The River

It's early afternoon and the shop's door is finally locked and the drive home is quick and easy and she has prepared a simple lunch and soon kisses are exchanged and then the nose of the truck is pointed towards the river. Take a deep breath.

The word is, expect wet. The late winter and now spring rain has so soaked the ground even frogs pack snorkels. Overcast, warm but green, our world. To drive and smell the freshness of spring is rejuvenating. Through the city traffic, a left on the expressway and then west on another and forty-five minutes later to northwards trek and the farm road is right there...lined with sycamores and brush. Then the gate is behind and I park, nose to nose with the horse.

Outside the truck I stretched and glanced around. Duke had backed his truck close to the front door of the Boar's Nest. Her husband, by use of four wheel drive, parked around back close to the range. Rebel too, since he rides a Rubicon. I played it safe and kept my rig close to Buster, the farm horse and only current full time resident. He bites, and has been known to fight coyotes, so I was certain he'd protect my truck parked as it was on the high and dry. 

The land slops towards the river. As is its seasonal nature, the tannin stained water hugs and holds close the farm, and will if given the chance, claim its ownership of the lower pasture. Barbed wire fences offer little restriction. Luck was with us last weekend and the river blessed us and held close within the tree line. I unloaded my gear.

Inside the bunkhouse voices from the deck were subdued. I remember light laughter and one of my brothers (blood) stood near the old cast iron sink and we exchanged hand shakes and light sibling banter. He's several years my junior and understands his place. Within minutes of my arrival I slipped away and walked the range and stopped and put match to tender and soon a bonfire roared. Large fires and rednecks are kin. 

With four members present we had our quorum and gathered at the range shed. Then, I remember the sharp scent of gunpowder. Range bags opened and unattended, brass gathered from the leaves as the bonfire roared and popped after Duke casually scattered several hundred rounds of old twenty-two in the fire. (Try this trick at a party and watch the flock scatter.)

Rebel's Ruger

As magazines were filled with fodder I remembered the warmth of sunlight, a flock of Robins as they searched the wet grass for worms, the treeline - Cypress limbs bare, the olive of Live Oak, the deep green of the wild Holly, the almost complete silence. I remember it felt good, just downright good this gathering of men, my friends.

Duke broke out his sweet old .357 Marlin, a rifle of a certain age...and I remember how it thumped. He feed her .38 Special rounds and it was nice to see the iron swinger jerk and dance as he fired. I remember how he was so very careful to track his brass, as was Senior when he put his new baby thru her paces. I remember the same careful control of brass when Rebel fed his Winchester the now expensive old, but tried and true, thirty-thirty rounds. 

I remember someone, maybe me, commented how some day soon spent brass maybe as precious as gold. All agreed with grunts and sighs. The line went cold and boots scraped the leaves aside in search of brass as the warm wind tickled our faces.

I eased back to photograph the unattended range bags and dug into their depths in search of rare pieces of history. Duke had a nice little nickled H&R nine shot twenty-two. It reminded me so much of my old model 999 packed in my youth.

I remember the solid fire of an old soldier, a newly acquired SKS Duke found at the last gunshow, the soft sputter of recoil from my Sub-2000 as it threw nine millimeter towards the tree line. It felt so darn good.

Senior's Advance

I remember thinking, isn't it nice free men can assemble and practice the art of self-defense. To still have the ability to gather and complain of our governments stubborn path towards the destruction of our country's Constitution. Albeit brief I do remember these thoughts.

Good 'Ole Twenty-Two's

Twenty-two rounds are our norm. The expense of ammunition is, at least to me, unsettling. I fired a few rounds of forty-five but each and every time the hammer fell I remember thinking, 'take it easy, this stuff is expensive.'

Duke's unattended range bag of goodies

Soon hunger drove us towards the Boar's Nest. When the oak fire was reduced to coals Senior took the steaks, huge mammoth sized chunks of beef, from the cooler and slapped them atop the grill. The man is a genius with fire and meat. One steak, one plate - I broke out my knife and fork.

Each, two inches thick

With two members absent four would eat very well indeed.

As we sat and waited and listened to the coyotes sing and the peepers squeal and as the meat seared we prepped the table. Duke was certain he'd noticed muscle movement in one of the steaks so rose and put the poor slab of beef out of its misery with a well placed round of thirty-eight special. Duke is deadly at point blank range.

His beans cut the flavor of the gun powder.

Like the cultured men we are we sat a proper table.

Our menu; T-bone with Duke's cast iron beans and baked potatoes slowly cooked in the fire and of course, bread and butter.

