The Sound of Rain

Has a wonderfully soothing quality, doesn't it.

This evening I believe I'll put my feet to rest and read by lamplight, but not before I search Ebay for a vintage leather holster for one of my favorite handguns. Wish me luck. 

This rain is nice indeed.

Goodnight, my friends.

Stephen

Nothing As Yet

Other than this cool steady rain. We've gone from Spring warmth to early Autumn nice.

Allow me, please, to have my first cup. I slept late.

Stephen

Bits and Pieces

My print editions of Adrian's Undead Diary keep me company. Chris Philbrook is a fine writer. If you can tolerate the occasional raunchy word (okay, more than occasional) or two you'll find his series spell-binding. A bit of editorial work and polish and he's ready for the New York Times best seller list. His plans are for an eight part series. We'll see. Amazon, if you're interested.

I've read this story on-line, but will pack book one for tomorrows trip out to the farm. I doubt I'll sleep so the book will make fine company.

*****

As I write a heavy rainstorm pounds the city. Thunder, lightning too. It's February for pete's sake. Where's the snow and ice. Just checked the temperature, seventy-three degrees. Awful.

It's peaceful though. Just stood to brew another pot of coffee. I'm not sure which is 'nicer' as my Little Bit used to say, the thunder or smell of freshly brewed java. Ah, silence, just the steady and heavy slap of rain. Nap time.

*****

Tonight, after I arrive home, I need to pack my bits and pieces for the camping trip. My gear is scattered all about the house and garage, and I think, a few pieces in the attic. I plan to pack light. It's only a one night stay, and I very much doubt I'll sleep. No matter, I will take my sleep system, (remember when we used to call them, sleeping bags) and my pillow. Pillows are important. My pillow. It fits my head and I've slept on rolled shirts and jackets and rocks and bundles of dried brown grass and once on a nice sun bleached cow turd, and trust me, your personal pillow is important when you're as old as me....we thirty year old fellas need tenderness.

When I was a boy we thought pillows were for sissy boys. If we had an old wool blanket and a hat we were set for several nights in the outdoors. Make a hooch from palmetto fans and tree branches, pull together a fire bundle and we were by goodness, slap 'ya dog and momma, ready for the night. Bring on the boogeyman. Now, not so much. I even pack my old leather L. L. Bean house slippers. When I settle in for an evening around the fire I want my work boots off.

In the past my good friends and group members teased me a bit about my slippers. I'd give 'em a look - they'd wince and find something else to occupy their attention as I slipped on my comfort. Since then I've noticed several pair of camp slippers about the Boar's Nest. With age and experience comes intelligence, not to speak of common sense.

I purchased my old slippers in Maine at a local Bean outlet store. They're perfect for camps, hard soles and good rugged tanned leather. Suckers are comfortable. Gives my feet a rest. Not sure which is the most important...my Bean slippers or my chair. I bet when I arrive late tomorrow afternoon one of those boogers will have his butt firmly planted in my chair. Trust me, it will be vacated.

*****

Senior just sent a text. He drove to Georgia for our steaks. He knows of this special meat supplier. Arrived and reported back five steaks, that's five (5) chunks of beef muscle, will cost us just shy of one hundred dollars. I haven't replied but I'm sure the meat is on ice and headed south back to Florida. Lord, grant me patience.

I've received word my friend, Duke is hard at work on targets and target stands. He welds. I shoot. I will bust his work all to hell and gone. Count on it.

Back to gear: need to find my headlights. I've two, somewhere. Or three. Can't remember. Even have a hat one of my younger friends gifted me one Christmas way back when....it has lights in the bill of the cap. Kinda cool. I will wear it even though this young man isn't attending...which is a shame, he's a nice young fella. At sixteen he can shoot the wings off a dung beetle at two hundred yards...with a Mosin Nagant.

One bag, that's all I'll pack and hump. Along with my firearms. I need to choose which sidearm to carry. I plan to run a two gun, if Senior draws one out in his spare time. Rifle, well, maybe the Smith .22, or my Sub-2000 in nine. I shall not waste 5.56. Makes me flinch with every shot...all I think is, there goes another dollar. Screw that happy crappy.

Magazines - gotta find my spare magazines and not forget my range bag. My heavy black sweatshirt. Sorry, I'm using you good people as my note pad.

