The coffee is hot so pull out a chair and lets sit and chat a while.
Stephen
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Welcome, and Thanks
To my new friend and follower, NightSky.
The coffee is hot so pull out a chair and lets sit and chat a while.
Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.
Stephen
The coffee is hot so pull out a chair and lets sit and chat a while.
Stephen
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
The Price
Of precious metals has rallied. If you missed the recent dip in sliver, wait. Or, dollar cost average and purchase a bit each month.
The asking price of gold is beyond me. If I recall my very first purchase, in bullion form, the cost to me was a whopping thirty-six dollars, and back in the early to mid eighties, thirty-six dollars was a whole bunch of cash to a poor fella like me.
A pocket filled with the smooth heft of silver gives great comfort to those of us leery of our nation's fiat currency.
Stephen
The asking price of gold is beyond me. If I recall my very first purchase, in bullion form, the cost to me was a whopping thirty-six dollars, and back in the early to mid eighties, thirty-six dollars was a whole bunch of cash to a poor fella like me.
Stephen
Monday, June 23, 2014
Cobbler
She just flew out the door after a quick, "Back soon." Seeing as how I just became the new owner of a fine batch of Georgia peaches, sweet bundles of pure joy, and since I know good and well she'll be at Walgreen's for at least two hours I jumped and whipped out a fresh peach cobbler.
Y'all can wipe the drool and just do without...
I built this beauty in about twenty minutes. Its still in the oven. Didn't use any one recipe so haven't one to post or link. So if you Google someone's 'this is the perfect' scribbling remember to substitute a half cup of cream instead of one cup of whole milk. Cut back on the granulated sugar by a quarter and please, for the love of all things Holy, use a good grade of light brown sugar and real vanilla.
If you tend to throw a scoop of ice cream on the dish...make sure the cream really came from the working end of a cow. The label 'light' is so darn metrosexual.
Hope she's surprised...
Later,
Stephen
Y'all can wipe the drool and just do without...
If you tend to throw a scoop of ice cream on the dish...make sure the cream really came from the working end of a cow. The label 'light' is so darn metrosexual.
Hope she's surprised...
Later,
Stephen
Tick-Tock
Earlier this evening as I stood in the kitchen I heard a strange sound, steady beat, rhythmic even, and at first had a heck of a time tracing its source. I finally tracked this strangeness to our living room.
We have on the fireplace mantle an old clock, a wedding gift from a relative some thirty odd years ago. Its a Sessions, manufactured early in the twentieth century. Nice old piece, and here's the strange part...it hasn't hit a lick in over thirty years. Hasn't been cleaned nor oiled properly since the day it came into our lives. We'd thought the old girl was just flat-assed broke.
Until late last evening when out of nowhere it began to tick-tock all on its own.
Yelled for the wife. She freaked, "Why is it working?"
"It's a sign from God."
She didn't like my answer and instead said, "What did you do to it?" I made a few of those spooky noises, then, "Nothing. It's the end times."
She went to bed.
I'm still wide awake. The old clock just chimed 0300. Perhaps I should say a little prayer. Couldn't hurt.
This is indeed spooky stuff.
(Insert Boris Karloff movie soundtrack here.)
*****
Yesterday was her birthday. She's twenty-two. Still cute as a button.
After Sunday services she requested a day in St. Augustine. We arrived and duly paid our ten dollar parking ripoff tax fee and strolled the ancient city.
Since she hadn't eaten all day we hit a local tourist trap for lunch. Took almost three hours...serious here, three hours. Back outside we find severe thunderstorms. Hard rain. Ducked into a store. Rain continues. We wait.
Still, she smiles. Said she was happy. Rain slacks a bit. We hit a coffee shop to wait, and I of course, over indulge with a pecan sticky roll and a mug of java. Outside a lightning strike fries a tourist into ashes. Heavy rain spoils another visitors hundred dollar cigar and the ponies refuse to pull the sunburned down the cobble stoned streets. I just smiled and sipped my coffee.
She took my hand and set a course towards that ten dollar parking spot.
Anyway, it was a nice ride.
I strive to please.
*****
Took me a year but I've finally found the proper cross draw sheath for my favorite knife. A friggin year. The knife was gifted to me by herself upon our last anniversary - a custom hand forged piece and I love it. Anyway, it came with a junky plastic black bit of stuff disguised as a sheath which I promptly discarded.