Duke's Cast Iron Beans

And then...loosen the belt.

After dinner we gathered on the deck and waited for darkness. Rifles were placed close at hand, flashlights ready. Coffee set to brew. We talked. I remember Rebel as he stood on the edge of the deck and watched the bonfire slowly glow and I remember the way his handlebar mustache, gray and droopy, moved with the wind and the slow and thoughtful way Duke has when he speaks of any subject. Senior as he fiddled with his cell phone.

We waited for the coyotes until at last I asked Senior to Google us a YouTube video of their song. He hit play and I remember how instantly the coyotes yelled their response - a searing and haunting call of pure wild excitement. The night dogs were hungry too. Rebel rose and hit the tree line with his light and said, "I see 'em." He and I moved off the deck and I cross-haired one set of eyes and fired a quick three round burst of twenty-two from my M&P. The critters laughed.

Rebel and the bonfire

 All too soon the night was over and the sun took us from our bags. An unexpected storm front approached and it held heavy rains. I said, "Diddy Mao." 

Duke got stuck. Rebel came to the rescue.

Then both Rebel and Duke were stuck. This mud is as slick as goose poop.

Duke digs. Rebel watches. I stood by to supervise.

Soon I was home to Sweet Wife and a nice long hot shower. The rain soothed my sleep.

Take care.

Stephen




    

Let's Ramble

Some famous writer once said it was bad form to begin any written session with the local weather. I never was one to follow the rules.

Our weather sucks. There, take it or leave it.

*****

I have been remiss. Two nice people have exercised their rights to join my humble blog, and I haven't as yet thanked them. Thanks and welcome to, Mrs. Mac and Mississippi. Mrs. Mac writes, I believe, four different blogs. She's a busy lady with a lot to say. Please give her a visit.

My friend Mississippi is indeed a personal friend. He frequents my shop, is shy, intelligent, and an avid hunter. He can slay the saber-toothed bunny with the best of 'em. Thanks, Bubba.

Again, thanks and welcome my friends. I will try my best to always reply to your comments. Like the Texas oilman once said to his Arab friend, "Y'all family now...."

*****

Last evening I was host to a gathering of armed men. It was our monthly group meeting, and surprise, surprise, all attended. Even Rebel. We had a nice time. Gun fire was held to a minimum.

We've agreed to camp out at our Boar's Nest the 22nd. There will be a nice fire on which we'll char meat, bake potatoes and warm a huge pot of beans. Senior convinced us to hand over a hundred dollar bill...said he'd drive to south Georgia and purchase the group's Saturday night dinner - the best t-bone steaks known to mankind. Claims the steaks are so thick we'll need chainsaws to slice 'em. We'd better for that price.

Senior and Duke are both at the farm today. They said some routine maintenance was needed on the range. Told us how they wanted to do a bit of paint touch-up, rewire some targets and such. Yeah, right. I bet both are covered in gun powder residue. Meanwhile the rest of us are hard at work.

Must be nice to be retired and wealthy.

*****

Yesterday an old timer by the name of Raymond came by the shop. His wife tagged along for the ride. Ray's a fine man, Second War vet and was a lifelong bird hunter. His fondness for Bobwhite quail is legendary. Then one day a tiny little blood clot detached and went about its awful business and without warning Ray had a bad stroke. His right arm is now paralyzed. He's still a tough old booger and funny as all get out.

We stood and chatted - spoke of the winter winds, old farms and pot bellied stoves, the scent of pine that once issued from his mother's wood cook-stove, but most of all we spoke of the absent Bobwhite and how we missed its beautiful whistle, a song of pure delight. At one point he asked me if I remembered the last time I'd seen a covey of Bobwhites. I said yes, but it had been years and the spot I'd seen the covey cross the road is now a major interstate, a spot just east of our community. "Sad, isn't it," he said.

I asked Ray his favorite shotgun when quail hunting. "Oh, that's easy, my Browning." I smiled and mentioned I liked my Winchester model 12 in sixteen gauge. "Not bad but I prefer my Browning auto-loader. When that baby touched my cheek I knew the bird was down."

Ray's wife hadn't said a word. She sat and worked her crossword, the paper folded just so in her lap. She glanced up and asked, "Do either of you know the real last name of Roy Rogers?"

I said, "Slye." Really, I knew. Her, "Good, it fits," then went back to her paper.

Then Ray mentioned he had three bird guns, a Remington along with his Browning and a Winchester. His wife paused and said, "No, Dear, you loaned the Remington to our nephew Owen, remember." He went, "Oh, that's right and he hasn't returned it. Don't matter, still got my Browning."

