a good stiff brandy. I'm sure we'd discuss art, literature, world affairs, the sorry state of our nation, and of course, fine firearms. Without a doubt the good Lord appreciates the finer aspects of well bred bird dogs, and loves the quick rise of a covey of quail on a cold November morning.
We'd share our thoughts as to why Gertrude Stein insisted Hemingway's 'Up In Michigan' too crude for publication, and why she was wrong. Why gold and silver should replace our current monetary system. God is, after all, one cool dude, and we like each the other.
Please understand I have nothing against churches. If you attend your local church and it helps you deal with life, then bless you, and please continue. My Sweet Wife loves church, and church life. Its not for me. Church was a creation of man, not God. Please, don't argue with me. It's my viewpoint and nothing more. Remember, it is written, where two or more are gathered. Church is where you are located, not where you attend.
I do like physical church buildings, its architecture. Church's, for the most part, are beautiful. Cathedrals are by far so marvelous as to be out-worldly gracious and spiritually inspirational. I'll walk into a cathedral in a heartbeat just to light a candle. That, is church to me. Not the gathering of kindred souls for social reasons, or to hear a preacher spout a sermon, or to shack hands with my neighbors. Church for me are those quiet moments of grace where I ask my Lord to give me peace. Moments of such are rare indeed.
So, Sweet Wife stood before me, all lovely and very lady like in her Sunday morning dress with a tiny smile on her face and asked if I'd please attend with her. I am given thirty minutes to shower, shave, and dress.
I can't say, no. I jump and within twenty minutes have my jacket in one hand, my handgun in the other and we're in the car and backing out of the garage. We arrived as the two little girls walk down the aisle with candles in hand. Cute. We take a place on a rear pew. Then stand and she sings. I observe. I count three men besides myself with ties. One is the minister and he doesn't wear a jacket. Suits are passe.
The other men are dressed as if for a day at the fish market. Class tells. Listen, I don't give a damn how hot the weather, nor how cold. You are in attendance in the house of God. Show some class.
*****
For some time now, on my way home each evening I pass a restaurant. It only recently opened. Its called Cleoda's. The sign reads, 'Southern American Cuisine.' Each time I pass this new place the parking lots are filled. Well, well.
This morning after church I asked my lovely bride where she'd like to eat lunch. She didn't care so I drove to Cleoda's.
We had a jump on the Baptist - when those good folks are released they're not unlike a wave of locust descending on a field of corn. We beat them by thirty minutes. We parked and were met inside Cleoda's by a nice elderly lady and given a window booth. I was pleasantly surprised. Jazz themed art covered the walls. The wait staff were helpful and kind. I noticed a sign, 'We serve soul.' Well hell, why not.
Our waiter came over and said Sunday was family dinner day. We had our choice of two meats. Then we each were to agree on three vegetables and side dishes which we'd each share. The list was long. We chose fried chicken, and smothered pork chops, with mashed potatoes, greens, and butter beans. Gravy.
The food was excellent. The fried chicken was the best I've eaten since, well, I cooked it last. The pork chops were wonderful and reminded me of my late mother's Sunday dinners. I sucked the bones. My only criticism was the lack of homemade biscuits or cornbread. They served out of the package yeast rolls. The iced-tea was excellent.
When our meal was finished our young waiter asked if we'd like desert. I glanced over the menu and selected bread pudding with bourbon sauce and told him to make it to go....so, if you'll excuse me I think I'll give it a try.
I'll save you a bite.
Stephen
Friday, July 20, 2012
Just A Tip
If, you have AVG Security and it sends out an expiration date and states it's time to renew your license, do not click on the renew button. Instead use Google and search for their main site and renew there.
Trust me.
I just spent close to two hundred dollars in tech fees, and several hours, to get my computer back to normal.
Irony, when your computer catches a virus from the program which claims to protect you from such events.
Stephen
Trust me.
I just spent close to two hundred dollars in tech fees, and several hours, to get my computer back to normal.
Irony, when your computer catches a virus from the program which claims to protect you from such events.
