Just A Ramble

Yesterday's weather surprised me. When I stepped outside I'd expected temps well over ninety degrees but instead found light eighties with a stiff breeze off the river (west) and within seconds realized my breath consisted of water vapor instead of air. Instant sweat.

In spite of it there was music; cicadas; always in late summer the little and very old bugs provide a background beat. A squirrel chattered above me. The little sucker was busy with his meal of pinecones which they cut this time of year to then drop on my lawn. Several redwinged black birds, deep in a cove off the river, sang their beautiful unique song and it brought forth intense memories of my youth. Summer....isn't for wussies, and I dislike it very much, but it has its moments.

***

My yard work took several hours, a gallon of water, two or three sessions of milk crate rest stops, and a couple of breaks just to dink around in my garage. On one of those water breaks I noticed a wood box I'd liberated from my elderly father's old gunshop.

For some odd reason the color didn't appeal to me. And the 'target loads' just didn't cut it. So I changed it. The lawn mower sat and cooled.

Better, nice shade of Coleman green. Lord knows the age of the box. Now it will hold spent ammo brass. When I slipped it into my truck it had a nice bundle of .45 casings. Treasure.

***

Ten minutes into the yard work my shirt was soaking wet. So, I stopped, again, and changed shirts and the bandana I'd tied around my head and took another break.  My butt took on the pattern of the milk crate. Boredom took hold so I stood and stepped over to my cluttered reloading bench and fondled another piece of history I'd rescued last Sunday.

This old Hot Pot was manufactured sometime way back when by a C. Palmer. It was found on my Dad's workbench next to a pile of lead. It really serves no purpose, I'll never use it, still I put it to a wire wheel and plugged her in and within a few minutes her element turned blood red. She'll melt lead for sure.

***

Finished the mower work and took the gas trimmer to the edges of the lawn. Found a fireant bed and played with them for a few minutes until I realized the trimmer string had slung the little demons all over my pant legs....I'm sure the Good Lord had a plan for the pint sized evil sonsabitches but I'll be damned if I can figure their purpose.

Took yet another break. Fixed the broken garage ceiling fan, moved a few items around and remembered another one of my 'finds.'

She's a very old Lyman Ideal lube and sizing press. Bit rusty but I think she'll dress out well indeed. The lube around the shell extractor is still pliable. Probably manufactured sometime in the late 1950's or 60's. Doubt I'll ever use it, still it's a part of my father's life and I'll never part with it.

While in the gunshop last Sunday I found another Lyman single stage press. It was firmly bolted to a long bench and I've plans to return and rescue it too.

Above is the little pile of lead I brought home...only about fifty or so pounds. He'd offered me a hundred pounds but I didn't want to appear greedy. Next time I'll take two hundred.

I did find three sets of dies, didn't need 'em, took them anyway as I wanted to clean and keep them as backups.

Most of the old gunshop has been cleared out, moved to his new homestead, but so much remains. The interior of the shop was heavy with heat which made it very difficult to work inside. Still, I packed out quite a bit of stuff.

We found several old bags of paper and cork shotgun wads, tons of various gauge shotgun hulls, and an old shotshell press I'd purchased back in the early seventies since dismantled and stored high on one of the shelves....why I left it I'll never know but it will come home. Sucker was expensive, then. Can't imagine what a new one would now cost.

***

I've a headache and need another cup of coffee...back in a second.

(Two hours and two customers later, I'm back.)

This blog sure eats my time....anyway, when I work I tend to daydream, write short stories, think about problems. My body switches to autopilot. I also, often, remember the past, my youth. Perhaps you too do the same.

When I dream or write or remember I most often wish I could stop and pull a notebook from my pocket and take pen to paper; capture those flitting sparkles of my mind...but alas it never proves out.

So many great diamonds lost to the weakness of my memory. I too often write when I take to my bed for a nights rest. There too I write short stories or the first few words of that great novel I'm sure will make the New York Times best seller list. Never happens. Daydreams usually cost me sleep, and  travels in the universe of my dreams are instead wasted under cotton sheets.

 ***


Afterwards, when the mower had been cleaned, the yard and drives and walkways blown clear of debris, I sat in the garage soaked to the skin in sweat and had sucked down most of a gallon of cold water - too darn tired to rise and walk inside to a cool shower.