Her, "Ah, no you do not, sorry."

Ray placed his cane in his bad arm and shifted in place. Gave her a questioning look, "What 'ya mean I don't have my Browning. Its in the closet in our back bedroom."

He appeared worried. I took a step to the side and put on a wait....married stuff needs privacy. An ambulance passed the shop at full roar. She clicked her pen, then, "Ah, well, Owen and his wife wanted to learn that skeet shooting stuff and he didn't have a gun (her words) so I didn't think you'd mind if I loaned him your Browning....," she took a deep breath, "so I gave it to him, since you know, you don't hunt anymore."

Raymond's face went blood red. I 'pulled a Brigid' and pretended I needed a refill on my coffee.

Him, "You, you, you gave away my Browning? You didn't even ask? How long we been married woman? Sixty years if it's a day....and you didn't even ask my permission?"

To say I felt uncomfortable is an understatement. This here stuff was serious. The man welded a cane, she was older than swamp mud but I reckoned she could still take him what with his arm and all....

Then, she began to cry. I coughed. Ray gave me a look and turned towards the exit, said to her, "Let's go."

She carefully folded her newspaper and stood, gave me a quick smile and followed her shuffling husband towards the door. I overheard him mutter, "Well, at least I still have my Winchester, like Stephens'."

"Ah, Honey, about that Winchester....."

Stephen  
  

After Action Report

We arrived to a brisk cool wind and gray skies. Perfect weather for a day at the old farm. Pirate Jim and I arrived first and the first course of action was to build a fire. I wore a heavy black hooded sweatshirt and still the chill seemed bone deep. Out with the lighter.

So, I made a small campfire. Thankfully Pirate Jim had thermos of good hot coffee.

Our plan of the day was simple. Finish a bit of light construction on our 'shooting shed.' Remember the flood of last July had taken our shed, and well, slapped that sucker to the ground. We've since improved the shelter, enlarged it and now it needed shooting benches and gear tables. After, we'd spend the rest of the day on the firing line.

When the rest of the crew arrived we stood around the fire and chewed the fat. We had a good long heated (all agreed on the issue) debate about gun control and the actions of the fools in our nation's capital. Then we set to work. Above Senior and our resident hippy, Rebel, as they measure and cut lumber.

When six men work in harmony it doesn't take long to finish a task. We used scrape lumber salvaged from the old structure and from long discarded piles left at the farm and before long the yell, 'the range is hot,' was accompanied by live fire. It felt so damn good.

In this next picture notice the pair of legs just beyond the open ammo can. The ammo can belongs to me and is filled with nine millimeter Luger...the open puke green range bag and legs belong to my friend, Duke. Keep your eyes on the range bag....I had plans.

We intend to cover the two boards, our new bench rest, soon. The Ruger LC9 is my new, and very inexpensive, baby and she was put through her paces. She functioned very well indeed.

Above, as the men worked, Senior and Pirate Jim took it upon themselves to paint target stands on the range. According to them they 'zombiefied' the range. Our long term goals for the range are to build stations for combat shoots. Between continued improvements on the Boar's Nest and the range we have a heavy workload. (I used the word, range, four times. Shameful.)

Below, a random selection from my gun safe. Even though it hurt I ran thirty rounds of 5.56 (yes, I own many evil thirty rounds mags) thru her. Oh, the pain. With every shot I kept a tally of cost. Still, it sure was fun. 

Ah, the prize in sight. Duke's range bag. Look very carefully...see the old Smith .38.

Now, notice how its stocks are visible above the rim of the bag. As MLK said, I have a dream.

Duke is easily distracted. One can point towards a rare bird or offer him a bottle of water or ask him a question, and poof, he's deep into a fog.

Notice how the Smith has worked its way to my side of the bench. The ammo can gives concealment. Step two was a complete success. Sorry for the blurry picture but I was, you understand, in a hurry.

In the meantime, Senior prepares his Ruger 10/22 for a workout. He has a tendency to 'tactical the heck' out of his firearms. You should see his childhood Red Rider. It has a light and siren. Thing is, his stuff works. The purple velvet bag belongs to Pirate Jim. He slurs his speech. But, that's fine. He's also our medic and a damn good one. He'll hit you square between the eyes at four hundred yards then save your life.

This next shot is of ShooterSteve's station. He's far too alert for one to gather needed items.

Now we have Pirate Jim's range bag. He'd just broken out a very nice Ruger MKII, which reminded me Duke owned a nice MKI.

