Thanks & Welcome

Have you ever had the feeling you've forgotten an important detail or assignment. I feel this way now. So, just in case I've overlooked my friend, True Texan, please allow me to say thank you and welcome to my humble blog.

True Texan has a blog, here. It's a nice blog about homeschooling, cooking and survival. Please, jump over and say hello and tell her Stephen sent you.

Marie, my apologies if (I'm too lazy to check) I've overlooked you. You are in good company I have many Texans as friends....and now so are you, among friends.

Stephen

Just Walked Into My Shop

Here's another sign of the times. Nice fella just left the shop without his son's rifle. The man's son is grown and gone but he made the mistake of leaving his little .22 Rossi model 62 SA. She's a copy of the Winchester model 1890 'gallery' rifle. I'm sure many of you have been to the local fair and shot the yellow ducks or some such with the little pump/slide action rifles; like that. Forgive my poor photography, these shots were taken with my cell phone.

Seems the son owed his father money and times are hard. Son tells his father to sell whatever he wants of the items left behind. Dad said fine. So I paid about a third of the rifle's value. Such is life.

When he first gave me the rifle I asked if it was loaded. He replied no. So I removed the magazine and extracted thirteen rounds. I learned this lesson many years ago. Remember, boys and girls, a gun is always loaded.

The little rifle is in sad shape. Needs a deep cleaning and a good dose of gun oil. She's been sitting in a closet a long time. A small patch of pitting near the muzzle, dust, and she's as dry as Satan's butt. Still she preforms well, the action is smooth. She'll make a fine squirrel or zombie rifle.

Just before he left he asked if I had any use for a few boxes of ammunition.

Guess what I said....

Stephen

Stockpiling Ammunition

Without further commentary I give you,

Stephen

It's The Little Things

Yesterday, my day off,  I closed the shop early, climbed into my truck and pointed its nose towards Little Bit's school. Arrived early. I sat in line with the windows down and listened to the wind. My Kindle sat in my lap, the power off. I wanted, needed, a few peaceful hours with my grandchild.

She got in the truck, all smiles and giggles. I asked, "So, Little One, what's on our agenda for the afternoon?"

"Ice cream, Papa."

Should have known. We drove slowly along the marsh of the river and counted geese and ducks. We spoke of school and her activities of the day. Played 'spell the word.' I asked if there was anything besides ice cream she liked to have or anyplace she'd like to go or do before we drove home.

"Yes, Papa, I want some new books."

Me, all proud, my heart filled with joy at her reply. There isn't a doubt in my mind she takes after my side of the family....

There is a Salvation Army adjacent to the local Dairy Queen. I formulated a plan. Said, "Hey, how about we check out the Salvation Army for used books."

She glances over at me, said, "Papa."

"What, Honey."

"Nana always makes me wash them off before I can read them. How can I reads them before we eat ice cream?"

"Don't worry about it."

"But, Papa..."

I replied, "Nana's strange, Honey."

"Oh, okay."

Inside the Salvation Army she picked out about seven books. She selected each as if it were a treasure (and they are) then she'd walk over and gently place it in the basket, one at time...back for another, a Garfield here, a Strawberry Shortcake there, each carefully carried as if they were breakable. Me, all smiles.

Across the street at the Dairy Queen.

"Papa, I wants a chocolate sundae and you wants a banana split."

"Are you sure that's what I want?"

"Yes, I get half."

She turned around and took a seat with her new/used Garfield book.

I placed her ice cream on the table. She ignored it. I sat and watched this child, a girl of six, absorbed in a book as her sundae melted. Try and tell me there isn't hope for our future generations.

"Sweet Heart, eat your ice cream before it all melts."

"I will, Papa, just a second." She looks over at it, then mine. "Just make sure you save me some banana split."

I did.

We had a great afternoon.

Stephen

A Blued Eyed Baby

I don't often do this, but I'd like to introduce my best friends daughter. She's a very rare young lady; intelligent, grounded, and conservative. She also writes a great blog which hasn't had much exposure. I think she deserves it. She's Texan to the core. Please, take a run over and say, howdy.

These pretty blue eyes can be found here.

Stephen

I Want, Maybe

Just can't make up my mind which shotgun I want, perhaps this one....we'll see.

Stephen

Char Clothe for Flint and Steel

For many years I've tried to live by the rule of three; a backup to a backup to a backup. Life, being the hard mistress she is doesn't always allow us to follow this rule, but I try.

A couple of days ago, with full knowledge Sweet Wife (and let's admit it, yours truly) wanted a fire with the approach of our first nice cold front, I prepared a small tin for char clothe. As you know char clothe (carbon) made from one hundred percent cotton or other natural fibers is an excellent means of producing fire utilizing flint and steel.

I'll let my simple photography tell the story....

Use any old one hundred percent cotton t-shirt. In the picture above I used one of my twenty year old Jimmy Buffet shirts. You will need a small metal container with a tight fitting lid. Punch a small hole in its top to allow gases to escape. Don't forget the hole....cut small sections from the shirt.

Fill the tin, but not tightly...just fill it. The carbon sheets (when finished) will come out in layers.

Above, my cigar tin filled.

Notice the small hole in the middle of the tin....just large enough to allow the gases to vent. Your tin size isn't crucial. In the next picture you'll notice mine is fairly small.

Tools of the trade. A very good friend of mine attends yearly primitive mountain man events. A couple of years ago I asked if he'd bring me back a couple of steels and a few pieces of flint. I like the steels, the flint, not so much. The flint works, but I like mine in larger chunks. Small pieces tend to force you to work harder to produce sparks. Remember, the flint 'chips' off small portions of steel, the spark, with ignites the char clothe. Larger flint eases the task, and saves a lot of skinned knuckles. I prefer the steel to the left in this picture. The flint is just behind the steels atop the cotton strips.

 Above two pictures; one of the steels and how it fits my hand. It works, but it's not my favorite.

A nice piece of flint, kinda small but it will throw sparks. Notice the white ridge of stone running along the top of the black section of flint...it chips off easy...careful with your eyes.

I like this steel. It has heft....

Another shot of the second steel...notice how it fits my hand....not good.

Tin packed and into the fire. Don't worry about placement of the tin in the fire....so many preach it MUST sit atop glowing coals. Bull hockey. Just make sure the lid is tight, otherwise the cotton will burn too quickly. When the gases finish venting from the hole, it's finished and ready to be pulled from the fire. Let it sit and cool. Mine glowed cherry red at the end. Don't panic.

Finished. Now you have char clothe.

A single piece of char clothe ready to accept a spark from your flint and steel. Once you have a glowing spark in the clothe, gently blow and place in your 'bird's nest' of tender and you have fire.

See those two glowing white eyes....if seen with the naked eye they'd be red...these are the product of a couple of sparks from my flint and steel and after the char had cooled. It sits on my fireplace mantle.

If you've found this interesting, and I hope you have, run over to YouTube or other primitive sites and blogs and do a bit of research. I know in a world filled with good old Zippos and Bics it my seem silly or far fetched to use flint and steel to start fires, but at least you'd have a skill few others possess much less understand. And besides, it's fun.

If all else fails, flick that Bic.

Stephen