See that lamp....she's mine. Own two of 'em. They're permanent residents at the Boar's Nest. My chair sits next to it and tomorrow night it will again give me a soft glow and I'll read deep into the darkness.

Later.

Stephen




 

Only a Second

We have rain, again, this morning. I've only a second as I've just now hung out the welcome sign, and I'm sure Duke is on his way for morning coffee and things need to be placed just so for customers to arrive.

I'll get back you to on the tease...

Until then, take a break. Grab a corncob and head towards the crib.

Stephen

Peace

A cold rain falls and the sound is soothing and peaceful. The winds now gently push it against our northern windows with a soft splat. Gunsmoke plays in the background with the sound turned low and she is curled in her big chair and we're both content.

I came home to a huge pot of very good long simmered chili; one bowl and I'm full as a tick. Our old cat has just climbed into my lap and taken position between my legs. She purrs.

Soon a kettle of tea will boil and all will be right with the world - a few hours of peace before the quilt is tucked.

I love winter.

Stephen

Dark Musings

Our morning is dark with hard rain and the lights of the shop glow intensely and the traffic gives that wet tire zing as it flows on the street. My office window has a tin overhang and the rain pounds it like lead shot which is very soothing, and I'm darn near ready for a nap before the clock strikes nine.

I guess I haven't a need to state the obvious, but I will - I've been in a grave deep funk, depression if you will, these last few weeks. The reason, or reasons, are not important, they're mine alone and I shall deal with them.

 I've lost myself in books. Long hours here at the shop. On a bright note, Sweet Wife has joined her church choir. She sings like a Nightingale. I've attended the last two Sunday services as support. I like to see her, standing among the group, her cute little shy smile like a ray of sun on a cloudy day. She's happy. And now, she wants to return to school for a nursing degree. She's had it with the financial world. I told her she has my full support. I'll live on beans and rice to make her goals come true.

I truly appreciate your support as I've taken this wee bit of time away from the internet and my blog. I will make every effort to continue to write, weak as my limited talent allows.

Change of pace....a fella, kinda of a city slicker, walks into the shop and removes an object from his man-purse. Hands it to me. Said, "Wanna buy this?"

I take it, give it a glance and return it to him, "No."

"Why not?"

So I explained that first of all it was a ticket to ten years in federal prison. It was once a twenty-two rifle, old and I thought perhaps once upon a time a military training rifle. The barrel had be shortened to just shy of ten inches by hacksaw. It's stock removed by same to form a hand grip. Black tape applied - ugly. The bolt and magazine were both missing. Useless.

Him, "Oh. Well, okay, here you can have it." He walks out.

I gave it to a friend. My friend likes ugly stuff.

Until then,

Stephen
  
 

Quiet Rain

At her request I've taken my day off, off. Believe it or not we still have rain, which leaves me stuck inside the house. Guess I'll spend the day tinkering out in the garage with a few of my firearms.

Sweet Wife did request I spend a few minutes in the kitchen. She wants a beef stew. I shall honor her request.

Now, where did I place those oil filter traps.

Questions?

Now if you'll please excuse me I've onions to chop and rue to make...

Later,

Stephen

Rain

You should hear it. It pounds the small metal overhang of my shop's back door like lead shot pellets. If given a chance I'd take a long nap.

Such a peaceful sound.

I love rain...

Stephen

Protection

I've spent the last two hours online with LifeLock. I had to answer many questions and enter tons of information, which I might add, went against my basic instincts. Even so I feel my sleep will be sound.

This protection is cheap compared to identity thief, trust me.  

Just a word to the wise.

*****

I arrived home this evening to find our home and yard covered in debris. We had one heck of a storm today. The rain gauge held five inches of water. If I remember correctly this five inches of rain was dumped in less than an hour. Our two day total is nine inches. We're wet.

If you live in a dry area and need rain, yell. I'll box a few inches and overnight the package.

I'm considerate like that.





BTW,  LifeLock refused to give me a case of ammunition for my endorsement so I've refused to hot link 'em...cheap boogers.

(Update: News reported our damage was the result of a tornado. A cat 2.)


Stephen

Bits & Pieces

It's a new morning of gray cloudy skies pregnant with rain and the wind is gentle and warm. The storms will follow. This is the heartbeat of a Florida July. Mildew covers our scalps and grows between our toes and we replace our pets with frogs and tadpoles. They make great stew come October.