I like a cross-draw. Wear it slapdap in the middle of my back, right-handed. It too is custom from a nice husband/wife team out of Cajun country. If I had their names (info is at work) I'd give credit. Nice leather, proper fit.
It's the little things,
which create the faintest of smiles.
Stephen
We have on the fireplace mantle an old clock, a wedding gift from a relative some thirty odd years ago. Its a Sessions, manufactured early in the twentieth century. Nice old piece, and here's the strange part...it hasn't hit a lick in over thirty years. Hasn't been cleaned nor oiled properly since the day it came into our lives. We'd thought the old girl was just flat-assed broke.
Until late last evening when out of nowhere it began to tick-tock all on its own.
Yelled for the wife. She freaked, "Why is it working?"
"It's a sign from God."
She went to bed.
I'm still wide awake. The old clock just chimed 0300. Perhaps I should say a little prayer. Couldn't hurt.
This is indeed spooky stuff.
(Insert Boris Karloff movie soundtrack here.)
*****
Yesterday was her birthday. She's twenty-two. Still cute as a button.
After Sunday services she requested a day in St. Augustine. We arrived and duly paid our ten dollar parking ripoff tax fee and strolled the ancient city.
Since she hadn't eaten all day we hit a local tourist trap for lunch. Took almost three hours...serious here, three hours. Back outside we find severe thunderstorms. Hard rain. Ducked into a store. Rain continues. We wait.
Still, she smiles. Said she was happy. Rain slacks a bit. We hit a coffee shop to wait, and I of course, over indulge with a pecan sticky roll and a mug of java. Outside a lightning strike fries a tourist into ashes. Heavy rain spoils another visitors hundred dollar cigar and the ponies refuse to pull the sunburned down the cobble stoned streets. I just smiled and sipped my coffee.
She took my hand and set a course towards that ten dollar parking spot.
Anyway, it was a nice ride.
*****
Took me a year but I've finally found the proper cross draw sheath for my favorite knife. A friggin year. The knife was gifted to me by herself upon our last anniversary - a custom hand forged piece and I love it. Anyway, it came with a junky plastic black bit of stuff disguised as a sheath which I promptly discarded.
I like a cross-draw. Wear it slapdap in the middle of my back, right-handed. It too is custom from a nice husband/wife team out of Cajun country. If I had their names (info is at work) I'd give credit. Nice leather, proper fit.
It's the little things,
Stephen
Thursday, June 19, 2014
World War Z
Thanks to Netflix I've finally watched Z.
Not a bad flick, and I do recommend you take a gander. Try and spot the Coleman lantern, the real thing, not the battery model.
Remember, zombie uprisings are very unpredictable. Keep a firearm close to hand in case of attack. My constant companion rides behind the seat of my truck.
Zombies are a real threat...all I need do is glance outside my window and count; there, six of the boogers across the street.
It's dangerous out there.
Stephen
Remember, zombie uprisings are very unpredictable. Keep a firearm close to hand in case of attack. My constant companion rides behind the seat of my truck.
It's dangerous out there.
Stephen
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
It's Just Silly
In this weeks Shotgun News is an ad for a Chinese SKS for five hundred dollars. Give me a friggin break. I remember when a case of Russian rifles still packed in their coat of cosmoline had a grand 'ole price of seventy-five bucks, and I turned down the offer.
Silly me.
Bet you in twenty years we'll regret we passed on these five hundred dollar beauties.
Stephen
Silly me.
Stephen
Sunday, June 15, 2014
I Remember the Hate
Deep summer meant thick fields of grass and calloused hands wrapped tightly around the ash handle of the sling blade. I hated the sling blade. I loathed the high grass of the fields.
I remember the arrogance of the man. He was perhaps fifty, fairly tall to a child of twelve, and land lord to my little brother and me. I remember, most vividly, my hatred of the man. We lived under his roof. He was my uncle.
I remember the cold winter day our mother stood beside her gray car and tried to explain her reasons why it was necessary for us to remain behind in her sister's care. "It's only temporary. Farm life will keep you busy. Mind your manners and behave. Your aunt and uncle are doing us a huge favor."
Then she was gone.
The farm stood close to a railroad. I remember the stand of hardwoods and the tattered fields of corn and how the land sloped away from the house and I remember the hog pens and the house garden and how hobo's had marked the back door with their jackknives. I remember, that first winter, how the old man stood on the lower stoop and pointed towards a tract of land and said, "When the grass turns green it'll be your job to cut it. Every week, you cut it. You understand...no work, no food. For either of you."