Just a box of ammunition. For those of you new to the gun culture guess its purpose. 

Duke's Ruger...isn't it pretty. Yes, its blue is worn, but it has the patina of grace which makes it a beautiful piece of history.

Duke's Ruger in my range bag. He'll never miss it....

He's so easy. Once, when his back was turned I used forefinger and thumb to pinch a couple of extra 1911 mags. Don't tell him...

(boys and girls, I do not recommend you pinch items from range bags when the owners of said bags hold fully loaded rifles and handguns. Wait until they reload. The above demonstration is for training purposes only.)

Stephen

The Gang & The Gunshow

Just now home from church and fried chicken. Sweet Wife is happy. This is the third time in a month she's tricked me into attending a brick and mortar church.  I've been a good boy- didn't say a word during any of the services. I simply slipped my Kindle out and read, elbow or no elbow.

*****

Yesterday was fun. Our group gathered at a local gunshow. The cast of characters included, yours truly and my Sweet Wife. (At first she declined. Then she was informed our good friend, Jacked Up Glock Mom planned to escort her husband, Senior Chief, so Sweet Wife quickly changed her mind.) Along with our other best friends, Pirate Jim, and Rebel, we had a six pack.

Two of our group missed out - Duke, away on vacation, and Shooter Steve. Shooter Steve is a newly wed and has yet mastered the ability to check his email so missed out on a great gunshow and lunch. He's young and I'm sure in time he'll learn.

We gathered at the door of the venue at 0900, after of course, we disarmed. Ironic isn't it...one must first unload their concealed weapons to attend a gun show. So I walk inside with two full magazines attached to my belt.

The ladies went left, the guys right.

Gunshows smell good, at least to me. The scent of oil and wood and leather fills the air. I love the racks of old firearms and the bits and pieces of gear and spare parts, cleaning rods and brushes and countless AR grips. Old slings and trench knives with the odd sun bleached olive drab ammo pouches.

We took our time, ambled along. The prices were very high, almost ridiculous. I've attended many shows in my lifetime, more than I can count, and I've never seen prices reach such levels. Most, I dare say, high retail.  My expectations of a deal died quickly. My want list was small when I approached the door, it quickly shrank. The list included a lower, a few spare AR parts, perhaps some ammo along with .50 caliber ammo cans, and books.

I scored on three out of five. I did find a Ragnar Benson.

As you can see above, I also found a Spikes lower. I did find a few PMS lowers but the dealer was a pawn shop owner and was awful proud of his inventory, so I passed.

My good friend, Pirate Jim, stumbled across a nice M1. He's a collector of vintage military rifles. Its a fine disease. He paid and took his new baby home. Sweet Wife said of Pirate Jim, "He's so sweet. Look how he's holds his rifle. Just like a baby." I thought, 'Well heck yes, why shouldn't he.'

Above, Pirate Jim stands next to a display of gun culture themed books.

At one point Rebel and I came upon a display of private arms. I've noticed over the last few years dealers will proudly display 'private sale' signs on their booths. Loop holes be damned. I've also noticed their booths are knee deep in business. As we checked out this dealer's inventory Rebel spotted a nice little Revelation pump .410, the prefect little squirrel weapon. He and the dealer bickered a bit and Rebel walked away with a fine little Mossberg built shotgun. Pump .410's are fairly scarce. Revelation was a Western Auto store brand.

Above a display of .300 Blackout barrels and lowers. Local manufacturer. Senior Chief's next AR build.

At one point, as I filled out a 4473, Rebel walked over and asked if I wanted a piece of action in a bulk ammo can purchase. Said, yes. The dealer wanted ten dollars each. We checked each seal, stacked the cans, and smiled all afternoon. I walked away with five.

I'll take a step into dangerous territory - ready....never, ever, take your wives to a gunshow.  As I've said, I took my time to stroll up and down each aisle. I was happy...then, the women began to complain. They're hungry. Their backs hurt. Their feet were sore. I've yet to take in half the show. Guess what.

We ignored them. Above, Pirate Jim and his new baby. Displayed on the table, Rebel's .410.

Then, the women came back and slapped us. Above, my Sweet Wife. If you look closely you'll see she has a little AR-15 ink pen, a gift to me. She's clutches other secret booty. I've found it best to hold tight to my wallet.

And, above, my wallet next to a sack which holds a .22 conversion kit. Notice the price.

The women finally won. The gang followed Rebel's jeep to lunch. During lunch the rain's began to fall.

I'm rich with friends.

Stephen