*****

An article in this morning's liberal rag said the Odyssey Project lifted sixty-one tons of silver ingots from the SS Gairsoppa. The ship was sank by a German submarine off the coast of Ireland in 1941. Each bar contains 1,994.8 ounces of .999.2 silver. If my math is correct, at today's spot price, each bar is worth approximately thirty-nine thousand, eight hundred ninety six dollars.The stash is valued at thirty-four million dollars.

I shall place an order for one bar. It'll look nice in my collection. That is, if the Brits will share.

(Yeah, right.)
*****

 Oops, time to punch the time clock.....

My boss is a butthole.

Later,

Stephen

Rain

Seems we are in for a rainy weekend, which I shall spend alone. SW has hit the road to spend some time with her mother. What to do....

Well, there is a gun show in town. I've a nice stack of books.

Do you suppose the combination of the two would hurt....

I'll let you know.

Stephen

Rain

Early this morning the alarm screamed at me. I turned and hit the snooze button and waited. I had a tremendous headache and the sound of rain and wind was unmistakeably clear.

On Saturdays I open the shop an hour early which meant I had only minutes to rise and shower and drive the distance. I fought the urge. The headache increased in its intensity.

I've taken the day off. My guilt is heavy.

This is our third day of solid, and I mean, continuous downpours. Some areas of our county have recorded ten inches.

After I climbed from bed I had two text, from my group friends, asking if I felt our Boar's Nest might not be in danger of flood waters. Even my friend, Senior, camped in South Carolina sent concern. I replied, not sure.

If so we'll deal with the problem. Mother nature doesn't ask our permission. 

I shall take the day to relax. There are books to be read, silver to shine, meals to prepare, and a couple of handguns in need of bore wipes, and of course, your blogs that require my attention.

Guess what....I have webbed toes.

Stephen

The Rain, and a Book

Soft guitar and piano music issue from my stereo, and its accompanied by the sound of hard rain. As the old timers used to say, it rains cats and dogs.

The combination of the music and rain is good for the soul and offers a gentle caress to tangled nerves. Now, if only I could concentrate on my book. This is a perfect day for the written word and a good cup of fresh hot coffee, almost.

I'll read a few lines and then the chatter of my lovely wife and my MIL intrude.

I've just slapped my book down in frustration. A man needs to know when he's whipped and display a white flag. So, I'll write a bit and read your blogs instead.

Standby, I shall visit soon.



Stephen

If You Want to Make God Smile,

It was close to 0300 when I climbed from bed. My sleep had been fitful and I had a taste, like sand, in my mouth and my shoulders ached. Standard procedure. Her side of the bed was empty. I threw on my robe and explored the house.

Our house is fairly large and there are many places to hide. I was worried for her. I checked the usual places and finally walked to the other side of the house and down the east wing. At the very end of the hall at the door of what we refer to as the antique room issued forth a soft toned voice.

I stood and listened. More clearly than her was the music of rain and our windchimes. For just a second I felt guilty I'd forced our old cat to spend the night outdoors. Finally, I placed my hand on the door and pushed.

I peeked inside and she was curled on the bed. The only light issued from a small night light I keep in all rooms of our house. She sensed rather than heard me and turned, flipped her long hair away from her face and her tears became visible. She smiled and held out the cell phone and mouthed the word, mother.

I made the sign of the cross.

I turned to leave, walked back to our family room and took a seat to wait the outcome. I lowered my head and listened to the rain and the owls. Some little something way back in the recesses of my mind told me to get ready.

She walked into the room, wet faced.

She tilts her pretty face at me, smiles gently, then said, "She's old, Honey. She has no family left around her and I need her. (And here she firms her shoulders, looks away and with determination continued.) So this Sunday, after church, I'm driving to Georgia and bringing my mother home to live with us."

The house is silent. In three hours I need to dress in order to take on another day of labor and I don't feel good and I quickly mentally inventory my stash of sleep medications. Far off, thunder.

I had to try. "Didn't you consider my thoughts"

"Please, Sweetheart. I need her, and she'd old and sick and lonely."

My wife's siblings are far flung, different states. We do not, as they say, get along. I'm former military, an outdoorsman, shooter. Even though the Lord and I have an understanding, I'm not extremely religious. I do believe in my Lord and Savior but her brothers and sister, as a standing rule, keep the Bible tucked under their arms as they follow their daily routines. They shun weapons. Her brothers, well, prance. They can't even bait a hook for goodness sake. We argue.