Stephen
Thursday, July 19, 2012
When I'm Bored
Here at the shop I do one of several chores to keep myself busy and alert. I dust and clean the shop - a daily routine, or the ever present paper work. When these small task are completed and all else fails, and when I'm alone and I'm sure I'll not be caught in the act, I nap. Really though I'd prefer to read. But, if I'm not in the mood to read there is always Netflix, but to tell you the truth their selection of movies is extremely limited, at least for my taste.
Many days I'll simply grab my portable phone and take a walk around the building. The promise of found treasure gives me an excuse to scour the parking lot for dropped change, pennies mostly, which I take home and drop into Little Bit's silver fund.
To tell you the truth my favorite time killer is to simply break out my handgun cleaning kits and purge away the grim and dust from my firearm. Recently, while browsing Gander Mountain, I came across a neat compact unit. Its the Kleenbore Pockit.
I know, fuzzy terrible picture but I'm not in the same class as Brigid.
When I came across these neat little plastic bundles I thought what a great item for my Get Home Bag. Just select the caliber of your daily carry piece. I grabbed both 9x19 and .45 caliber. I should have and will buy another in .40 caliber.
Each kit, obviously, is self-contained. Grab a bottle of Breakfree and you're set to clean anywhere anytime.
Simply unscrew the cap and the cleaning rod, bore brush, and other attachments drop free. See the red button, just snap in the cleaning rod and it locks into place.
Slick little unit. I tucked mine in a plastic bag with a handful of cleaning patches and a shop towel, along with a four ounce bottle of Breakfree, and dropped it into my satchel. Since I have a weird habit of switching out my carry piece I keep both the nine mil and the forty-five PocKits with me at all times.
Just never know when you're gonna get bored. Oh, they're not expensive...if I remember correctly each retails for less than twenty bucks. Here, check it out.
For your entertainment here's a video review of the PocKit.
Stephen
Many days I'll simply grab my portable phone and take a walk around the building. The promise of found treasure gives me an excuse to scour the parking lot for dropped change, pennies mostly, which I take home and drop into Little Bit's silver fund.
To tell you the truth my favorite time killer is to simply break out my handgun cleaning kits and purge away the grim and dust from my firearm. Recently, while browsing Gander Mountain, I came across a neat compact unit. Its the Kleenbore Pockit.
I know, fuzzy terrible picture but I'm not in the same class as Brigid.
When I came across these neat little plastic bundles I thought what a great item for my Get Home Bag. Just select the caliber of your daily carry piece. I grabbed both 9x19 and .45 caliber. I should have and will buy another in .40 caliber.
Each kit, obviously, is self-contained. Grab a bottle of Breakfree and you're set to clean anywhere anytime.
Simply unscrew the cap and the cleaning rod, bore brush, and other attachments drop free. See the red button, just snap in the cleaning rod and it locks into place.
Slick little unit. I tucked mine in a plastic bag with a handful of cleaning patches and a shop towel, along with a four ounce bottle of Breakfree, and dropped it into my satchel. Since I have a weird habit of switching out my carry piece I keep both the nine mil and the forty-five PocKits with me at all times.
Just never know when you're gonna get bored. Oh, they're not expensive...if I remember correctly each retails for less than twenty bucks. Here, check it out.
For your entertainment here's a video review of the PocKit.
Stephen
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
It's Morning
And my coffee is hot and I feel fine. Been kinda busy around here for the last two days. We accomplished, a bit. At least progress has been made on many fronts.
*****
I can't decide if I'll visit the gun show this weekend. The thought of it beckons, thing is I just can't afford to waste money. Sure, I can dig into my savings but I'd have nightmares for a week if I spent one lousy dollar. Repeat after me - a need and a want.
It is truly amazing I haven't shot someone this week. Late yesterday I had a long hard drive in city traffic. I drove as a thunderstorm pounded the city senseless. Round trip, the drive took me forty-five minutes one way. Remember, city traffic.
