Friday, February 28, 2014

The Cat

Is orange of color and usually sits atop the raised drain field behind the shop. It's a sunny location and I'm sure she likes its warmth and the proximity to game hidden under the sparse brush. She's a fine cat, regal.

I like her.

If I carefully step outside and am slow of movement and advance no further than the shop's doorstep she remains in place, still, alert. I feed her tidbits of this and that; often bits of my lunch. She likes egg salad, sardines. She'll stand and then stretch, forepaws extended, then step forward and sit and curl her tail forward around her front paws and wait with a very intense gaze....if, I move forward, even an inch, she'll scoot the roost and vanish as if by magic.

My offerings of meals must be placed at the shop's rear entrance, just so. She'll wait until I close the door before she slinks her way forward. At the edge of the drain field she'll pause and reconnoiter the grounds. From my vantage inside at the back window I'll watch as she takes her free meal, all tidy and neat and afterwards there to sit and clean. She refuses the dish of water I've placed just in case.

I'd like to be her friend. The shop needs a cat - a shop cat. She'd look nice on the window sill and fun to have underfoot and keep me company in the slow hours of the day. I like cats. They're independent and have little need for humans. They grace us with their company. They're badasses.

My last shop cat kept me company for twelve years. Her name was Lonesome. It's time for another and I intend, or better yet, shall try, and tame this orange bundle of fur.

Wish me luck.


'Dose Words So Hard to Read

I was recently informed that a few of my post are too long, difficult to read.

So, how's this for brief.


Thursday, February 27, 2014

By Lamplight

She departed this morning for points north. Said her mother was lonely and will spend the rest of the week.

She didn't ask if I'd be lonely.

So I believe I'll occupy my time with my book and read by lamplight. It gives a certain warmth to an otherwise quiet dark night.


Isn't Life Wonderful

(Dedicated to Sarah and Mike.)

This morning I awoke to a wonderful world. God has given us a nice cool cloudy morning and the pollen has my allergies on full alert which keeps my nose on a regulated drip. When I jerked my first cup of the day I dripped a long line of coffee across the wife's white tile floor. Both The Drudge Report and Fox News report possible hostilities in the Ukraine. Much of our nation is under a cold blanket of white and Susan's old goat died. She reportedly cried for three days. She emailed and said her will to live and work the land of her organic free range homestead had come to an end, and asked what price should she paint on the for sale sign.

Take it easy. Relax, for Pete's sake.

Millions across this great country are without work, or purpose, and find the meaning of life pointless. 'Ole Harry Sanders, out in his desert cabin, found dried mouse turds in his beer. It's said he almost commented suicide over the waste of it. Marriage has become secondary to the thrill of momentary lust. The lack of funds, money problems and corporate layoffs, have taken a great toll on otherwise rock solid relationships. Hundreds of thousands have lost their healthcare and suffer pain needlessly.

Want my advice. Smile. Cheer the heck up. Pet your dog and kiss your wife. Take your grandchildren, or your pet, for a walk. Enjoy the snow, or the rain, or the gray black satin city streets and while you're there, reach over and give your neighbor a handshake. God is good - He's given you life.

Granted, we live in a changed America. Yes, we have beyond a shadow of a doubt the most inept destructive presidential administration in our nation's history, but trust me, we'll walk out together, hand in hand, from the other side.

I receive, as Little Bit is fond of saying, 'whole lots of email.' Many I truly enjoy. Others, not so much because the latter are inevitably filled with lost hope and most of all, fear. They begin, "Mr. Stephen, Harry lost his job and we just don't have enough money to buy beans and bullets and our bread has grown moldy and what should we do? Oh my Lord we're scared and the world is about to end, please help us." I paraphrased, of course. Bless their hearts.

(I write this tongue in cheek but I take your letters seriously, and with respect, and treat all confidentially.)

Hey, folks, chill out. Smile. Take a deep breath and relax. Trust me, if the world ends tomorrow a bag of beans will not help you one little eddy bit. Several years in the past I gathered together a group of friends. It took me over four years but eventually I found several nice families with like minded world views much like mine own. I restricted my search to hardened military minds, men of violence. My first advice to these men, are you ready for it - 'Don't Live In Fear, Live Prepared.' Today each of these men, some combat vets, are gentle, intelligent, fun loving, men. They walk through life with a smile on their faces and live life to its fullest.