With this in mind, if we have her mother in residence, I could envision our home as the newest Motel 6. Not gonna happen.

Our prior plans were to drive north, later this month, and collect her mother for a trip to Atlanta  The old girl has surgery scheduled at Emory, a routine procedure on her eye, and I was fine with the plans. But this, to move her into my home for the rest of the month (And, probably afterwards.) doesn't set well with me. I like my routine, my peace.

So we both sat and listened to the rain. Her stoic  Me, quick little glances her way....it's the tears don't 'ya know, the tears. Here's a woman, the love of my life, that has had to deal with the loss of her only son and both of her grandchildren. A woman as sweet as the world to others that sat by my bedside as the doctors whispered in her ear I had about four hours to live. (I made liars of them, by the way.) Those tears melted my heart.

If you want to make God smile, whisper to him your plans.

Stephen

Bits & Pieces

Sometimes I hate Blogger. I've been absent for the last three days due to Blogger's refusal to allow me to sign into my account. The good people that administrate Blogger normally do a fine job but for some unknown reason, of late, they've fallen on their collective butts.

I suppose its just as well, I haven't had much to say, other than we have rain.

*****

To all the good people that have left comments on my recent post...I shall answer soon.

This morning I unlocked my shop to find one of my lights, when I hit the switch, refused to spark. So I will fix the darn critter as soon as I finish writing this worthless post. And, I've noticed the toilet in the shops head constantly feeds water to the sewer system...pennies down the drain. I just left word with my plumber. The shutoff valve refuses to budge. Ever snap one off....yeap, me too.

As soon as these minor chores are completed I'll be back to leave replies. I promise.

*****

Sweet Wife has physical therapy three times a week. She came home last evening in tears. According to her, therapy hurts, which hurts me. It rips my soul to see any loved one in pain, much less her. I iced her down and cooed and soothed as best I could and then had her take to the couch and covered her in a blanket. I hate it. Her pain.

One can't shoot pain, nor beat it with one's fist. I'm powerless over it. I mentioned to her if possible I'd take her pain as mine own. She just smiled. The pain laughed.

One of these days the pain will blink, then I'll give it good a old fashioned butt whipping.

*****

Like Ireland in July we've a nice steady cool rain. No complaints here, we need it. I need to hire a small boy scout troop and have them clean my yard. I must have six tons of leaves in the yard and another four in the gutters. Pine cones up the ole wazoo.

I glanced at my deck this morning to find it covered in oak leaves too. There are not enough hours in the day.

Unlike you good folks north of the Mason-Dixon, our leaves descend during Spring. Catkins like you've never seen cover my driveway and the pollen is awful. Normally my truck is silver. Now, its taken on a green tone.

*****

Hey, silver is down. Jump.

Please excuse me it's time for me to make a living.

Stephen


 

Not now...

We have a soft rain. It's quiet and business is slow. My coffee is hot and I've a good book.

Not the one pictured, but its still a good read.

Later,

Stephen

Rain

We have gray skies and it's cool and the rain falls hard. Now, it feels like December. I enjoy the soothing sound of rain.

I've less than two weeks to increase the bottom line of my business so please excuse me if my notes are less than frequent.

Time for another cup of coffee. Join me, why don't you.

Later.

Stephen

A Day Of Rest

This morning after church I spent an hour or so building a large pot of chili. As I worked I glanced outside my kitchen window and watched a very wet squirrel run along our back fence on his way towards its hickory tree and nest. I chuckled and continued to work accompanied by the music of rain and wind.

It's this wind and rain that has me cooped inside and not able to work on my project...wet and paint are not compatible, which is fine. After all, its just a hobby - like this blog, which I'm sad to say seems to have lost its purpose.

Hence, the chili.

I've noticed chili has a subtle scent...and tends to build in intensity as it simmers. At first, after all the raw ingredients are composed and mingled together and you've thrown in a pinch of salt and a dash of your secret spices, the dishes tangy smell is light and holds close to itself and doesn't perfume the  whole of the kitchen.  But, after a few hours over low flame and while you're reading a novel or about the house at other chores you'll find yourself swimming with chili peppers and onions, like a walk down a wooded path bordered by jasmine, its inescapable.