She arrived home to find me in my sad state. She parked the car, said, "Are you okay?"

I smiled. "Yes, just lost in thought."

"I see the ceiling fan works."

"Nice of you to notice."

She walked over and placed her hand on my forehead, "You shouldn't work on ladders when you're alone, you might fall."

"No big deal. I always have my dreams to keep me company."


Stephen


 

A Ramble

I hear a mockingbird's song, the tick tick tick of the timepiece above my desk. The sound of light traffic, and now a titmouse, or not. I hear the strong wind as it shifts the bracket of my old thermometer against the window frame. The squeak of my chair as I shift, and if I listen very closely, my breath. I hear the rattle of my silver bracelet when I move my wrist to type this...and I hear my keyboards padded strokes. Yet I grow deaf with age.

There was once a grove of gray-backed oaks with limbs heavy with Spanish moss. The grove was locally known for its high population of Fox and Gray squirrels and my bother and I hunted there as often as possible.

My brother was a pissant.

I, the eldest by four years, was wise and gave great counsel to my younger and height challenged sibling. I demanded, as befitted my status as older brother, obedience and discipline. Younger brother balked. He defied me. Me, a man of twelve whole years of life on this earth. The mighty mountain man of Florida and great slayer of the deadly saber-toothed squirrel. As was my birthright I'd correct his behavior, his sniveling disregard for my instructions, by a well placed palm against his noggin. Properly applied the results were most remarkable.

Early one frosty morning we eased from the house and moved as one towards the ancient live oak grove. We followed the creek bank and our boots squeaked in the pure white sand and the trees were alive with the drums of woodpeckers and always the scent of pine and oak mast and the water gave mist in the November chill.

Thirty minutes found us deep in a patch of palmettos our backs towards the gray bark and our shotguns close. He'd wiggle. Shift, and readjust his placement. Sniffle. Cough. Wiggle again. How many times had I suffered such misbehavior here in the cathedral of squirrel...my patience was worn to a razors edge. I smacked.

The blow landed like a small cannon to his right ear. He screamed. The birds took wing and the small game froze and our hide thus revealed. He continued to yell bloody murder so I whipped out another blow. Hey, you don't mess with older brothers.

He settled, stilled. Grew quiet. Contemplative. He gave me, a look. The sun had barely broken the eastern rise as we shared a thermos of coffee. Swift glances in his direction revealed one very disturbed boy. Some seconds later hr gently placed his coffee on a stump, took his single shot .410 in hand, and rose to full height. My brother, the peon, looked at me and said, "I'm gonna shot you in the ear."

"No you're not."

He smiled.

I asked, "You serious?"

Sometimes you just know.

He drew back the hammer on his Western Auto shotgun.

Quick as a snake I took to my feet and turned to run. Within two steps the muzzle blast just kissed the other edge of my right ear. It brought me to my knees. My world became one with pain. I did not hear the distant bird song nor the wind or the rustle of underbrush as I shifted my hands for purchase. I did not hear the creek's early morning flow, nor the hammer of the woodpecker, and for a brief few seconds, truly felt I'd never again hear mine own heartbeat.

 He disappeared into the brush and trees.

We're older now and all is forgiven. To this day neither of us turns our backs on the other when shotguns are present. And, he's still a pissant.

Stephen





   

Pitter Patter

One cold windy Saturday afternoon the two of us were settled snugly with books and soft music, quiet, other than an occasional snap and crackle from the fireplace. I was deep in a biography of Hetty Green and Sweet Wife her Sunday school lesson.

I was content. Well as content as could be with the constant pitter patter of friggin squirrels at a dead gallop back and forth over our roof in their ceaseless fight over mates - breeding season, don't 'ya know....

Bounce, bang, flutter. Smack, another acorn. I'd listen as the nut gathered speed and rolled into the gutter with a tinny ping. Back to book. Repeat.

Me, "I've about had it with the darn squirrels."

"Oh, I think they're beautiful. It's just their play time." Typical, from her.

I tried, I really did try to ignore them. Pretended the squirrel antics nothing more than a minor distraction from my book. Ever so often she'd glance in my direction, with the look - as if to say, mind yourself, boy.