Soon winter turned to spring and then summer. He took a slingblade from the barn, said, "Sharpen it then get on that field." I remember he kicked a chicken from his path and walked away to his bottle.
The texture of the grass was thick - juicy stuff. Each swing of the blade resulted in a watermelon scented blade of grass blood.
The first day was painful only for my lack of technique and style. I became friends with rhythm.
I still remember the day he walked out and stood close and said, "It's the chicken poop. I spread a heavy load on this field. Gotta let it dry, can't dump the wet stuff. "Yep, the chicken s*it makes the grass. Can you smell it?"
"No."
"What the hell is wrong with you. You mean to tell me you can't smell that fine fertilizer? You dumb or what?"
I kept the blade on the move. My senses were attuned to the ripe odor of green grass and the south wind and faint odor of oil and creosote from the tracks. I seem to even remember the scent of sweat and loamy earth. I'd never admit the undertones of chicken crap...because I remembered I hated him, and the farm too.
He bent and took a handful of dirt and squeezed, held it tight, then took the back of my head in his meaty paw and with his left hand shoved the dirt into my face. "Now, can you smell it? Ain't that nice?"
I spit. Wiped my face. Held the sling blade tightly. Eased it back. "Go ahead, boy. Try it. I asked you if you can smell that chicken s*it, and you'd better answer me."
I remember the tears on my face and how my hand came away streaked with dirt and bits of grass...and how much I hated the man.
"You a tall boy for your age but I'll still cut you in half if you don't answer me."
I took a step back and said, "No. I can't smell it."
I really do not recall his punch. I remember I awoke in the field. He stood above me with a huge grin on his face, bottle in hand - my uncle.
I remember the ring in my ears, how my face hurt. A bit of blood on my fingers. He said, "Come here." I went. "Now, do you smell the chicken s*it?"
I wanted my mother, I remember that. I remember the high clouds as they scuttled high on the south wind and I think I remember a flock of birds but I'm not really sure of them. I remember hate filled my heart. Hatred grown from the lack of a father, and my mother's absence. Hate so vibrate it painted my soul.
"Yes."
"Yes, what, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
Stephen
I remember the arrogance of the man. He was perhaps fifty, fairly tall to a child of twelve, and land lord to my little brother and me. I remember, most vividly, my hatred of the man. We lived under his roof. He was my uncle.
I remember the cold winter day our mother stood beside her gray car and tried to explain her reasons why it was necessary for us to remain behind in her sister's care. "It's only temporary. Farm life will keep you busy. Mind your manners and behave. Your aunt and uncle are doing us a huge favor."
Then she was gone.
The farm stood close to a railroad. I remember the stand of hardwoods and the tattered fields of corn and how the land sloped away from the house and I remember the hog pens and the house garden and how hobo's had marked the back door with their jackknives. I remember, that first winter, how the old man stood on the lower stoop and pointed towards a tract of land and said, "When the grass turns green it'll be your job to cut it. Every week, you cut it. You understand...no work, no food. For either of you."
Soon winter turned to spring and then summer. He took a slingblade from the barn, said, "Sharpen it then get on that field." I remember he kicked a chicken from his path and walked away to his bottle.
The first day was painful only for my lack of technique and style. I became friends with rhythm.
I still remember the day he walked out and stood close and said, "It's the chicken poop. I spread a heavy load on this field. Gotta let it dry, can't dump the wet stuff. "Yep, the chicken s*it makes the grass. Can you smell it?"
"No."
"What the hell is wrong with you. You mean to tell me you can't smell that fine fertilizer? You dumb or what?"
I kept the blade on the move. My senses were attuned to the ripe odor of green grass and the south wind and faint odor of oil and creosote from the tracks. I seem to even remember the scent of sweat and loamy earth. I'd never admit the undertones of chicken crap...because I remembered I hated him, and the farm too.
He bent and took a handful of dirt and squeezed, held it tight, then took the back of my head in his meaty paw and with his left hand shoved the dirt into my face. "Now, can you smell it? Ain't that nice?"
I spit. Wiped my face. Held the sling blade tightly. Eased it back. "Go ahead, boy. Try it. I asked you if you can smell that chicken s*it, and you'd better answer me."
"You a tall boy for your age but I'll still cut you in half if you don't answer me."
I took a step back and said, "No. I can't smell it."
I really do not recall his punch. I remember I awoke in the field. He stood above me with a huge grin on his face, bottle in hand - my uncle.