*****

While I composed in the kitchen Sweet Wife went about a few chores of her own. She bundled together a few items for the wash, dusted a ceiling fan, and changed our bed sheets; she went towards flannel saying it was time as it's October and since we both like flannel sheets I didn't argue. Besides, she believes she's the boss.

When she finished she came into our family room and began to watch a movie. A chick flick titled, 'Message in a Bottle.' A standard tear jerker. An hour or so later I walked in to find her fast asleep. She's lovely when she naps. Due to her back she naps while upright and the tilt of her head makes me wince in pain. As she sleeps I tiptoe.

I've shut down the movie and now its quiet with only the sound of the wind and the air conditioner, and of course, me tapping away on this keyboard. I like quiet Sundays. It reminds me of my childhood when we'd all gather on my parent's front porch for seasonal activities. Spring and early summer would find us shelling fresh peas or beans or shucking ears of corn. Deep summer, in the heat, we'd have the old hand cranked ice cream churn whirling away with my mother's homemade peach ice cream inside. Autumn was likely to find us plucking the feathers from game birds, mostly quail and duck, for the oven. Winter was citrus.

 Our home was surrounded by orange groves interspersed with the odd grapefruit and tangerine tree. Since I was forced labor during the winter, hired to fire the wood and oil pots during those rare winter freezes, I was allowed to pick as much citrus as I wanted and could use as long as I didn't waste the bounty. Nothing, and I mean nothing, went to waste. My mother loved fresh squeezed orange juice and it was my job to gather at least a bushel every Saturday afternoon for a Sunday front porch squeezing session.

I remember sticky sweet pulp and its acid favor and the way my mother's dress bunched between her legs and my brother's laughter when I'd chunk a wet glob of fruit in his direction. The taste and smell of the rind which I loved to nibble and the way the yellow jackets gathered for their share of the sugar loaded juice and the white enameled pan used for the gathering of the precious liquid. I remember how my mother carefully funneled the juice into her old gallon canning jars and how the next morning I'd steal into the kitchen and take the now ice cold blue bottles and carefully sip the most perfect nectar on God's green earth.

I remember how we'd spread the rind on newspaper and place it to dry under the hot sun and then gather it into feed sacks for cattle feed. I still remember those cold gray mornings as I lugged those same sacks to feed lots, the rind since fortified with molasses and other herbs, and how when the feed was thrown into the stalls it gave off the now intensified odor not unlike mahogany, dense and sweet and smoky.

 
If you've spent anytime at all on a country farm I'm sure you too can remember those early mornings with the tangy scent of wood smoke, those faint traces of some old farm wife hard at work at her woodstove baking fresh biscuits as the country ham sizzles in cast iron and she readies her coffee for the redeye gravy. I remember it. The far off slam of a screen door that travels so well in the cold air, the faint train whistle, the forlorn cry of geese as they pass over the creek on their way to a nearby now brown cornfield.

Remember, just after a shot at a covey of quail, the whiff of gun powder and the way the Hoppe's Number Nine never seems to wash off your gloves. How the frost killed grass crunched under your boots as you moved towards the fence line after the dogs. Lunch under a pine tree that consisted of those little cans of mystery meat and crackers and a thermos of coffee. The wonderful weight of birds tucked away into your vest and how you'd always stop and gather spent shells of red and green and yellow, now faded but still markers to long lost hunts of the past.

Remember the weight and soft feel of the stock of your favorite shotgun and now how badly you wished you hadn't sold it. How it climbed so smoothly to your shoulder and how gently the front bead came naturally to your eye and the rise of the covey, and then the sweet swing and shot, smooth and graceful because and as a result of your long lost youth.

I do.

*****

There is little rhyme nor reason to my writing today. You must excuse me. I just write what pops into my mind. Guess I'm lost in melancholy.

I just remembered I have a pot on the stove and ran in to stir the mess. I believe I'll put a pot of coffee to boil. I haven't had a cup since before daylight. Each and every time I reach for my cup Sweet Wife bats it away. But, now she's deep into a nap. Please, don't tell on me.

I promise to make greater efforts in updating my blog. I can't believe I've gone so long without answering your nice comments. I truly don't understand what's wrong with me. I feel like a caged animal. The rains of today haven't helped, as a matter of fact it's set me back at least a week on my current restoration project. And, when I am able to paint and if I'm not pleased with the results, it might take me three more weeks....he hisses.

