I Try To Please

Today I was firmly told by a nice older fella I needed to get off my backside and post. I explained I was not in the mood.  Matter of fact I'm kinda ticked off...because -

Our home air unit is on the fritz and I'm sure repairs will cost us a pretty penny and the friggin unit isn't even eight years old. My Sweet Wife has strange worrisome back pains which will haunt me until we get a doctor's report. Our yard is a mess and when I have a rare afternoon to attend it the weather turns against me. My reading list is a mile long and continues to grow. I haven't time for my hobbies, which is dead skunk drag my butt in the mud kick a democrat in the knee awful.

So, here I sit with sore feet with my cell at a constant scream. Just spent the last fifteen minutes answering text messages. I'm about to throw this Blackberry across the room. There, see, two more beeps...

Oh, before I forget...to my constant reader in Everett, Washington - thanks. I appreciate it.

At the request of my lovely wife we went to the movies...you know, the kind of movie where other people sit in the same darkness with you and use their cell phones as flashlights, yep that kind. The title of this movie was 'God's Not Dead.' She loved it. I enjoyed the fact she loved it. I highly recommend it..on DVD. Truthfully it was a pretty good movie.

Rambling...this cell is about to drive me nuts. Just checked and it's Senior - he can wait.

Peace...it's all I ask. Beep....

Stephen

   

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




    

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




 

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  
  

Bits & Pieces

There is a nice chill in the air and the sun is bright and the live oaks dance with the mornings breeze. I love it.

On last evenings forecast the weather critter made a comment of possible snow flurries in the early hours of today. Sweet Wife turns to me and in a voice filled with little girl wonderment said, "Oh, I'd love to see snow." She's girly that way...

I smiled, replied, "It'll never happen. Besides, you'd need to wake awful early."

"Then wake me."

So this morning after my shower I sneaked a peek outside. Noted the temp. It was kinda dark so any trace of tiny ice particles were impossible to find. I turned back towards the bed and gently traced a finger down the side of her face. I gently bent and placed a soft kiss to my lovely wife's forehead and said, "Honey, come on or you'll miss the snow." 

She moaned, shifted slightly and softly said, "Leave me alone or I'll smash your face with the stupid alarm clock."

*****

Had all the guys over to the shop last night. Well, almost all of them. Couple of our friends wussied out and stayed home under their wives protection. Senior arrived with a new AR build, a pistol version of high quality. Pirate Jim flipped out his new movie carry piece, a five shot .38 by Ruger. The little sucker was as light as a feather. (BTW, when ever you attend a theater pack heat, shut down your cell phone, and for goodness sake mind your manners. Here in the deep South rules are important, otherwise you're likely to find yourself with a pistol stuck in your nose. If you don't believe me just read the Tampa newspaper.)

Now, where did I leave off....oh, Duke arrived early and we sat and chatted about all things food related. I like to cook and he loves to eat. I still need his mother's fresh beet recipe.We spent a pleasant hour in quiet conversation. All of us had hoped we'd have another drive-by. I noticed the guys frequently checked their handgun loads. Senior smacked home a full magazine, Pirate Jim, ever so often, would spin the cylinder on his little Ruger and I made sure my Para was close to hand. Duke pulled and laid several handguns within easy reach.



The boogers failed us. Maybe next month.

*****

Guess who I was able to hug for just a few minutes early Christmas Eve?

I'll tell you all about it...

Later.

Stephen

Bits and Pieces

Yes, I know, I've been busy - so there. This is supposed to be my busy season. Not so much. This economy has kicked my butt. At least the weather is nice.

Spent most of yesterday in my garage sorting through my Coleman stoves and lanterns. I own a bunch...many wait for restoration. I have three stoves completely restored, two in stages and another torn down. I enjoy the work but I'd never be able to sell them and recoup my investment in parts and time. As they say it's a labor of love.

Anyway, a fella recently asked if I had one for sale. We settled on a price so this morning I lugged the beautiful old girl into the shop and it now sits in my office. Thing is - well, now I'm not so sure I want to let her slip away. The price I quoted wouldn't cover a tank of gas for my truck.

But a deal is a deal.

*****

Our group gathered at the farm this past weekend and I missed it. Here I am the founder of this bunch of like minded individuals, and I let them down. Talk about an awful feeling....but, sometimes life just gets in the way.

Me, the guy that has always pounded the mantra, group first, screwed the pooch. Sorry guys. My friend and fellow group member, Senior, posted a nice note and described the day's activities. Bet they didn't miss me for a moment.

Bunch of slackers...

*****

I will make extreme effort to make the blog rounds today...if work allows. Kinda miss you guys.