I didn't keep count but I swear I must have been cut off at least ten times. Close encounters. Chrome scrapers. Liberals with cell phones stuck to their little bitty ears. Obama bumper stickers.
I'm a man of discipline, but I swear my patience wears thin....
My lovely friend, DFW, is on her way to San Francisco. Yesterday, I think, she asked readers for tips, advice, for those places the average tourist would never visit. I didn't comment and it's bugged me. So, my dear, try City Lights Bookstore. Its still in business, to my surprise.
One of my all time favorite bars was the old Albatross Saloon. They tagged a bar stool in my honor. Spent many an hour in the joint nursing one of their martinis, three olives. Once upon a time, if memory serves me, Jack Dempsey was employed as a bouncer. Like I said, it was many years ago. I lived across the Bay and drove over every weekend. My little one room apartment was a lonely place.
The door bells rings. Guess I should walk out and become a capitalist. I'll see you nice folks later.
Stephen
*****
I can't decide if I'll visit the gun show this weekend. The thought of it beckons, thing is I just can't afford to waste money. Sure, I can dig into my savings but I'd have nightmares for a week if I spent one lousy dollar. Repeat after me - a need and a want.
It is truly amazing I haven't shot someone this week. Late yesterday I had a long hard drive in city traffic. I drove as a thunderstorm pounded the city senseless. Round trip, the drive took me forty-five minutes one way. Remember, city traffic.
I didn't keep count but I swear I must have been cut off at least ten times. Close encounters. Chrome scrapers. Liberals with cell phones stuck to their little bitty ears. Obama bumper stickers.
I'm a man of discipline, but I swear my patience wears thin....
My lovely friend, DFW, is on her way to San Francisco. Yesterday, I think, she asked readers for tips, advice, for those places the average tourist would never visit. I didn't comment and it's bugged me. So, my dear, try City Lights Bookstore. Its still in business, to my surprise.
One of my all time favorite bars was the old Albatross Saloon. They tagged a bar stool in my honor. Spent many an hour in the joint nursing one of their martinis, three olives. Once upon a time, if memory serves me, Jack Dempsey was employed as a bouncer. Like I said, it was many years ago. I lived across the Bay and drove over every weekend. My little one room apartment was a lonely place.
The door bells rings. Guess I should walk out and become a capitalist. I'll see you nice folks later.
Stephen
Monday, July 16, 2012
A Day of Adventure
Sweet Wife should be home within the hour. She called ahead and told me to, in her words, "Clean up and make yourself presentable before I get home."
I said, "Yes dear."
We shall sally forth for a day of adventure. Business and legal related stuff unfortunately. Birth Mother has sneaked her way back into our lives, and since she's our only hope, we shall make all attempts to get her life back on track. She has issues.
This is my way of saying, there is hope.
Not sure when I shall return today, but I'll try and update when possible.
Keep your fingers crossed and if you're so inclined, whisper a prayer for us.
Stephen
I said, "Yes dear."
We shall sally forth for a day of adventure. Business and legal related stuff unfortunately. Birth Mother has sneaked her way back into our lives, and since she's our only hope, we shall make all attempts to get her life back on track. She has issues.
Not sure when I shall return today, but I'll try and update when possible.
Keep your fingers crossed and if you're so inclined, whisper a prayer for us.
Stephen
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Bits and Pieces
This is the fourth day I've been without the company of my lovely Sweet Wife. Sure is quiet around here. She should be home tomorrow. Since her departure I've lost myself in books.
*****
I've made great progress on the rusty ammunition. I still have a few pieces of the 7.62x39 left then will move on to the 9x19.
*****
I lost my oldest Rosemary plant to the flood. Ticks me off. I'm down to one plant. I was out in the yard yesterday and found it dead. Rosemary hates wet roots. I love to cook as much as I love to shoot, so I view this loss like the thief of a favorite rifle.
Since I've mentioned rifles I need to break open the gunsafe and clean my M1A and take her out to the range and strain her barrel. I've haven't fired her in quite a long time. I'm certain she misses me.
