Under For A Spell

Late Sunday night I began to feel awful. Some kind of bug. I've been under for a while and am now back at work. Sorry for the quiet spell. I'll get around to all the blogs sometime today. Just an FYI.

Stephen

John Roye, Repost

It's the smell, or is the feel, perhaps it's the comfort of leather that turns me on, not plastic.

I own thirty or forty holsters made of leather; vintage and new. I've worn a leather holster for most of my life and changed them, depending on the model of handgun which holds my fancy, more times than I care to remember. My former love was a Galco small-of-the-back unit without a retention strap for my Glock. Now, it's a John Roye model.

I own many handguns but for some reason or the other I just didn't own a holster for each model, probably just laziness on my part, until a friend of mine made a custom job for another friend.

It was a pure work of art.

So, I commissioned my friend, John Roye, for the use of his skills and ordered custom pieces for each of my holster-less handguns.

He made each holster of fine grained cow-hide with linings of pigskin, soft as a baby's bottom. The lining gently accepts the firearm without marring its finish. John makes them to your specifications; for instance I distaste retention straps. When I present my gun any restrictions whatsoever will throw off my aim, but more importantly, my timing. Seconds count in a fight.

I'm not into fancy leather work, embellishments and curlicues and other such silliness on my holsters - like 'em plain with just a touch of class. I want a holster which holds my weapon high, not slung low like some 1950's western actor. John Roye came through for me.

Here's my Smith model 19-3 in .357 snug in it's bed, a custom piece by John Roye.

This beauty holds my Beretta 92FS.

My Taurus .45 ready for a belt ride.

Sorry for the blurry image; John's stamped brand.

It's important to note I receive no endorsements or deals from John Roye Holster Works. I'm doing this as a friend, and as a service to my readers. As a matter of fact when he reads this note (he isn't aware I'm writing this) he'll probably charge me a higher price for my current order.

If you'd like to contact John Roye Holster Works send me an email, with your contact information, to emitt1@comcast.net. and I'll forward it to him. Please keep in mind John has a full time job to pay his bills. His leather work is his hobby, so please, no rush orders. Trust me, it's worth the wait. His fees are well within the working man and woman's budget. Enjoy.

Stephen

A Christmas Weekend, By Little Bit

Sorry I haven't posted in a few hours but we've had a busy weekend. Good news too, Sweet Wife and I closed early last evening on our refinance. Now, we can enjoy our Christmas.

Little Bit was able to join us yesterday and last evening. She just left with Dad and Mom for a birthday party and just before she walked out the door gave me instructions for this post. She also told me, in no uncertain words, which pictures to use and what she wanted me to say to you from her. I said, yes dear...I always follow instructions.

(From Little Bit)

I told Nana and Papa it was time to decorate their home for Christmas and I made them take me with them to the Christmas tree farm for a real live tree, the kind that smells real good. When we arrived I ran all over the place under this huge white tent and inspected each tree. Papa really tired to keep up with me (her words verbatim) but he's too old and can't run as fast as me. (She then said something like, huh Papa. Smart Alic.)

I finally found the best tree. Then Papa said no 'cause it was too big so I let Papa pick the tree after I approved of his choice. (Note, the photo is dim as it was dark under the tent.)

Then Papa and Nana took me to an early dinner. I was hungry, and guess what, Papa found a drink (soda) he really liked...he enjoyed it so much he drank two. (Thanks for the tip, Kitchen Witch.) Here's a picture of it.

Then we went home to Papa and Nana's house and I showed them how to decorate the trees after Papa climbed into the attic and I helped him (she really did help) remove all of our big boxes of Christmas stuff. I know better than them how the ornaments should be placed on the tree. Nana puts up two trees. She puts a plastic (her word) one in the piano room (her description of the living room), and the real tree (Frasure Fir) in the family room....Nana's weird. (me)

Here are the ornaments I hung. Papa and Nana have so many of them we can't hang them all 'cause the tree isn't big enough. (it's seven feet, and she's correct.) Some of their stuff is really old. (a few, 1930's and a few handmade by my mother prior to her death) Me, I'll show you a couple here in a minute.

Like this one. Now, I'm just gonna slap up a few pictures. Little Bit didn't give further instructions. Besides, I just can't remember all of them.

Living room tree by Little Bit and Nana.

