Update

Thank you all very much for your kind words, thoughts and prayers for my father.

He received three stints today. He is well.

My father is a tough old coot and I'm sure he'll be back on his feet soon.

Stephen

Get Ready

I hate it but I'm willing to bet Zero wins. Get your battle rifle while you still have a chance.

Heck, if I were you I'd purchase three or four.

Stephen

Ten Minutes

Was all the time I needed this morning to vote. I hit the deck, early, showered and dressed and was out the door into the rain and darkness because the 'media' said voters were sure to stand in line for hours to cast their ballot.

I was lucky and quickly found a place to park my truck. I dashed (for me a quick walk) through the rain. In and out.

Don't listen to the media. They're liars. Please, vote.

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

Sunday

I've just built a pot of bean soup and placed it to simmer, Sweet Wife is on her way to church without me and Romney is giving a speech and we're back to Standard Time. Life continues.

Not much on my agenda today. Hopefully my dear wife, when she returns, will allow me to tinker on my current restoration project, but I dream. I'm sure she'll want me to accompany her on some day trip, probably we'll find ourselves lost in an area antique mall. Oh well, maybe I'll stumble across something Coleman or firearms related.

Rambling...

Today marks five months since I've seen my heart. Five months. Soon she'll be eight years old. Hard to believe. I wonder, how much has she grown. Is she happy. Is she loved.

We have received word she's a straight 'A' student within the public school system. When this bit news arrived I thought, 'What did they expect.'

*****

Hey, maybe later.

Stephen

Change

I have decided to make a change in my comments settings. I have limited comments to only those readers registered with Google.

 I hate it, but cannot in all good conscience stand by while those readers posting under 'anonymous' leave disturbing comments.

Please, register with Google if you'd like to leave civil comments. I do welcome all reader opinions. I do not edit reader opinions and indeed welcome them, but please keep them civil.

Civil discourse and debate need not be reduced to name calling and hateful mud slinging, and I shall not allow it on my blog. 

I truly hope this isn't a hardship for my readers. And, I'm sorry but I feel this change very necessary.

Stephen

Mr. Sam

He seldom speaks, Mr Sam. He's an old man at eighty-eight and short and semi-bald with just a fringe of gray hair, and he's very wealthy. He earned his money the hard way.

I didn't know these simple facts until yesterday. Or, I should say I wasn't aware of his personal history. I knew his was old, and bent, and sported gray hair and I also knew he had money, just not the extent of it.

Mr. Sam usually walks in and remains in the background, especially if others are in the room. He'll walk around and read the bulletin board, gaze at the artwork, or just sit and read. He's quiet. Yesterday was different. It was just the two of us.

Me, "Good morning, Mr. Sam. I like your tie." He's dapper, Mr. Sam.

"Thank you. My wife, she likes to dress me." I smiled.

Then, "Mr. Sam, may I ask where you were born?" He has a very distinctive accent.

"I was born in Palestine. My father, he bring us to this country when I'm a young man. I love this country. We arrive in New York and we live there for until after the war."

"World War two," I asked.

 "Yes. I served and fought for my new country. I'm proud when I arrive home to this my new country. I then invest in real estate and now we are happy. It was all good until nine-eleven when the planes they hit the buildings in New York."

I waited, unsure. He takes a deep breath. He continued, "It's nice how the military men when they arrive home, now, are treated well. We too were treated well and it is as it should be for they are heroes like we were after the war."

Me, "In which campaign did you fight, Mr. Sam?"

"Europe. I fight in many places. You've heard of the Battle of the Bulge? I was there."

"What happened after nine-eleven? You mentioned all was well until then."

Mr. Sam turned and took a seat. He releases the middle button on his jacket and then smoothed his tie and shifts back in the chair. His old watery eyes look into mine.

"The people here treat us very badly. They call us names. We are Americans. I raise my children to be good Americans. I own much of this city; many shopping centers, land, and houses. I own the condo building at the beach where we live, pay much in taxes. I fight for my country. Yet, they call us Arabs, murderers, terrorists."

He paused. Then he points a finger at me. "And, you, my friend, you Mr. Stephen, even you put one of those stamp things on your front door. It said, 'License to shoot terrorists,' which hurt my feelings."

Damn.

"You know, Mr. Stephen, we hid in our home. My whole family, we hide for weeks. We are afraid to leave house afterwards because we are shamed and scared someone treat us badly or worse yet, shoot at us. You remember afterwards how people were mad at anyone from the Middle East? You remember that, don't you?"

I said, "Yes, Sir."

He continued, "Here I am born in Palestine, the cradle of civilization where the West meets the East in that beautiful land that is taken from us by the Jews, a land where I still have relatives. To this day I do not return as it isn't the same. It isn't the same, Mr. Stephen, because I am an American."

By this time I'm sorry I had asked any question. I changed the subject and he left the building a few minutes later.

Just before he left I said, "I'm sorry."

He smiled.

Shame, hurts.

Stephen