*****
I hear rain. Its a soothing sound on an early Sunday morning. Here I am with a good cup of coffee, my Sunday newspaper, and a very quiet house, and the gentle sound of rain. Perfect if you're a hermit. I can even hear my stomach growl. Guess I should eat breakfast.
Back in the day my mother always made the same breakfast. Bacon and eggs served with grits, and if we were very lucky, redeye gravy and biscuits the size of your fist. Those biscuits were flaky and soft as an angles breast, and I'd drench mine with butter. I'd cut my biscuit in half and place two slices of folded bacon in the middle.
Lord I miss her. I haven't eaten a decent breakfast since I was seventeen years old.
When I was about twelve I'd fantasize I was a cowboy with a saddlebag filled with my mother's bacon biscuits and a canteen of sweet iced-tea. This childhood dream always ended with me riding down that lonely western trail with a grin of happiness. I mean, what cowboy wouldn't be happy with a saddlebag filled with bacon and biscuits as his pony trotted towards adventure.
*****
I read in the paper this morning that the author, James Lee Burke, has just published a new novel, Creole Belle. I haven't read a Burke novel in quite a long time and think I'll order this one in hardcover. I've mentioned before, on this blog, I'm not a fan of his politics but I do like and enjoy his writing style.
He's the best prose stylist this country has seen in many years. Just an FYI.
*****
Next weekend we have a gunshow in town. One of my friends asked if I'd attend. Not sure. I'd like to but he forgets I must work for a living and my shop is open on Saturdays, the best day in my humble opinion, to attend the show. Then again, I might sneak down on Sunday. Deals are to be had on Sunday it's just the good stuff has been sold.
Besides, I always spend far too much cash when I attend. I always walk the show with little things in mind, like spare parts, or books.
I collect the works of Ragnar Benson. Gunshows are great places to fill any hole in your Benson collection. He appeals to those of us in the gun culture. If you haven't read his books, well, shucks, I feel sorry for you. He's not the best writer in the world but when your books are banned in California and other liberal jackass states you must be doing something right to piss off the government wussies.
As I've said, many of his books have been banned and many are out of print. His early works were published in low numbers and as a result demand high prices. I have many holes in my Benson collection. Then again I've duplicate copies too so if any of you out there have this habit and own a few Benson books and need one - give me a yell and we'll swap.
I had a guy once tell me he's deathly afraid to have any copy of Ragnar's books in his home, mostly due to the subject matter. I asked him to leave my presence. I don't suffer fools easily.
Anyway, if you're man enough, find a copy and spend an afternoon with a real man. Any of his books will do to bring you back into the club.
Later.
Stephen
*****
I've made great progress on the rusty ammunition. I still have a few pieces of the 7.62x39 left then will move on to the 9x19.
*****
I lost my oldest Rosemary plant to the flood. Ticks me off. I'm down to one plant. I was out in the yard yesterday and found it dead. Rosemary hates wet roots. I love to cook as much as I love to shoot, so I view this loss like the thief of a favorite rifle.
Since I've mentioned rifles I need to break open the gunsafe and clean my M1A and take her out to the range and strain her barrel. I've haven't fired her in quite a long time. I'm certain she misses me.
*****
I hear rain. Its a soothing sound on an early Sunday morning. Here I am with a good cup of coffee, my Sunday newspaper, and a very quiet house, and the gentle sound of rain. Perfect if you're a hermit. I can even hear my stomach growl. Guess I should eat breakfast.
Back in the day my mother always made the same breakfast. Bacon and eggs served with grits, and if we were very lucky, redeye gravy and biscuits the size of your fist. Those biscuits were flaky and soft as an angles breast, and I'd drench mine with butter. I'd cut my biscuit in half and place two slices of folded bacon in the middle.
Lord I miss her. I haven't eaten a decent breakfast since I was seventeen years old.