Please, take care out there.

Stephen







 

Quiet Time

Sunday by design is a day for rest, quiet time. It's dark and gloomy and I hear distant thunder and light rain like lead shot pelt the roof. Makes me want to build a fire and sip coffee and wish for cold weather as an excuse to wrap myself in an old wool blanket. To settle in with a novel and pretend to read when really I'd rather nap.

Soon, autumn leaves will begin the journey down, bits and pieces of amber and brown and red closely followed by northern winds, the official signal for the best time of the year. My favorite. I believe it's written upon Hemingway's grave marker, 'Best of all he loved the Fall.' I understand.

This morning, after church and fried chicken, we drove home under black threating skies. Sweet Wife asked what I'd like to do today. My first thought was to finish in the garage. I'd worked and sorted odd clutter for several hours well into the night and wanted to reorganize my ammunition and reloading supplies. I voiced this to her. She frowned. Not a good sign.

A mile or so down the road she took note of the weather and suggested perhaps my idea held merit. Now, she sits to my left deep into her bible study.  Over the last few months she's sought solace in her religion and it seems to have worked miracles; she's at peace and for this I am grateful and attend church with her even if I am found on the pew with my Kindle lost within its digital pages.

Yes, I listen to the sermon. It is possible and I have proved one can chew gum and walk with coordination. Once upon a time a friend found it quite shocking that I attended church. He asked if the candles flickered when I entered the sanctuary. I said, for the record, they indeed dimmed on occasion. He asked what had changed me. I said, "A little girl came into my life."

As I type I hear the rain as it hits my old metal wash tub I have hung on the back fence. It reminds me of my days of youth on the farm. Whenever I'd see the weather turn towards wet I'd head straight to the barn. Our barn had a metal roof and if you were able to find a clean spot of hay it made for the best bed in town. The hard southern thunderstorms made for a wonderful late afternoon sleep. 

I suppose I've made a liar of myself. I haven't ventured near the garage and my chores. It's too peaceful to work. Instead I think I'll head to the kitchen and build a pot of coffee return and pretend to read a book. But you and I both know it'll be cover for a nap. After all, the rain won't last forever.

Or will it.

Stephen


 
 

Two Days of Rain

And still it pours. We have heavy rain, solid and unrelenting. I didn't have a chance to check my rain gauge, but I bet we've had at least three inches in the last twenty-four hours.

Here's the thing - we need it. Florida has been in a drought for years. Lakes and small ponds have disappeared, salt water intrusion has the local government drilling new deeper wells into the aquifer. Bad stuff.

As I write it's dark out, comforting. A little Green Tree frog sings to me and my coffee is hot. The sound of the rain has almost lulled me to sleep....but, I've work and errands to run today.

One of those errands, I've decided, is to visit, if for only a few minutes, my Little Bit. This is her last full day of school.  I shall take Birth Mother with me. Little Bit needs to know her mother hasn't left, again. She needs to know we still love her and haven't forgotten her. She needs to know - Papa, has fight left in him and I'm locked and loaded for battle. Mine enemies are within sight, and I'm pissed.

Change of subject.....yesterday my friend, DFW, dropped by the shop for a visit and she bore a gift of shrimp...fresh and tasty little morsels from Heaven. We had a fine visit. I'm ashamed to report I did not have a pot of coffee in wait, business don't 'ya know. (Hangs head.) Tell 'ya what guys, she's cute as a button. I asked her back into the lair, office, and we talked for at least half an hour. We have much in common. Her husband owns a business just down the street. They're good people.

She hadn't been gone long when Duke walked in and demanded I wash his coffee cup. By the time he left I was laughing my butt off. He always lifts my spirits.

Friends. What would we do without them.

Yesterday a customer came in and asked if I'd like to purchase his little Detonics Pocket 9 pistol. Said, "Sure, bring it inside."

"Oh, I wanted to ask first. It's at home."

 
Anyway, these are fairly rare handguns. They were manufactured for only one year back in 1985. Some folks, for odd reasons, collect them. His Detonics belonged to a long departed uncle. The seller is not a gunny. Said it's only been fired a couple of times. I'll let you know if he returns with the pocket popper.

Jerry Ahern smiles.

Later.

Stephen