Why, because they are not afraid. They take life's lumps with heads held high, and because they know the rest of the group has their backs and God will provide. They don't complain. They don't whimper and cry for they know tomorrow will be another beautiful day under His beautiful benevolent care.

No person need walk through life in constant fear, it isn't healthy. Just because you're a Prepper (or Survivalist) do not allow the lifestyle to badge you paranoid. You have friends, family, and if you are a believer in a higher power - God and His church.

Paranoid gives birth to fear and fear is a sneaky old bitch. It warps the gray matter and whispers bad advice. It'll make you climb trees for sleep and one morning you'll awaken to find you've lined the walls of your home with canned tomatoes and you'll have coated your underwear with lead and when you glance into the mirror find loaded magazines dangle from your ears instead of those pretty diamonds Jesse gave you for Christmas.

Hey, relax. I'm here. I too suffer from depression and I still function, sort of. I'll be your friend. If you must, write me. I'm well aware times are difficult and the unemployment check is late or is about to reach its expiration date, but please hang in there - you are loved. You will find a new job.

Which brings me to this: those prepping supplies will wait. When money is tight - take a friggin break. It isn't necessary to buy twenty extra rounds of ammunition. Leave off on the beans and pressure bandages. Stockpiling that extra one hundred gallons of gasoline can wait until next Spring. Take care of your children and families. Pay the mortgage and utilities, the end of the world as we know it will be placed on hold, I promise.

If the evil whispers in your ear and suggest it would be a wonderful idea to take your battle rifle and walk towards the school grounds with ill intent - please pause a moment and sit and write me an email. I will listen. If this same evil has painted your life into a corner and believes it's best if you offer your God given life as a sacrifice, please remember I will be here - allow me a moment to suggest otherwise. Walk outside for just a second and take a deep breath of our Lord's clean air and look at that sky, isn't it beautiful. Listen to the birds sing. Hold a child in your arms. Bake a batch of cookies. I promise - life is wonderful and tomorrow the cherry blossoms will bloom.

Be happy.




Wednesday, February 26, 2014

What's For Dinner

I'm in the mood for shrimp. Spicy shrimp -



Nothing As Yet

Other than this cool steady rain. We've gone from Spring warmth to early Autumn nice.

Allow me, please, to have my first cup. I slept late.


Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Light 'em Up

To all you nice mall ninjas out there I'd like your recommendations and thoughts on a nice rifle light. What do you prefer and why?

Help me out.

I'm in the mood to shoot coyotes. Care to join me, if so BYOA.


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.



Monday, February 24, 2014

Take A Guess

Take a look at this awful cell phone snapshot and guess where and what I've done for the better part of my day....go ahead, take a guess.

Sadly we have become victims of our new healthcare system. We're now under a new plan and I had to change doctors - both primary and cardiologist. Today was 'get to know you' day. Said, "Howdy, Doc." Then had to have all my prescriptions renewed. What a crock.

Oh yes, you're day's a coming.....


Sunday, February 23, 2014

Little Bit

First I must apologize to the nice readers that commented on my post, 'I'll Catch You.' Today I goofed and deleted the post. Total accident, but no big deal. I'll live. Unfortunately all your nice comments went unanswered. Sorry, and thank you for your time.

Now, as you know our granddaughter recently had her ninth birthday. Here's a picture Sweet Wife received this evening from our son. She holds one of our gifts....just wanted to share.

My goodness, it appears my Heart will be a tall slim young lady.


Fireside in a River Swamp

Until I have time to collect my thoughts here's a little video I shot last evening. Listen carefully for the little Peepers in the background.

Until then.


Friday, February 21, 2014

Too Much Stuff, And a Request

You know you have too much stuff when you find a black bag filled with firearm magazines that fit several different firearms you're not even sure you still own.

The bag, marked Glock, was found under a box. The box contained, in no special order, a rifle scope, one full fifty round box of Winchester .44 magnum, ditto box of Federal .40, and two nice 1911 mags - one held four rounds of .45 hollow points. Never mind the vintage box of Remington .38 special sold circa 1960. Nice collectable box.

 I need therapy. This lost and found treasure thing happens far too often for my comfort.

Now, may I ask you, my nice readers for a favor? Pretty please.....if you have the time, when you are out and about your chores would you please price check the asking price of a one gallon can of Coleman Camp Fuel. Not the little plastic 32oz bottles, the cans. Even off brands. The fuel is normally sold at Wally World, K-Mart, and almost all hardware and sporting goods stores.