Fireplace in living room, we have two and they insist on decorating both, by Nana and Little Bit.

Piano by Little Bit, yes, all by herself. Nana did adjust some minor details.

Another of my old ornaments.

It was a very long day. We began mid-day and didn't finish phase one (hear my screams) until well after dark. We did have fun. Little Bit smiled all day. Please forgive my awful photography.

Dark when this was taken, it isn't finished but you get the idea. This is the Fir in our family room, the bright lights are the older bubble lights and yes, they work.

Little Bit left me with one more thing to say - she loves you.

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

Jerry Clower

I miss 'ole Jerry.

Stephen

A Christmas Story

If you'd like to read a well written Christmas story by my friend Flier389, then click here.

Enjoy.

Stephen

It's The Little Things

We're slowly under way, leaving the long parking lot on the way to school. She'd eaten her breakfast and is happy, singing a Christmas carol in her sweet little voice. As we make a turn a huge flock of birds, grackles I believe, sweep in and take perch in the oaks.

There are hundreds of them. Before I can stop her she unsnaps her seat belt and pulls herself up for a clearer look. "Oh, Papa, look at the beautiful birds."

"I see them, Honeybun, now put your belt back on please."

She snaps the belt, and then, "Papa, I want to be a bird."

And here is where it all began. I didn't give a thought to my response, I mean whom among us would have second thoughts to such a statement.

So, I said, "Not me, Sweetheart. I like the way I am, human."

Silence.

We ride. I look towards her and she's taking in her part of the world on the right side of the truck. It's cold outside. Heavy clouds have painted our part of the country gray. Nice weather. I said. "Penny for your thoughts."

She took a deep breath, and in one continuous sentence, which is her way at times, "Papa I don't want to be a bird either then because if you don't want to be a bird then I'm not because I always want to be where you are and Nana too because I don't ever want to be alone again or anymore 'cause I'll cry and be lonely if you and Nana aren't with me." Or, words to that effect.

Deep breath, then again, "Papa, will you always be with me?"

There it is.

It hit me like a rock. How does one answer such a question. She's six for pete's sake. How am I supposed to face down my mortality in the few minutes we have left before I drop her off at school. I'll not lie to her. Then again, I have no desire to spoil this beautiful little girl's morning with the knowledge she has a full day of school ahead of her. And, I won't be able to speak with her again until the next morning.

I glance over and she has those big brown eyes locked on me. She wants an answer. So, I tried.

"Sweetheart, I'll try to always be with you."

Blink, blink. She frowned. I knew she didn't buy it.

"Papa."

"What, Honey."

"Will you always be with me?"

"Honey, can we talk about this another day, please."

Now tears have developed and are making their way down her soft pretty face. I knew it. I blew it. Should have lied.

"No, Papa. Please tell me, will you always be here for me."

"Little Bit, do you remember when your friends mother went to heaven a few weeks ago?"

"Yes." She's red faced now. Then before I can continue she goes, "Oh, Papa, are you going to heaven to live with God too?"

A quick, "No," from me. "Listen, Honey, Papa's fine, I'm not going to heaven anytime soon."

I hope.

I said the hell with it (to myself) and pulled over. I didn't care if we were a bit late. When the truck came to a stop she jerked off her seat belt and climbed into my arms. I held her, hugged her, kissed her, spoke softly to her. The tears were full on now. I explained that people of a certain age always pass on and 'go live with God.'

I talked softly and further stated that Papa would be with her for many more years. I gently pressed my lips to her ear and said, "Honey, nothing in this world can keep us separate. You'll be much older, a grown-up, when Papa has to leave this world. Even then Nana will still be here with you, and when I'm gone I'll still love you, always. I'll keep watch over you. I'll be your guardian angel. Papa will forever be a part of your life.

She has a vise grip on me. I dug out a paper napkin and tried to dry away her tears, wiped her nose. I teared up too. Hate it, but there it is. This, was breaking my heart.

"You promise, Papa. You really promise."

"Yes. Papa promises, I'll be with for a very long time."

Just like all women the world over, she took the napkin and pulled down the visor mirror and cleaned her face.  We had a couple more seconds of hugs and kisses and then continued our journey.

Just before she stepped from the truck, she turned and, "Papa, you promise, right?"

I told her I always keep my promises.

She waved and was gone.

Stephen