I remember the ring in my ears, how my face hurt. A bit of blood on my fingers. He said, "Come here." I went. "Now, do you smell the chicken s*it?"
I wanted my mother, I remember that. I remember the high clouds as they scuttled high on the south wind and I think I remember a flock of birds but I'm not really sure of them. I remember hate filled my heart. Hatred grown from the lack of a father, and my mother's absence. Hate so vibrate it painted my soul.
"Yes."
"Yes, what, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
Stephen
Friday, June 13, 2014
Smoke Signals
I wanted to post yesterday but my internet provider decided to take the day off. Sorry.
Just finished reading this article, here's the link, and I find it very disturbing. One thing is for sure, if you believe, as an American, your Constitutional rights still exist, please walk outside and count the number of moons in the universe.
Me, well, I believe I'll practice the old art of smoke signals.
Time for the me to hit the old grindstone....
Stephen
Just finished reading this article, here's the link, and I find it very disturbing. One thing is for sure, if you believe, as an American, your Constitutional rights still exist, please walk outside and count the number of moons in the universe.
Me, well, I believe I'll practice the old art of smoke signals.
Stephen
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
The Dude
This morning it was the same old thing. He's barely inside when he begins with, "Hey, did you know Wal-Mart is filled with those types?"
He hates gay people, or so he claims. His assertions are never ending...always with the hate talk. Like this, "I hate those mother*uckers. They're everywhere. I bet six out of ten men in that park are lip smackers. Know what I mean?"
I change the subject. Ask if he's seen or has knowledge of a box of .32-20. Then, it's back to the subject of gays. I think perhaps he protest far too much...especially since he dresses in muscle shirts, tight trousers, loud colors. He's married with two children.
"I'm telling 'ya, Stephen, those people have ruined our country."
"Okay, Mac."
I again changed the subject. Mentioned the Marine in Mexico. Him, "Boy I bet when he leaves that prison you'd be able to hear a BB rattle in his rear."
See what I mean....
Hey, live and let live.
******
Sweet Wife is home building a beef stew. My phone has only screamed twice, so far. She's a good cook, but the structure, routine of a beef stew is new to her.
Still, I bet it turns out just fine...
Gotta run, later.
Stephen
He hates gay people, or so he claims. His assertions are never ending...always with the hate talk. Like this, "I hate those mother*uckers. They're everywhere. I bet six out of ten men in that park are lip smackers. Know what I mean?"
I change the subject. Ask if he's seen or has knowledge of a box of .32-20. Then, it's back to the subject of gays. I think perhaps he protest far too much...especially since he dresses in muscle shirts, tight trousers, loud colors. He's married with two children.
"I'm telling 'ya, Stephen, those people have ruined our country."
"Okay, Mac."
I again changed the subject. Mentioned the Marine in Mexico. Him, "Boy I bet when he leaves that prison you'd be able to hear a BB rattle in his rear."
See what I mean....
******
Sweet Wife is home building a beef stew. My phone has only screamed twice, so far. She's a good cook, but the structure, routine of a beef stew is new to her.
Gotta run, later.
Stephen
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Let's Ramble
If it were possible to pocket a piece of summer; fold its essence within an envelope, I would. I'd remove this slice of season when needed, or better yet, when my mood suited. Like last night.
I'd just wheeled our garbage container to the street. A nice warm south wind carried the scent of sweet flowers and pushed the Spanish Moss. The moon was bright. The river flat and glassy. Perfect. Warm enough yet not hot. My kind of summer. A slice of summer children remember.
The adult me hates summer. I find its heat uncomfortable. But once in a blue moon I find a taste of my youth in the months of June and July. Seldom August. Yet, late summer nights often make me smile. Now, if I find a way to bag just a few moments of what I experienced last evening think of the possibilities of its use during those long cold and dark winters ahead.
*****
With the children out for summer vacation the street and park seem abandoned. Business has grown to a crawl. It's slow. Believe it or not the basketball courts are empty. Even the Urban Campers have ducked beneath the earth.
So, I clean firearms. My hands smell of gun oil. I should dab a bit beneath my ears. Stuff smells kinda good and has been noted to work out the wrinkles. We'll see.