I'd really like to hear from my European and Asian readers too. I know you're out there. And, for my reader in Diego Garcia....what uniform do you wear? Been there and done that, my friend.

My friend Senior checked his local Wal-Mart late this afternoon and said the price was $12.98 here, quite a huge increase in cost over last year.

Thank you all, very much for you time and effort.



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 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 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.




A Penny Here, A Penny There

And pretty darn soon you've a dollar in your pocket. Folks that know me, I mean really get down to the gut level of my soul know me, aren't surprised when I bend to retrieve a misplaced or lost penny from the ground or floor. The way I look at it I've just found, depending on the coin, four cents.

Here's the thing - not so much of late. The stray Lincolns are have gone into hiding. I've only found three in the last few weeks. (Here, talk amongst yourselves for a moment....gander on the possible reasons for this rare phenomenon. I need to jerk a cup of coffee.)

Ah, better. Bet that got your attention, didn't it. I goofed and posted this sucker before I was finished - hence the coffee.

Back to subject. So lost and dropped coins have become rare....why? Now this is only my humble opinion and like the old but tried and true statement, we all have one, I believe it's simple - people need every single penny they can possibly find. When flush, ah, what's a lousy one cent piece worth to them...chump change. A stray dime, forget about it. Let the bums have it.

Just outside the door to my local market, embedded in the asphalt of their parking lot, I know where a Mercury dime has sat for at least two years. Its two thirds covered. I'm still hard at work to figure out a way to free it with chisel and hammer. It bugs me. But, then again, I'm one of those poor poor victims of this government's ineptness.

Just my two cents.


Thursday, February 20, 2014

For Her Birthday

Her Nana stepped outside, and alone in silence, watched as the sun slipped into darkness across this wide river.

I left her to it. Some certain heartaches must be dealt within the empty expanse of ones soul.


This is Awful

I know and I shouldn't rub it in but we're under eighty-three degree sunlight. The fallen oak leaves are thick and the wind directs the little brown pieces of flutter here and there but the smell of mast is wonderful.

I'm this close (picture my pinched fingers) to hanging a closed sign. I would much rather be home in my garage where I could tinker on my restoration projects. Yet, here I sit.

I want a big cast iron skillet of cornbread this evening....she made soup, and its delicious.

Catch you on the flip side.



This is a sorry excuse for a lunch.

And that's all I'm saying 'bout that....


Little Bit

I wish you a wonderful and happy ninth birthday. Papa misses you.

Maybe one day soon.

All my love,


Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Blah...'s how I feel. Just plain old simple, blah. I've been on my feet all day, they hurt....blah. I'm home and can't read because of this stupid idiotic music program my wife loves and I can't say a word....blah, blah, blah.

I'm too tired to work on my projects...blah. Get it.

Maybe I should take a seat in the garage, raise the door and sit and just listen, perhaps the owls will sing, one to the other. If I'm lucky there will be a salt marsh breeze off the river with the scent of mud and marsh grass and fiddler crabs. Maybe a stray raccoon will amble inside and keep me company; it happens, they beg for food. There's a chance a possum will join them...I have hand fed a possum. It was little and took the food delicately from my fingertip as if a gift from angels.

Here I sit with the smell of turpentine and distilled alcohol. It's warm out here under the oaks and the stars bright. Spring in Florida. Next weekend I will sit next to a fire truly under the stars and if I'm lucky I will hear the song of whippoorwills and coyotes and watch deer feed by headlight. If God is good He'll provide rain which will dance a magic tune on the old metal roof of our bunkhouse and I'll sleep as if death has taken me. Rainfall on a tin roof should only be experienced by those appreciative of the Lord's wonderful outdoors.

Others will sit about the fire. My friends. Good men. We'll talk well into the night...cigars will glow after a good oak grilled chunk of beef. Steaks fit for men. Coffee, always. Gentle talk, as is fit for the quiet of the woods. I will sit quietly, as is my way, and listen to these men of leather and iron. I'll listen as they clear their throats and sip the coffee and lie about adventures so many years in the past, and true tails of world traveled weary men in service to our country. I'll listen with half an ear but my vision will be captured by that night sky from where I sit in my chair under the pines and oaks, and I may even drift quietly out into the darkness to the waters edge and lose myself and escape this world of blah.

Sorry, I tend to ramble...



It's a bit after noon and finally I have my first break of the day. Isn't capitalism wonderful.