When I was about twelve I'd fantasize I was a cowboy with a saddlebag filled with my mother's bacon biscuits and a canteen of sweet iced-tea. This childhood dream always ended with me riding down that lonely western trail with a grin of happiness. I mean, what cowboy wouldn't be happy with a saddlebag filled with bacon and biscuits as his pony trotted towards adventure.
I read in the paper this morning that the author, James Lee Burke, has just published a new novel, Creole Belle. I haven't read a Burke novel in quite a long time and think I'll order this one in hardcover. I've mentioned before, on this blog, I'm not a fan of his politics but I do like and enjoy his writing style.
He's the best prose stylist this country has seen in many years. Just an FYI.
*****
Next weekend we have a gunshow in town. One of my friends asked if I'd attend. Not sure. I'd like to but he forgets I must work for a living and my shop is open on Saturdays, the best day in my humble opinion, to attend the show. Then again, I might sneak down on Sunday. Deals are to be had on Sunday it's just the good stuff has been sold.
Besides, I always spend far too much cash when I attend. I always walk the show with little things in mind, like spare parts, or books.
I collect the works of Ragnar Benson. Gunshows are great places to fill any hole in your Benson collection. He appeals to those of us in the gun culture. If you haven't read his books, well, shucks, I feel sorry for you. He's not the best writer in the world but when your books are banned in California and other liberal jackass states you must be doing something right to piss off the government wussies.
As I've said, many of his books have been banned and many are out of print. His early works were published in low numbers and as a result demand high prices. I have many holes in my Benson collection. Then again I've duplicate copies too so if any of you out there have this habit and own a few Benson books and need one - give me a yell and we'll swap.
I had a guy once tell me he's deathly afraid to have any copy of Ragnar's books in his home, mostly due to the subject matter. I asked him to leave my presence. I don't suffer fools easily.
Anyway, if you're man enough, find a copy and spend an afternoon with a real man. Any of his books will do to bring you back into the club.
Later.
Stephen
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Thanks and Welcome
To my new friend and follower, Rick. My friend I promise to always answer your comments. As I've said many times before it might take me a few hours and in rare cases days but please be assured I will answer. If I miss your comment, let me know.
Now, let's take a walk down the trail together.
Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.
Stephen
Now, let's take a walk down the trail together.
Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.
Stephen
Friday, July 13, 2012
Concerning Events In A Little Country Cemetery
My life is hectic and my writing has suffered because of it. Please be patient with me. I'll explain soon.
In the meantime I read a story this morning written by an old friend. We were, once upon a time, very close. Then one day we had words. It wasn't pretty, and as a result of the words thrown each at the other, our friendship was torn beyond repair. We haven't spoken since that fateful day. None the less on those rare occasions when he writes I continue to read his blog.
I respect, for the most part, his views.
Anyway, if you have a few minutes read this.
I'm sure the link will shock the heck out of him. He believes I hate his guts. I don't.
After all, once upon a time he was my friend.
Stephen
In the meantime I read a story this morning written by an old friend. We were, once upon a time, very close. Then one day we had words. It wasn't pretty, and as a result of the words thrown each at the other, our friendship was torn beyond repair. We haven't spoken since that fateful day. None the less on those rare occasions when he writes I continue to read his blog.
I respect, for the most part, his views.
Anyway, if you have a few minutes read this.
I'm sure the link will shock the heck out of him. He believes I hate his guts. I don't.
After all, once upon a time he was my friend.
Stephen
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Bits and Pieces
It is extremely hot and humid here this morning. These hot and damp days are perfect for breeding blood suckers. When either of us return home and hit the garage door the mosquitoes fill the area before its shut.
Last night I went out to my reloading bench, which is located in the garage, to change the rusty rounds I had in my brass polisher. I was covered in mosquitoes within seconds. Mosquitoes remind me very much of democrats. Both are blood sucking parasites.
*****
I shall play bachelor this weekend. Sweet Wife leaves tomorrow evening for a very long weekend in South Carolina. We have a niece determined to ruin her life. She plans to wed a fairly nice young man, a missionary of the Baptist faith. My niece just recently returned from a life in France. I'm sure it softened her brain, hence the wedding.