Sweet Wife has never said but I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts for my weird habit of firearms cleaning during those nights of movies and certain television shows. Me and my little bottle of Break Free, bore-snake and shop rags, two or three handguns....keeps me busy. I've an old Colt Official Police that has been cleaned so often it absolutely sparkles. She sits upright on my mantle with a shotgun shell thru the trigger guard. I have the old girl filled with vintage rounds of .38....just seems right somehow. Old firearm, equally old ammo. She stands guard just above an ancient rabbit eared shotgun. My Colt came into this world before Hitler invaded Poland.
Told you. This is a ramble.
*****
Over at Gander Mountain this weekend I found the shelves filled with ammunition, well, other than what I wanted, but none the less, the place held tons of boom-boom. But, the prices were silly high. I mean, damn. I passed.
This price increase, I believe, is the new normal. Guess it's high time I dusted my loading bench and lubed the press.
*****
Now, if you'll please excuse me I've blogs to read and comments to answer.
Go thump a watermelon and smile.
Stephen
I'd just wheeled our garbage container to the street. A nice warm south wind carried the scent of sweet flowers and pushed the Spanish Moss. The moon was bright. The river flat and glassy. Perfect. Warm enough yet not hot. My kind of summer. A slice of summer children remember.
The adult me hates summer. I find its heat uncomfortable. But once in a blue moon I find a taste of my youth in the months of June and July. Seldom August. Yet, late summer nights often make me smile. Now, if I find a way to bag just a few moments of what I experienced last evening think of the possibilities of its use during those long cold and dark winters ahead.
With the children out for summer vacation the street and park seem abandoned. Business has grown to a crawl. It's slow. Believe it or not the basketball courts are empty. Even the Urban Campers have ducked beneath the earth.
So, I clean firearms. My hands smell of gun oil. I should dab a bit beneath my ears. Stuff smells kinda good and has been noted to work out the wrinkles. We'll see.
Sweet Wife has never said but I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts for my weird habit of firearms cleaning during those nights of movies and certain television shows. Me and my little bottle of Break Free, bore-snake and shop rags, two or three handguns....keeps me busy. I've an old Colt Official Police that has been cleaned so often it absolutely sparkles. She sits upright on my mantle with a shotgun shell thru the trigger guard. I have the old girl filled with vintage rounds of .38....just seems right somehow. Old firearm, equally old ammo. She stands guard just above an ancient rabbit eared shotgun. My Colt came into this world before Hitler invaded Poland.
Told you. This is a ramble.
*****
Over at Gander Mountain this weekend I found the shelves filled with ammunition, well, other than what I wanted, but none the less, the place held tons of boom-boom. But, the prices were silly high. I mean, damn. I passed.
*****
Now, if you'll please excuse me I've blogs to read and comments to answer.
Go thump a watermelon and smile.
Stephen
Monday, June 9, 2014
.32-20
All I want, at present, is one small box of .32-20, just one. Stuff is rare as hen's teeth. Can't find it. None, and it ticks me off.
See, the thing is I want to shoot. I miss the faint odor of gun powder. The thump of lead (the real stuff) as it slaps a target, and I sorely miss the fine company of my friends.
For far too long I've denied myself the therapy of the gun range and the fellowship of my friends. And, I've a new toy. It requires this most antique cartridge. The load is still manufactured - when component parts are available. Every source is badged back ordered, or out of stock.
Anyway, soon. Soon I'll take the fresh air and sling lead.
*****
As an aside...we're both fine. She's out of pain and the mass the doctors found in my lower body isn't....
Thank the Lord.
To all of you...my sincere thanks. You're good people.
Stephen
See, the thing is I want to shoot. I miss the faint odor of gun powder. The thump of lead (the real stuff) as it slaps a target, and I sorely miss the fine company of my friends.
For far too long I've denied myself the therapy of the gun range and the fellowship of my friends. And, I've a new toy. It requires this most antique cartridge. The load is still manufactured - when component parts are available. Every source is badged back ordered, or out of stock.
*****
As an aside...we're both fine. She's out of pain and the mass the doctors found in my lower body isn't....
Thank the Lord.
To all of you...my sincere thanks. You're good people.
Stephen
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Almost
Isn't life wonderful.
I've missed you guys and gals. Not quite ready for the daily grind of the blog just yet, but almost. The last two months have been awful, to say the least. So far all is well.
Next Monday we should cross the bridge, hand in hand, into the light and begin, again, a normal life.
Thank you all for your kind prayers and good thoughts.
Stephen
I've missed you guys and gals. Not quite ready for the daily grind of the blog just yet, but almost. The last two months have been awful, to say the least. So far all is well.
Thank you all for your kind prayers and good thoughts.
Stephen