Unfortunately this, my humble blog, will suffer as I've found another distraction...

Netflix has the second series of House of Cards available for binge viewers, like me.

If you haven't as yet indulged, do so. Its worth the effort.


Tuesday, February 18, 2014

I Want

When you are walkabout at your local flea market or garage sale and you find a lantern with this plate attached, buy it.

Here's the lantern...

Its a Sears lantern manufactured by Preway (Prentiss-Wabers) fairly rare. In this condition she's worth about fifty dollars (US) but I'd be a buyer at thirty.

Now, get out there and find a nice example....then send it to me.

I promise, when it arrives I'll dance at your next wedding....promise.


Really, I'm a Bad Boy

I've often written I read my Kindle in church. This isn't an endorsement of such behavior;  simply the facts of my short attention span during the service. To all you sinners out their - knock it off. Don't follow my poor example.

Anyhow, here's a picture I snapped last Sunday of my Kindle...what you can't see is Sweet Wife's tiny and gentle flicks to my side nor her elbow planted firmly in my ribcage - she's mean like that.

I was reading for the umpteenth time, Winter. (Or is it Deep Winter, by Thomas Sherry?) Google it if you're interested. Again, sit straight and give full attention to the minister. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.

Hey, beats my behavior as a teen when in church I'd smuggle copies of Henry Miller novels into church. My mother never had a clue.


Good Morning

Busy, busy, busy here. This is my payment for yesterday's slothful attitude. I haven't time to read, write, or even stand here and appear beautiful as much as like to try and do so.

If you've asked why the new header....the group and I will wiggle our way to the woods next weekend for steaks, a nice campfire, and of course, range time. If the river rides high, maybe we'll catch a few catfish.



Monday, February 17, 2014

Almost Sunset

We've just settled in for the evening after a fine dinner of last nights leftovers. It's been a productive day. I cleaned the garage, and with my wife's help, climbed the ladder to the attic and made room for junk that's accumulated over the last few months.

After I cleared and organized my work bench I took out the next Coleman stove on my restoration list. She's another 425C, an older model with folding red legs. Oddly enough I can't find a date stamp on the ears. Strange. Anyway, another project is underway.

Warning - I'm about to post a string of pictures..a whole dadgum bunch, be warned.

Before I forget here's a few photos for Vicki. She, and another reader, expressed interest in the little Coleman 502. Vicki, here's mine with full  kit and papers. I also took a few pics of my tiny Canadian baby, a Peak.

Here's the 502 with the smaller of the two cook pans atop. The lid serves as a fry pan and the bottom as a deep pot. 

Above - she's tucked for travel.

Here's the small backpack Peak.

Since I found this little booger with a bit of fuel in the tank I set match to flame. I normally keep the tanks empty. It isn't good to store fuel in the stoves when they're stored.

Above, legs out.

Peak is a product of Coleman Canada. They're readily available on Ebay. When lit these little babies really roar and will boil a pot of water lickety-split.

I spent the rest of the day at work on the 425C. Here she is, in parts. One of the previous owners, obviously an Obama supporter, slapped a heavy coat of paint over the original finish. Sure didn't make my job any easier.

Above, my temp work table. Don't mind the Glock as I was expecting a Craigslist buyer. Hey, you never know...
Below, ugly isn't it. The body is beneath the lid, tank behind. 

Above, the tank partially striped. About a days worth of labor yet before it's ready for primer.


It's a dirty job.

Several hours and two cuts and one skinned knuckle later we arrive here. The first coat of primer.

Now, let's change gears. Like many of you out there I keep strike anywhere matches in my preps...several cases in two different sizes. When it came time to fire the little Peak stove I went inside and broke out a small case of these...

Then proceeded to lite a took four attempts to make fire. They fizzled, sputtered, glowed, but failed to flame. The fifth match worked.

Be warned. These matches have been sealed and stored under climate controlled conditions. Word to the wise.

Like I said, it was a nice day. The weather was perfect and with the garage door open the wind felt fresh and warm. I was able to take the generator out and freshen its fuel and put a load on it for twenty minutes or so. Then there was the fact I had a day off work and didn't even miss it. The time spent with my wife was priceless.

Now, I'm aware for many of you out there this restoration stuff is boring as all get out...sorry. If anyone is interested I'll try and document my progress on the restoration of this little camp stove. It'll take time as I will only work on her in my spare time - probably evenings after work and Sunday afternoons, Lord willing.

Take care, my friends.