Later,

Stephen

Good Morning

The drive to work this morning was dark and wet. A Nor'easter has moved into our area with its refreshing wind and light rain squalls.

Just before my turnoff the bright lights of the Donut Shoppe pulled me over and made me walk inside and order a dozen hot ones. I used the excuse my customers would appreciate fresh warm pastry with their coffee, and once one bite is taken by a paying customer I have an automatic tax deduction.

*****
Couple of nice pieces walked into my shop yesterday. Both Beretta's. Cute little semi-autos, a model 21A, often referred to as a Bobcat and its smaller cousin the 950 Jetfire. The two chambered in .25 auto. Bread basket weapons, pocket pistols. 

 I hate to keep my funds tied for long periods of time so I  need to climb on the phone and call, Duke and Senior Chief. They both love bargains.

Hey, time for work. Another day, another dollar wasted in taxes.

Later,

Stephen

I Remember

I still retain the weariness of my movements as I ambled the house well before sunrise - my gear and firearms packed and stacked and my impatience and the feel of loneliness the house gave with her out of state. I remember thinking, loose ends. Tie the loose ends. Don't forget a towel for the sweat.

I remembered to make a simple breakfast and then ate in silence and as I sipped my coffee I remember it was stupid of me to have locked the gun safe because now I remembered one more handgun to add to my list.

I had agreed to meet Senior at noon to help him mow the range, and now I remembered I'd had second thoughts to have set my departure so late in the morning. My skin crawled with the weariness of the wait. So I sat and once again penciled a list of items and chores. I remember it didn't help.

Then into the garage and to one of my work benches where I keep my gun gear and cleaning supplies and before long I've swiped several barrels and don't remember any of the process other than the wonderful scent of Hoppe's Number Nine, still my old standard.

Afterwards I remember I said, "The hell with it," and loaded the truck with my gear. The Coleman cooler tied securely in the bed, I drove for ice. The traffic was light and soon I remember placing two dollars into the slot and a nice bag of cold dropped. I poured the ice over my bottled water and three bottles of Gator Aid and the ice tea. Two store purchased turkey sandwiches were nestled into the cold and I remembered thinking - what a sorry lunch.

I knew it was far too early to head out, still, I was bored to tears. To kill time I topped off my trucks tank with expensive gas. Afterwards, I checked my watch for what seemed like the hundredth time then said, 'the hell with it,' and hit the road.

I remembered to keep my speed set to easy as the truck moved over the bridge and through the mist of massed humanity. Then out the other side and up onto the expressway and west. I remember thinking if a cop pulls me over he'll poop a brick when he takes a glance into the back seat.  Several hundred rounds of ammunition and several cased rifles and shotguns tends to make the average policeman reach around and tug his panties.

The drive was peaceful and about forty-five minutes later I was off the interstate and the truck moved along a black road enclosed in green. I remember the water filled ditches and the snow white egrets and the contrast of colors each species of tree lent the other and I remember I lowered the windows and allowed fresh country air to fill the cab and I remember how much I truly missed the smell of fragrant summer grass and acorn mast.

I remember when I reached the farm road I was unsure of the wet ground and traction so I flipped the key and sat in silence for a few moments. I remember, from the farm next door, the scream of goats, the heaviness of humidity, but most of all the horrid heat even so early of a morning. Our farm, my families, sits on the river and unfortunately is now all but abandoned. I remember the sadness of it as I sat and waited. How the farm is so ideally located butted as it is alongside state land. It is now only occupied by deer and coyotes. Turkeys and racoons. Skunks and shell casings. And, of course, memories and one lone horse.

I eased from the truck to test the wet ground and found it sufficient. It would carry the trucks weight. I drove slowly towards the range by easing between our Boar's Nest and the tack room. I parked close alongside the range shelter.

As I removed and placed my gear I remembered how we'd gathered last year to rebuild the shed after the one hundred year flood; how the ten feet of tannin stained water had moved over the land and tried its best to wipe clean the structure of the land.

I smiled at the memory of how we'd gathered and, without so much as a word, began to rebuild. I remember Duke dressed in his overalls and how he strained under the weight of two hundred pound crossties, and ShooterSteve's motor-mouth. I remember how PirateJim, our group medic, hovered, worried about injuries. Like a flash I remember Senior and his four wheeler as he buzzed about to move timbers and the quiet intense Gary as he studied solutions to difficult problems. I remembered it had been a fine day and now I once again stood beneath the result of our hard efforts.

I placed my gear and range bag on the board, and waited. I remember how I glanced down range and to find the river had risen close to the one hundred yard line. The dark water outlined an olive green Mayhaw bush now stripped by the deer. I remember my brother once mentioned he caught several deer standing on their rear legs to reach the tiny fruit.

