The Dress Code

When I arrived there was but one space available at the far side of the parking lot, a convenient slot next to a dumpster. I stepped from my truck into the hundred degree furnace. The odors from the restaurant waste slapped me square in the face. Awful stuff.

My mission was to have a blood test, a doctor ordered waste of my time. I began the long walk to the far side of the tarmac. Halfway across the parking lot I stopped and composed myself, muttered, "Don't limp," and opened the door to the building. The waiting room was packed, stuffed full of democritters; the elderly, children, illegal immigrants, seniors in wheelchairs...all of 'em with a cell phone chattering ninety miles a minute.

I hate crowds.

I felt like a marshmallow in a chocolate factory.

All the seats had been taken. It was either stand or I could sit on the little magazine table. I chose the table. Screw 'em. It was a tight fit. A lady and her girl child held the place directly to my right. I removed my hat and placed it on my knee and began to read.

The room was hot and loud and a woman of twenty or so was deep into a loud conversation in Spanish and an older gentleman tapped a steady rhythm with his cane and my neighbor and her child spread out their snacks and began to shoulder the space between us which forced me shift close to the wall, and I was within seconds of walking the hell out. Yet, I held.

The little girl asked, "What kind of boots are 'dem? They sure are shiny."

Me, "They are called engineers boots."

"What?"

"They're just old boots."

"Why they so shiny?"

"Because I shine them."

Her mother glanced over and told the child to not bother the man, gave me a 'look.' I scooted, some more.

I went back to my book - Private Battles, if you want to know. The child returned, stood and moved in front of me and touched the toe of my boots. "How you say you gots 'dem so shiny?" I closed the book and said, "Hard work." The mother reached and jerked the little girl back to her bag of potato chips.

My name was yelled. I stood and walked back and the woman took my information and agreed I was worthy of their time and soon I was seated on a stool. I read. Thirty minutes later a very large woman entered the room.

I'd removed my hat and placed it on my knee, as is my habit. The woman gave me papers to sign, placed a blue rubber band around my arm. Uncomfortable, to say the least. All the while she kept her eye on the hat. I could tell it bugged her. I liked that it bugged her. Made me smile, it did.

"Something wrong?"

"Huh?"

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"Well, now that you mention it, why the hat?"

Me, big grin.

She readied the horse needle. "Make a fist."  I made a fist.

Me, "This hat bothers you, doesn't it."

"Yes, its awful. Its hate. It tells people you like to shoot people and that you own guns."

Oh, this was good. "Really. This hat sends a message does it."

"Yes."

She slapped the needle deep into my arm...missed. Tried a second time. Missed again. It hurt like hell.

Me, "Are you new to the art of phlebotomy?"

"Huh?" My arm didn't feel good, at all. She reversed course and slipped  the projectile in again...and again. I was ready to punch her.

"Hey, Mister Gunman, did you drink water before coming in here?"

"Yes. Want to try the other arm...this one is about fried."

She was a big woman. She'd voted for Obama, and I'm sure had been tenth in a class of ten. Her, "You shouldn't wear that hat in public. There is a dress code, you know."

The words kiss my ass almost slipped from my lips, and would have, but she still held that needle and the job wasn't completed.

What I did say was, "Lady, what I wear and where I wear it is none of your business. Furthermore you are as safe now as you've been all day."

No response

She finally hit a stream of blood. She finger thumped the first tube and reached for the second. I drew in a deep breath and waited as she slipped the next vile in place. "I take it you don't like firearms."

"No. They kill people."

"How?"

If looks could kill.

Silence. I asked a second time, "How?"

"They just do."  I heard a child scream. We're down to the third sample of blood. My arm feels like its on fire. Me, "So, my handgun jumps from its holster and kills people, all on its own, does it."

"I don't want to talk about it. But don't you wear that hat in here again. You hear me, mister."

I couldn't help myself. I'd had enough...

I stood and walked to the door, turned and told her as nicely as possible...

"Kiss my ass."

Two weeks later my arm is still black and blue. 