Bam, scamper, squeak, flutter....over and over and over. I threw the book aside and rose and walked straight into our office and grabbed my little pump Rossi. Back in the family room I went for the French doors that give to the deck...."Stephen." Like that. Just, "Stephen." All stern like, voice of authority. A rebuke.

"What?"

"No."

"No, what?"

My Sweet Wife said, "You - Will - Not - Harm - Those - Wonderful - Creatures - of - God."

I stepped outside and shot five within thirty seconds.....hand on Bible. The tree was loaded with furry fat little pieces of tasty meat. Five shots, five down. Flipped out my pocket knife and field dressed those tasty little suckers quicker than you can wink.

She didn't speak to me for an hour.

I had a nice quiet evening, with Hetty.

Stephen

Quiet Morning

I've next to nothing to say this morning...it's quiet and I'm soaking in the peace of it. Sweet Wife has returned to work. This is the first time in about twelve days I've been alone. The day nurse arrives later this morning to change my bandages, poke and prod, and repack.

She still has a hard time understanding the shelves of books. She asked me why certain volumes were dressed in archival plastic. I explained the books in question are first editions. Blank stare. So I changed direction and told her they were special and the plastic gave the books protection.

"Protection from what? They're just books."

"The elements, people's dirty hands, dust."

Blink, blink. Cow eyes.

"Are 'da expensive?"

I pointed towards one, said, "That book only had a first printing of two thousand copies. Half went to libraries. The others were sold from the trunk of the author's vehicle. Half of those were destroyed by misuse. I only know of two on the market. I own one. That book is worth two grand."

"Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty, a book be worth 'dat much money?"

"Yes." I said. She shakes her head and mumbled, "I done heard it all now."

Me too.

I'm several chapters behind on The Union Creek Journal, and with all this silence, I'll have a chance to jump back into the adventure. You can find the story, here.

If conditions warrant, I might just sneak outside and pop some squirrels from my garage. My trigger finger is itchy.  

Later, it's time for another cup of coffee. Take care, my friends.

Stephen

Bits and Pieces

A Nor'easter is blowing here, some light rain and fairly stiff breezes. After the geeks left this afternoon I went out to do a couple of chores and after my garage door fully opened I noticed a pile of debris on my driveway. Went about my business. Came back a few minutes later and a baby squirrel had made itself at home between two of my spare gas cans. The debris was its nest. Little critter shivered and had a bloody nose. For a second I thought about biscuits and squirrel gravy....
I went and grabbed one of my old leather gloves and bent and gently gathered the juvenile furball in my hand half expecting it to fight and bite. It surprised me. It simply sat there as if accepting its fate. I walked it out and placed it at the foot of the tree where I'm sure its nest had been prior to the winds. Afterwards I went inside and came back out with my Blackberry and it posed for me. It took some encouragement on my part to get the little booger to climb. Hope he makes it. Squirrel season is just around the corner and it needs size.

 While unloading a load of 'stuff' and preps from our Sunday visit to Costco I noticed something odd with my travel trailer battery pack. The top was slightly off and when I looked inside the battery appeared to have blown up. Cracked wide open. Sent text to my friends to ask their expert opinions. Senior Chief thinks it just overcharged, and my buddy ShooterSteve said much the same. I think they'er both on the right path and I'll just add our hard summer heat to the equation. Marine/RV batteries aren't cheap. Guess I'll send an email to Washington and ask for a bit of that stimulus money.

This is the first time I've used my laptop, at home, to write and post using wi/fi.  It feels, well, weird....but nice too. My home is now wired for the twenty first century. Gone all metro-sexual and stuff....big screen television with it ability to suck on the wi/fi signal, my Kindle (which I'm quickly beginning to enjoy, btw) and now my laptop. Since Sweet Wife and yours truly both use cell phones (land line is gone) I suppose we'll be victims of mother nature or some strange man-made disastrous situation sooner or later, and have zero comms when needed. Little dishes pointed towards the heavens rule our lives.

I like to give a quick thanks and welcome to my friend Russell for hitting my 'follower' button. Now, make a few comments and you'll be an official member of the club. Thank you, Bubba.

Stephen