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


 




  

Just Stuff

Yesterday I mentioned Sweet Wife had an agenda. Sure enough she arrives home from church, grabs me by the ear and said, "Get in the car, you're taking me to St. Augustine." I firmly plant my feet and said, "Not gonna happen."

An hour later I'm sitting on a bench as she selects a locally made piece of jewelry. At least I was able to watch all the strange creatures move along the street. One little girl, a cute little booger, walked over and gave me a purple flower. She wore fairy wings. I guessed her age at about four. She placed the flower in my hand, took a couple of steps, turned and said, "I like flowers." Shucks.

She made my day.

Above, the view from my street side vantage. Since our last visit to St. Augustine parking fees have increased five dollars. Ten bucks to park and walk. What a scam.

We had lunch, nothing special, then walked and walked and walked. I have a slight limp, no big deal, but after a few miles it becomes very pronounced. Then, my ankle aches, a bit. I use this as a means of an excuse to sit and have coffee at my favorite bakery, The Bunnery.

They make the best almond croissant in Florida.

Later, in the car just before she fell asleep she reaches over and takes my hand and said, "You're the best bodyguard in the world."

She's a peach.

*****

Hey, I'm now the proud Papa of a bunch of baby bananas.

 *****

My current restoration project progresses nicely. When I rebuild a stove I tear it down and repair the original parts. I'm not one of these buy a cheap piece of Chinese made replacement parts kinda guy. I even order the leather for my pumps from Turkey. I tear down each and every component.

Example.

This is the fuel/air valve from my Sears/Coleman stove. Nice, huh. Should have seen this little sucker prior to last evening. This valve is the one located at the top of the tank. When I removed it (not easy) the bottom stem was grayish black and coated with flecks of scale. It had been submerged in old fuel, I suspect, for at least forty years. I dismantled and worked on this little piece until the wee hours of the morning.

I know - big deal. But, isn't she pretty....

*****

Tomorrow, I shall stand and wait in the rain to cast my vote. I shall stand in the wind and rain unarmed, and cast my vote. I will stand in the wind and rain and cool temperatures, unarmed, for hours to cast my vote. Tomorrow morning at zero-dark thirty I shall stand in the wind and rain while unarmed to cast my vote, and I will be in one hell of a foul mood.

Fair warning. If you are a black panther, and you get in my way...God bless you.

*****

Early this morning I received word my father was admitted to a local hospital. Sometime last night he'd suffered a heart attack. He's well into his eighties. We've since spoken and he seems in good spirits. He asked if I'd please help him escape. They won't allow him his shotgun.  I was born of good stock.

My father is an old Florida Cracker. They're a tough breed and if you take away their firearms and horses you might as well take their souls too.

I'm proud of him.

Stephen

Whupped

This morning I arrived at work early, too early, but then I'm poor and do silly things like open before sunrise. Fifteen minutes later the phone rings and it's Sweet Wife on the other end. I said, "What's up?"

"Come home."

"Why?" A long pause on the other end of the line, then, "Because."

I don't take orders. She repeated her, "Because."  This, isn't good. I tried again, "Honey," (Sweet talk don't 'ya know) Why, pray tell, do you want me to come home?"

She lets out with a long sigh, "Because - we need to drive down to St. Augustine. You, my dear husband, need clothes."

Just kill me now.

I closed the shop. What the heck, I needed a weekend off. After a couple of hours we arrived at the local Gander Mountain. Hey, if I must shop for clothes it will be in a man's world. Period.

Inside Sweet Wife takes me by the hand and leads me to the men's footwear department. She selects a pair of boots for me. She's like that, she decides and I say yes and place the items in the cart. No if, ands, and buts about it, she selects the articles - I just pay for them. She did grant me permission to select the brand I normally wear. I mentioned how kind it was of her. She smiled.

Then it's time for sandals. I insist on the most masculine pair I can find. She smiled and said, "Fine."

Then, socks. Six new pair. I only wear Merino Wool...she approved. See, I get my way when I put forth effort. But, she's like that too. She lets me win a few.

She takes the cart and heads further into the store. I allowed as how I was taking control and needed to check out the firearms department. She gave me ten minutes with further instructions to meet her in the men's clothing department. I said, "Yes, dear." I showed her who was boss.

They had 'purty' guns, too. Even had ammo boxes on sale, for twelve bucks. She said to put them back. Explained how the dirt on the boxes might mess up her/my new trousers and shirts.

Then, I noticed three pair of boy shorts in the cart....shorts. You know, those pants they've taken and whacked off just below the knees. The things metro-sexuals tend to wear around town. Three pair. I did notice they were 5.11's. Had 'tactical' stitched on the rear....tactical for Pete's sake....olive drab, navy blue, and khaki 5.11 shorts. Who knew, and she had them in the cart.

She had also chosen, with my permission, two  5.11 shirts. One even had the brand printed on the front, black no less. She said I'd like them. She's sly she is, she tells me what I'll like and what color I should wear. Said it makes me look, manly.

I grunted. Tim Allen has nothing on me...

The monkey cart now held, one pair of boots, sandals, three pair of shorts tactical boy things, six pair of socks, two shirts. She then shoved me towards the trousers. Sweet Wife said one of my favorite set of pants had a hole worn where my spare magazine clipped onto my belt. Tacky, she said. You need new ones. She's like that too, tells me when I should purchase new trousers.

At least she allowed me to stick with the 5.11's. Waste size 36. I insisted I knew my own waist size. She argued. Said you've lost weight and you should drop down one size to a 34. I said no...she took them from my hand and replaced them. Women, they just don't know when to give in to a man's superior intellect. I showed her. (Later, at home, the size 34 did indeed fit.)

Asked, please, may I have that nice black piece of 5.11 luggage. It was a cool bag. Thought, what would it hurt to ask...she said, "No."
 
So I showed her and replaced the silly green 5.11 belt she'd thrown in the cart to wear with my cool tactical new boy scout shorts. Thin darn thing wouldn't even hold up under the weight of my Glock if you'd begged it. Stupid nylon junk.

Later, while I placed all of Sweet Wife's items before the check out boy, the belt magically appeared and I paid fifteen bucks for it.  She's sneaky as all get out. I gave her the eye. Then told her I'd never wear the darn baby girlie-boy belt.

She just smiled.

Then said, "Sure you will, next month on my birthday we're driving down to Cedar Key for a long weekend. It's your gift to me."

We'll see.

Stephen

5.11 hasn't paid me one single nickel for my wonderful endorsement of their products. If they choose to do so, please email and I'll send you my mailing address. I'm poor and will accept any payoff or bribe you offer. I prefer gold or silver bullion. Thank you.

St. Augustine

Will be our destination for our last night of 2011. We will leave in about two hours. What awaits is an evening of what the Irish fondly refer to as a 'soft evening' of warm temperatures with trees coated in tiny white lights, the smell of fine food, gentle laughter and history.

St. Augustine is the oldest city in our country. Many of the cobbled streets are worn smooth from several hundred years of horse drawn buggies, and the streets are narrow between walls constructed of oyster shells and lime; ferns and moss grow among the cracks that give onto hundred year old figs which stand next to sweet scented limes and Live Oaks old enough to have witnessed Spanish landings.

I just want a cold glass of Sangria.

I'll try and take a few pictures.

Stephen