Stephen 


  

Saturday

Just because.

Stephen

Meet 'Em at the Front Door

Five guns to scare your daughter's (or granddaughter's) boyfriend.

'Nuff said.

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




 

Fill In the Gaps

I know your stuck inside. So pour a hot beverage of your choice and watch this clip.

Still very good advice.

Stephen

Stuff

Since it's the super bowl weekend I need to rush out this afternoon and purchase the ingredients for my World Famous Stephens' Irish Kickass Salsa. (Trademarked) It's traditional. I could care less about the football game. The commercials are often funny, sometimes even entertaining. The game for me is just an excuse to make myself sick with chips and salsa.

Prep time is approximately an hour. I only use fresh vegetables with a base of canned tomatoes. The salsa must be allowed to stand overnight in the coolness of the refrigerator. When one dips a chip (I prefer Nacho Cheese.) and it stands without waver the salsa is ready to eat. Children, lipstick women, gays, liberals, the elderly sick, and metrosexuals need not apply. My salsa will kill 'em dead right there....

I'm serious when I say I could give a rat's butt about the football game. However, if firearms were introduced to the game, well, different story. Think about it.

*****

I'm very aware there has been an oversight to respond to a few comments for those post I've written in the past. I will make every effort to correct this lack of my attention to detail. A few months back my mind took a deep dive into a black hole of depression. During this period I set aside all things internet related except for the mundane and that related to my actual business.

Give me time and I'll search and correct this oversight. For a while there I felt like Snoopy without his parachute.

*****

While searching my bookshelves last evening I came across my copy of Angela's Ashes, a first edition, and decided to give it a second read. Two hours into the book I grew a hunger...needed food. The book will do it to you, their hunger triggers a need to feed. If you don't believe me, read the book.

Besides, its a great piece of literature.

*****

Remember Tommy? He came in this morning to remind me he'd be back next Monday for his firearms. While we chatted he noticed an old eastern European military rucksack I've had on a hook on my back door for months. I've a gross of 'em. Use them for packing light articles, junk, stuff, handguns, tools, to the shop. He wants it. Asked if it had a price and I said, just take it. He refused.

Cup of coffee later he turns to me and said, "Hey, Stephen, listen here. 'Member those old pocket knives I mentioned last time I was here?"

"Yep."

"Listen, what if I swap 'ya for them there old pocket knives. I must have a box full in storage."

I told him fine, we'd trade my old rucksack for his pocket knives.

I like Tommy. This could turn into an interesting deal. I hope the box of knives are all branded Old Timer.

Yeah, right.

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

Letters to My Father

The plain brown envelop arrived by mail many years ago. Inside was a simple piece of notepaper which bore a hurried note from my father, and several pencil and ink letters. It read, 'I thought you'd like these. You might want to keep them.'

The letters were written, it seems, by me. I'd forgotten them. I quickly glanced over the childish scrawl and tucked them safely away, and as is my forte, dismissed them.

Early this week the letters again came to light. I read them. The old dark memories returned. Late year 1963 my parents separated. One day we're a happy family unit, the next my mother has us bundled and driven far from our father. The reasons are still unknown to me, though I have my suspicions.

For a brief few hours, yesterday, I was transferred into a troubled younger self. A couple of the letters, one in particular, reveals a soul-torn child begging for the return of his father. I read how, without conscience awareness, I wrote and painted a beautiful outdoor lifestyle filled with game and fish filled waters, which I was sure, would appeal to the outdoorsman in my 'daddy.'   

On a brighter note these newly recovered letters also showcase my ever involvement into all things outdoor related, especially firearms. Even at the tender age of twelve I was known for my sidearms while outside on the farm and in the field. I was a true product of a career law enforcement father.

I've yet to understand my reasons for posting these memories, or why I choose to share them with you. Perhaps as a record for my grandchildren. A lesson learned the hard way - time indeed heals all wounds. Yes, scars mark us for life, psyches are altered and damaged, but it makes us stronger as adults.