Oh well. I hope their lives together are filled with happiness and wealth.
I will miss Sweet Wife. The next few nights will be very quiet in my home. It's a good thing I just received a three DVD boxed set of the movie, John Adams. I wanted to watch the movie over Independence Day weekend but my order didn't arrive in time.
So this weekend, in the quiet of the night, I shall set my books aside and be entertained with the richness of our countries forefathers and their fight for our independence.
.jpg)
*****
The old timer came in and with a heavy sigh and took a seat. He squirmed around a bit, shifted this way and that, adjusted his trouser legs, retied his boots.
I waited.
"You know, Stephen, this damn country has gone to pot."
Me, "Sure has."
"Are you aware these damn kids," his waves his arms as if to encompass the whole of them, "can't even read and write?"
"I know." I'm brief like that while engaged in conversation.
He continues, "And, it's that damn Obama's fault."
"Yes Sir."
"You don't talk much do you."
I chuckled, said, "Not when I'm listening."
"Good. Can't abide a smart ass or a man that just runs his mouth all damn day."
He's seventy-six, give or take a year.
I nod, said, "Neither can I."
Then, "Okay, now here's the big one. What do you think about that Yankee, Romney?"
"Not much to tell you the truth."
The old man rubs his belly, checks his fingernails and then gives me a very stern look - you know, like an old man about to lecture your butt. "You're a dumb-ass, you know it." Like that....
I only allow old men and women to speak to me in this manner. So, I said, "Yes Sir, I am."
He smiled. "Stephen, you are aware he's the only man we have to replace that Arab in the White House."
The old man had to raise his voice as I'd moved back into my office to pour my tenth cup of coffee. I yelled back, "I am aware of that fact. What's your point?"
Out of left field, "You have any new used guns for sale?"
"No, not today." He mumbled. Then, "What the hell is wrong with you. You're acting awful strange."
"Nothing, just a lot on my mind." I'm still in the back where I stand at my office window and watch a squirrel as it climbs a tree.
I hate politics.
The old man stands and walks inside the office. I offer him a cup of coffee and he takes one of my spare cups into the restroom and gives it a good wash, returns and pours.
Then, "Well, answer my question. Do you not believe he's better than Obama?"
I turn to the old fella and place a hand on his shoulder - Its bony, his skin loose under his shirt. I like him, but not today.
"Bubba," I say, "At this point in time I'd be willing to vote for a yellow dog over our current president."
.jpg)
The old man slams down his cup, walks back through the shop and out the door. Didn't even say good-bye.
Some days are like that around here.
*****
Think I'll change the channel on the shop's television and catch a few minutes of the Tour de France. Its the only sporting event I like and watch. You can keep your football, compared to the bike riders in this event football players are a bunch of wussies. Baseball, boring. Basketball players, give me a break. Put them all on a bike and tell them to ride flat out for a hundred and twenty miles, much of it uphill, and see how long they last.
Besides, I like the shots of the French countryside. Its a beautiful place, even if its people are a bunch of Socialist.
Later.
Stephen
Last night I went out to my reloading bench, which is located in the garage, to change the rusty rounds I had in my brass polisher. I was covered in mosquitoes within seconds. Mosquitoes remind me very much of democrats. Both are blood sucking parasites.
*****
I shall play bachelor this weekend. Sweet Wife leaves tomorrow evening for a very long weekend in South Carolina. We have a niece determined to ruin her life. She plans to wed a fairly nice young man, a missionary of the Baptist faith. My niece just recently returned from a life in France. I'm sure it softened her brain, hence the wedding.
Oh well. I hope their lives together are filled with happiness and wealth.
I will miss Sweet Wife. The next few nights will be very quiet in my home. It's a good thing I just received a three DVD boxed set of the movie, John Adams. I wanted to watch the movie over Independence Day weekend but my order didn't arrive in time.
So this weekend, in the quiet of the night, I shall set my books aside and be entertained with the richness of our countries forefathers and their fight for our independence.