I remember it wasn't long after when I was greeted by the sound of Gary's Jeep. He backed in and jumped out and I remember how much I'd missed his warm smile. I remember how he held my Colt Commander as we tried to sort a continued minor malfunction in its operation. I remember thinking the Colt should be dressed in a new set of elkhorn grips.

I remember when Senior arrived and then mowers and weed whackers and heat and fresh cut grass and sweat-soaked heavy shirts and towels and bottle after bottle of water gulped rapidly, the intense sun. Forty minutes later we're seated with towels wrapped around our necks. I remember it was about then Duke arrived and parked close behind my truck and soon we're all full of laughs.

I remember how Duke revealed his answer to the gun weenie problem, his newly painted orange flash suppressor. I remember we all agreed he'd found the answer to the left's fear of firearms - bright colors dispel fear.

Later, I remember the children's laughter, and my father seated with a quiet smile on his face as he watched Senior teach his little boys the art of rifle. I remember Senior's lovely wife, Glock Mom, seated to the left of my father, as they chatted while she kept a close watch over her two little boys.

Hours later I remember the sound of thunder and how the wind finally freshened and to the south of us the black clouds rolled and boiled and gave threat of rain. Senior and his family hugged and shook hands and then were gone. I remember thinking he and his family, those two little boys and their little rifles, are the future of this nation. 

Even as the storm clouds closed I remember those of us left continued to shoot. I remembered to practice my 'draw and twos,' fired a few rounds from my newly acquired thirty-eight special derringer then when we were down to three, Duke, Gary and yours truly, we sat and ate. I seem to remember we chatted for another hour but my memories of yesterday were tinted with a headache and the weariness of the heat.

And I remember this picture.

I remember how sweet the old classic Savage model 24 performed and how Duke asked if I'd be willing to fire a forty-five long Colt from its chamber...and I remember the nice thud the slug made on the metal target. I remember the nice explosion of Tannerite when I connected with a single round of five point five six. I then remember my father said, "That's enough, Son," him worried about the neighbors reactions. Even at my age I still replied with a 'Yes, Sir.'

Then, I remember the light rain. How we quietly packed and loaded our gear. I remember I followed close behind Duke on the long drive home and how we waved after we reached our separate turns. I remember the hot shower, afterwards.

And, I remember it was good - this freedom, yet.

Stephen








    








 

The Calendar

The last few dates of our kitchen calendar have been inked with, 'you shall sleep alone.'

Meaning me. She recently broke the news she plans to drive her mother to Atlanta for a medical procedure and afterwards on to South Carolina for our nephew's wedding.

Early this evening she asked if I'd please attend.

Me, attend a wedding. Now that's funny.

I don't do weddings, nor funerals. I attend rifle and pistol ranges, campfires, fishing holes, and any campsite with an old iron pot hung over a fire. I also attend, and will sign the guest book, to any gunshow. If hard pressed I'll attend county fairs, but only if it has a farm animal exhibit. Chickens and cows are cool. I have also been known to attend church, my granddaughter's school Christmas play, and boxing matches. But that's about it. I don't do crowds filled with poodle walkers and especially those known to attract metrosexuals.

She doesn't return until the second of September which gives me four full days of bachelorhood. I've plans. I should sit and put a few thoughts on a sheet of paper and make a list of those firearms I haven't shot in years and pull them from the safe. There are even a few for which have never had their pretty triggers tickled by my finger....the poor lovely lasses. They too shall be included along with select amounts of precious ammunition.


Our group meets next week at the shop and I'm sure I can recruit a few, if not all, to attend an early September range session. Perhaps make it a full day with the hours afterwards spent around a campfire with a skillet of bacon and a big pot of hot coffee and maybe even a good cigar.

Not sure though...a couple of 'em have been known to attend weddings and such silliness. One or two even wear those boy scout style shorts in public. This younger generation, I tell 'ya...

My friend and fellow group member, Senior has plans to mow the range grass and weeds to a manageable level. I've agreed to lend a hand as he's kinda busy these days with his late father's estate. We'll see. 

I know Duke will be present on the firing line. He'll of course bring along his wonderful and heavy range bag filled with various morsels. I always set my gear close to Duke's. We're buddies, he and I. He's a sucker for fresh homemade peanut butter cookies. If you place a paper plate filled with the aforementioned goodness, on the bench, he gets very distracted and will often step a foot or so away from his range bag. Just saying....I baked a batch tonight and will whip out another the night before we gather to burn powder.

I should also remind myself to not forget the Tannerite.

Weddings are for chumps.

Stephen