Without further ado and without commentary I'd like to share certain excerpts from these letters to my father. I will transfer them word for word without correction of either spelling or punctuation. Please remember, I was twelve years old.

*****

January

Hello, Father,
'Hope you are doing alright tonight. I got your letter after I came back from camping. I got home this morning at about 5:30 in the morning. I went hunting about an hour ago and almost killed a ribbet but he got away.'

'Daddy thank you for the shotgun. The squrrels are alright and big and fat.'

'I have been out working for Uncle Joe (note: names changed to protect the guilty) on the land all week.'

'I haven't killed many squrrils this year yet. I'm going to get me a hunting light so I can get me some ribbits (rabbits) sure wish I would have got that one this evening but that is the way of life.'

'Love, always, Stephen.'

*****

March

Dear Dad.

'How are you doing? fine I hope. Weer doing fine down here and moma is getting along good. Were in the store this morning. and I'm not doing nothing. Yesterday was my birthday. I have been planting a garden for my Uncle Joe. We have been going fishing and camping and Hunting. We have some rabbits that have 4 babies. I caught a speckled perch that was 11/2 pounds on worm. an about 13 Bream will I have to close now
by by, your son.'

*****

June

Hello Father,
.....'I have not been able to go fishing this week because we have been cleaning yards and House. There is a pair of quails that have babys and when they get big I'm going to kill them....'

....'Daddy could you send me your fishing and hunting books you have?'

*****

June

Hi Pop.
'I've been hunting today and nearabout ever day this week. It has been raining all this week ever day and so I have been going hunting on our land I killed a ribbet on the run and everbody has been going crazy. I have seen all together 6 (underlined) ribbits this week. I made a bo-bo. I was trying to cock my gun and I let go of the hammer and it went off I was luckey cause it was ponting toward the ground....'

'We got another dog yesterday and he's got german and another kind of dog in it....'

*****

Undated

Hello Daddy,
'How are you this night I am getting used to my school now. Do you know how to get in toch with Ed. Nipper so I can send him a squirrel, because he wanted one. If we can't send him in the mail we can take him on vacation.'

*****

Early Fall

Hello Daddy
'......Uncle Willie killed 3 turkeys one morning in the river swamp. I would have called you on the phone but I forgot your number. Brother is doing fine and so is mother and sister....'

'......Daddy do you have that one shot 12 gadge shotgun you had? if you do will you give it to me for Christmas. I just heard the news man say it is going to drop in the low 30's tonight well daddy I have to get on my spelling words good-night.....'

*****

April

Hello Father,

'I have been alright so far, I like the books you sent me they are good. I sent off for Fur-Fish-Game I ought to get them soon....'

'....the school sent me my work to make up. I had a list of math, English & Soc. Std, and science I went back to the doctor and he said I was doing good and to come back to see him in two weeks. Mother is doing good....'

'....Have you got a phone in your house? Will you send me some field & streams magazines. father do you have any Zane Gray books. I got me some greatfruit trees, I planted them in cans...'

'....I read a story in a book of a man & negro who killed a allegator that was 14 feet 10 inches long and weighed 1,500 pounds. Our bird broke his toes....'

*****

June

Dear Father,
'I have sent you a peace I got out of a True Magazine and I hope you like it.'

*****

January

Dear Father,

'......I am thinking about runing a trapline down a creek behind our house for coons and skunks and maybe opossem to get money out of their fur and send it to a company by mail. I wrote Grandpa and ask him if he had any old traps left over from when he used to trap to send them to me. I am going to try and make some money this summer by odd jobs to buy the rest of my equipment. I am writing this letter at six:25 in the morning so I will have to close. Write soon.'
Love, Stephen

*****

June

Hi Pop.
'How are you doing this morning? I am alright. I have been cleaning dishes. Have I ever told you about our house. Well the kitchen has a gas stove and the bathroom has a shower instead of a bathtub and two of them lights that are long (underlined) and they are by the mirro. I wish you could come down to live. Our yard is big as a paster (pasture) that cows live in...'