*****
The old timer came in and with a heavy sigh and took a seat. He squirmed around a bit, shifted this way and that, adjusted his trouser legs, retied his boots.
I waited.
"You know, Stephen, this damn country has gone to pot."
Me, "Sure has."
"Are you aware these damn kids," his waves his arms as if to encompass the whole of them, "can't even read and write?"
"I know." I'm brief like that while engaged in conversation.
He continues, "And, it's that damn Obama's fault."
"Yes Sir."
"You don't talk much do you."
I chuckled, said, "Not when I'm listening."
"Good. Can't abide a smart ass or a man that just runs his mouth all damn day."
He's seventy-six, give or take a year.
I nod, said, "Neither can I."
Then, "Okay, now here's the big one. What do you think about that Yankee, Romney?"
"Not much to tell you the truth."
The old man rubs his belly, checks his fingernails and then gives me a very stern look - you know, like an old man about to lecture your butt. "You're a dumb-ass, you know it." Like that....
I only allow old men and women to speak to me in this manner. So, I said, "Yes Sir, I am."
He smiled. "Stephen, you are aware he's the only man we have to replace that Arab in the White House."
The old man had to raise his voice as I'd moved back into my office to pour my tenth cup of coffee. I yelled back, "I am aware of that fact. What's your point?"
Out of left field, "You have any new used guns for sale?"
"No, not today." He mumbled. Then, "What the hell is wrong with you. You're acting awful strange."
"Nothing, just a lot on my mind." I'm still in the back where I stand at my office window and watch a squirrel as it climbs a tree.
I hate politics.
The old man stands and walks inside the office. I offer him a cup of coffee and he takes one of my spare cups into the restroom and gives it a good wash, returns and pours.
Then, "Well, answer my question. Do you not believe he's better than Obama?"
I turn to the old fella and place a hand on his shoulder - Its bony, his skin loose under his shirt. I like him, but not today.
"Bubba," I say, "At this point in time I'd be willing to vote for a yellow dog over our current president."
The old man slams down his cup, walks back through the shop and out the door. Didn't even say good-bye.
Some days are like that around here.
*****
Think I'll change the channel on the shop's television and catch a few minutes of the Tour de France. Its the only sporting event I like and watch. You can keep your football, compared to the bike riders in this event football players are a bunch of wussies. Baseball, boring. Basketball players, give me a break. Put them all on a bike and tell them to ride flat out for a hundred and twenty miles, much of it uphill, and see how long they last.
Besides, I like the shots of the French countryside. Its a beautiful place, even if its people are a bunch of Socialist.
Later.
Stephen
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
A Long Day
Sorry for the lack of post today. I've had a long and tiring day. My mind is numb. I'll try and write something tomorrow.
Until then.
Stephen
Until then.
Stephen
Monday, July 9, 2012
Work Day
It's my day off so I guess I'll work. The grass needs a cut and I've ammunition to polish and pack, and I should pull out the a/c filter and give it a good bath.
Last night around 2300 while reloading my brass polisher I noticed a regiment of mosquitoes had taken residence in my garage. Two or three had packs strapped to their backs and upon closer observation those packs appeared to be transfusion units - little IV bottles and tubes.
Just think what it'll be like when I walk outside....
See you good folks later.
Stephen
Last night around 2300 while reloading my brass polisher I noticed a regiment of mosquitoes had taken residence in my garage. Two or three had packs strapped to their backs and upon closer observation those packs appeared to be transfusion units - little IV bottles and tubes.
Just think what it'll be like when I walk outside....
See you good folks later.
Stephen
Sunday, July 8, 2012
I'm Ticked Off
Because it seems I'll miss season three of The Walking Dead on AMC. Seems Dish Network, my satellite provider has its panties in a knot over AMC's add asking Dish customers to drop the Dish Network. It's nothing more than a fight over fees.
Shucks. I like zombie movies and this was a good one. Guess I'll wait and watch it on DVD. If I didn't hate cable so much I'd cancel Dish.
Stephen
Stephen