'.....Daddy i have some gun blew (blue) that has 3/4 of it in the bottle that I found in some junk that I thought you would like to have. An daddy we have this old anteck (antique) pump that has an electtrick motor on it that you would get a kick out of if you see it. (Can you read the desperation in my words...) ....'An we have a little dog that is as mean as an alligator. Daddy it is fun down here their are fishing holes by the glower and lots of rabbits.

(The last sentence.)
' Daddy, mommy said she would have you if you got right with the Lord. (Underline five times.) So I wish you would. I wish you would. I love you father and I cannot find nothing else to say. Goodbye.

Your son,
Stephen

*****

My parents divorced shortly after.

Stephen


 






  

I Like

The television show, Pawn Stars.

I mean, they deal in firearms, gold and silver, and books. Often, during the show, the camera gives a view of a showcase filled with Navajo Silver jewelry - another of my likes which I've collected since the early 70's. 

What's not to like...

Stephen

A Blast From the Past

Want to read a fine investment article...one that deals with firearms and ammunition as a hedge against inflation? Good, sally forth.

I've preached the same practice for years. My friend, carteach0 hit one out of the park. The blog post was written a few years ago but stands the test of time. Trust me.

Stephen

I Know

I haven't posted in two days, sorry.

The construction outside my shop is giving me fits. The noise is awful. The workers are busy with the installation of new water transfer and distribution lines. As they lay the pipes one team moves in and compacts the soil by vibration...which in turn shakes my building. The vibrations are so bad it shook light bulbs from overhead fixtures. Imagine how I feel.

I complained to Sweet Wife. She said, "Honey, unload your gun."

Light bulbs aren't cheap. This construction project has cost my business in more ways than just the loss of light bulbs. I'm sick of it.

*****

I did not watch the Super Bowl. I read. Many, here, have asked why I don't like ball sports. My standard reply is something like, 'it's boring,' or 'don't know,' but really in truth, well, I just don't find it interesting.

I've always felt field sports, in any form, would be far more interesting and fun if only firearms were introduced to the game. Until then, I'll read, thank you very much indeed.

*****

An old timer just came in and asked for assistance. He'd just purchased, through private sale, a new to him Para P-12 .45. He removed the handgun from its case and demonstrated the fact he could not slide nor lock his handgun. The poor man grunted and turned red in the face from the effort. He's seventy-five, a Marine, and I knew the fact he'd asked for help was both humbling and humiliating.

The springs on P-12's are strong; its a small framed firearm and it indeed takes some effort to slide and lock. I noticed he had small hands and used only his forefinger and thumb of his left hand. I corrected his grip and told to push down with his right hand. After fifteen or twenty minutes we had success.

It's fun to watch a man swell with pride. I think he walked out on a cloud of air; big smile on his face. Bless him, so far he's made my day.

Today, if you run across (or into) an older Marine shake his hand or throw him a man hug. They've earned it.



Until later,

Stephen
 

Take It or Leave It, part two

Bare with me I've only had one cup of coffee this morning and this rusty middle-aged (heh) brain of mine isn't quite ready to function at full speed.

Yesterday we touched on the subject of keeping a low profile as gun owners, the importance of gun safes, and the strategy of nondiscrimination where it concerns the acquisition of firearms and ammunition. 

My good friend, Matt sent an email and asked if I'd comment on a subject we've all seen posted on various blogs many times over.

I'll use his term, 'Chest Thumping.' A very apt description, and silly. You've seen it - Mr. Blogger states to the world he's gonna kick some butt, shoot the black booted thugs at his front door when (not if) they arrive to take away his guns.

Really.

Remember the point I made in part one of keeping a low profile. First of all most of these so called bad-asses would, I'm sure, turn and run, as he screams for his mommy, after the first gunshot.

Secondly, if you plan to stand your ground and take on the massive fire power utilized and available to law enforcement and military you will achieve nothing more than the complete destruction of your home and the death of your family members. As an individual, you will lose.

Never announce your intentions to the enemy. All resistance against tyranny are birthed in silence.

I once met a gentleman small of physical stature. After our handshake he excused his height. I'd never met a man with such a self-depreciating attitude. He laid his heart and soul out to me and made excuses for his lack of physical ability. Near the end of  our talk I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, "Size isn't the measure of a man, it's the man's character and the goodness of his soul by which will be remembered and judged."

Deep waters run silent, but deadly.

*****

Let's move along. It's readily apparent our supply of firearms and related fodder have nearly run dry. In the meantime, as we wait for the warehouse to be resupplied, concentrate your efforts on spare parts and the other odd bits and pieces available. Don't tell me you cannot find spare parts. The UPS driver just left me a small package. It contained a nice lower parts kit. They're out there, you just need to knuckle down and search.

If in this search you only find a few springs, take them. Check the flea markets. The locals, those that live pay check to pay check are digging through the rubble of their homes and are now taking advantage in this over reaction to fear and with the sight of huge profits in their greedy little eyes are selling all things gunny. Jump.

I know, money is tight. But, if, and it's a big if, Biden and crew have their way, that three grand AR will bring six in the near future. At present I'm far more worried about magazines and ammunition. I have a simple strategy - I tell every person I meet of my wants. I give them a list which includes all those odd partial boxes of grandpa's ammo, any caliber. Those old moldy boxes of twenty-two and forty-five will last a good eighty years. I use the word, cash, and the cash is also here for those firearms stashed in their closets. It works. Take it or leave it but that's my advice.

Sorry folks but I need to cut this short. I just can't work with the interruptions and these continued interruptions keep the bacon on the table.

Later.

Stephen

If

The day ever arrives when the government knocks on your door and demands your firearms - how, pray tell, shall you respond.

Here, is a wonderful post by my friend Craig. Take a few minutes and read, please.

Then, think about it.

Stephen

Buy A Gun For Christmas

Patrice has written a fine piece here, please take a moment from your busy lives and read.

I concur....

Stephen

Unintended Consequences

If you consider yourself a member of the gun culture, blog about firearms, or are just a casual shooter then you should read this novel. If you haven't, well, shame on you.

Fair warning, it isn't for the simple minded.

Stephen

The Things We Hump

I don't clearly remember the circumstances but do recall it was late Fall when the light of day fades within a heartbeat. There were perhaps four or five of us standing around outside some big-box  business and one of the ladies was bent over examining a plant. I remember her asking my wife what it was and Sweet Wife said she couldn't read the label in the dark.
Without so much as a second thought I reach and withdrew my Surefire and hit the button allowing my wife to the read the tag on the rosebush.

Then, "Where in the heck did that come from?"  My wife, "Oh, Stephen carries all kinds of stuff, his pockets are full of junk."

Sadly, she was correct, I do carry a bunch of stuff. Many years ago a friend of mine asked why I always wear boots and dress just so and why in the world do I carry this or that. I replied that I wanted to be ready to help myself in case of any natural or man-made emergency. Sounds silly but it's the truth. I will not be caught with my pants down, so to speak.

A couple of days later this same man came into my shop and whipped out his newly purchased pocket knife. All proud and stuff.....and said he was following my lead. I smiled and said that's great, keep it up. As he was leaving he yelled back, "Hey, where can I find a folding saw?"

There are limits.

It isn't that big of a deal. As you are aware I do carry a handgun, with a spare magazine of ammo. I try and keep things simple. There is the Surefire flashlight, my knife, emergency cash along with my normal pocket  money (change in a leather drawstring bag) bandanna, my notebook, and a few other odds and ends plus my Blackberry. It takes a while for me to change my pants.

Hey, you never know when that folding saw will come in handy....as Martha Stewart said, "It's a good thing."

Okay, let me hear from you....what do you hump? Oh, if I fail to mention the notebook pictured above, my niece will shoot me. She bought it for me in Paris a couple of years ago and I love it...thank you Hannah.