I Want A Harley

So, I've asked for advice.

Stephen

Flea Markets

I give up. There isn't a decent flea market left in North Florida, or at least in my neck of the woods. Today, after I closed shop, Sweet Wife gave me a cute smile and said climb into the car. I asked why and she said you will take me to a flea market. I sighed. 

I knew I was in for a great sweat. But, I thought, I might find some interesting items. Things I need. Prep items, ammo cans, perhaps a good book, Coleman stoves and lanterns. It was possible to even shop for a bit of fresh produce; a few bananas, tomatoes and green peppers and then, perhaps later, I'd make a big salad for dinner

What do I find instead. A third world country. Black market junk.

Bangles and bobbles and broken trash and the sweet sickly scent of dollar a gallon perfume and rusted bits of sad cast iron and old ladies trailing fifteen ragamuffins each in full scream as their weary mothers trail behind with both hands filled with plastic grocery bags of ten for a dollar strings of Christmas lights and tacky shower curtains and torn tube socks and that, 'oh just perfect black velvet bulldog painting.'

I find dirt lanes and oppressive heat and dust and sun bleached wooden tables filled to the brim with day old cabbage and wrinkled vegetables and paper bins filled with small watermelons - most burst, covered in flies and wasp where older black men stand with dangled cigarettes and whiskey weary blood shot eyes long past care or ambition.

Piles and piles of old VHS tapes and broken children's toys and little glass topped containers filled with Chinese made knives and fake silver dollars and as you walk the hucksters monotone shrill chant of buy one get one free, over and over, and my ears ring and I'm thirsty and my shirt is heavy with sweat and my throat begins to burn and when I take her hand to hurry us along she resists and my anger grows. I can't catch  my breath and I'm about ready to punch someone, anyone, to escape.

The crowd deepens. Finally, I've had enough and take her hand and demand an exit. She relents. Then, as I'm almost free I see the thin man, his shiny black face covered in sweat with dirty towel wrapped around his neck and he too yells, "Come on man, buy one, buy one, buy one man and I will give you the second for free."  To me. He yells this to me.

At that point I am not a man you want to piss off. I'm ready to hurt you. I make my move towards him and he finally sees me. He steps back and lowers his voice and pats the container under his bony hand, and it sounds like, 'bong bong.' I take in the bong. Two twenty mil ammo cans. The price on the side indicates ten dollars.

In one smooth movement I reach inside my pocket and slap a twenty in his hand and reach and take both cans. 

Never again. You can have your flea markets.

Stephen  

The Ugly Pink Walther

She just bounced in off the street - a working girl, and laid the ugly pink Walther P22 on my desk. She said, "I don't know if its loaded. You want to buy it?"

It was loaded.

I asked her price. Her, "Give me a hundred and its yours."

I must have a hole in my head because I gave her the hundred after I checked the bore, gave it a function test - it passed. Hey, I'm a capitalist, so sue me.

Thing is, its pink. Pink with silver highlights. The is a drag your butt in the mud slap ya mama ugly handgun.

Some dude will make his wife or daughter happy some day soon - when I find a willing buyer. Or, I just might throw it in the safe for my granddaughter.

Blurry picture is my middle name.

Later.

Stephen

Sorry

Just a quick one....I am truly sorry for my post of yesterday. It was not my intention to make so many, so sad.

I only wanted to report a brief, and for me shocking, glimpse of my grandchild. It caught me totally by surprise. It also ruined my day.

Thank you all for your kind and wonderful support. I have tried over the last few months to keep such reports and post to a bare minimum, and shall try to continue in this vein.

Please, bear with me.

Now, back to our regular programming...
 

It Was Purely by Chance

I haven't seen her in months and this morning it was purely by chance as traffic came to a halt at a public school zone. The crossing guard flipped his red sign to 'stop.' I watched as the children began their walk and there she was, her father in escort. He did not hold her hand. She walked with her head held down.

I lowered my window and was just about to yell her name when some little inner voice held me back. I knew if he saw or heard me he'd alter his and her arrival the next morning. So, for a few brief seconds I was able to watch as my heart crossed the street. She was so very close, yet so far from my reach.

She wore jeans and a flowered shirt with white shoes. Seems strange not to see her in her private school uniform. Seems he's taken her from her school and willingly placed her into the state's arms where she'll be indoctrinated by socialist.

I drove away from her in a daze. It had taken all my will power not to call her name. All I wanted was a simple wave; a brief, "Papa," thrown my way.

I'll park nearby tomorrow. All I want are a few seconds, a tiny glimpse of my heart, as she walks across the street.

Stephen
 

Bits & Pieces

For me the scream of a crow is an evocative and melancholy song. The call of crows reminds me of clear cool Fall days and the scent of ripened pumpkins and brown broken corn stalks and small boys hunkered down with shotguns in anticipation of the next flight of the slick black birds.

With coffee in hand I stepped outside the shop this morning.  As I sipped two crows, high in the oaks, chattered. Their music evoked old memories of long ago crow hunts. As a blood sport not many of today's generation still practice the art of shotgun and crow. Then again, few hunt. Crows are not easy targets. 

I eased to the backyard of the shop where a fairly large oak spreads it limbs. The birds continued to caw and skip limb to branch and without conscious thought I raised my arm as if taking aim. The crows went silent.

They too remember those long ago Fall days of cornfields and little boys with shotguns.

*****

Nice fella came in yesterday and sold a couple of his closet queens. I purchased a nice Remington model 700. She's a beauty, a classic. Dated the rifle to 1962. She's dressed in walnut with a fairly nice 3x9 scope and an older military style leather sling. I might keep her. I'll slip a picture in here, a stock picture off the web, as I clean forgot to snap pictures.

Anyway, this gives you an idea. She's chambered in 30/06. Now, with it in my 'armory,' as the liberals say, it makes me want to pack and head to the mountains for an elk hunt. 

The second firearm he sold me was an old Westernfield shotgun. It's been a long time since I've handled a Westernfield. She's really just a Mossberg 500. Mossberg slapped the designation of 550 on her and set the line aside for Montgomery Wards. (check spelling) Wards stocked the shotguns for years and as you know have been out of business for a long time. Not many of these old girls are still in action. 

Again, stock picture. The old girl has an adjustable chock, and no it isn't a Polychock. She's a twelve gauge. I gave next to nothing for her so again, like an idiot that cares nothing for profit, I might keep her. As if I need another shotgun. If, I sell her I'll triple my investment. Decisions, decisions.

Gotta run. See you guys later.

Stephen

Snake In My Pants

About 0600 this morning the sound of the shower made me sit my coffee aside and walk back to our bedroom. As I walked inside to say good morning to Sweet Wife I glanced over towards our bed. Its big, high; a child has little problem crawling beneath.

I noticed something odd on the floor next to the bed. I did a double take. A snake. A live snake with its head raised with its tiny red tongue at full flicker.

Sweet Wife opened the bathroom door. I said, "Hey, check it out." Then pointed towards our unusual visitor.

Scream....then, more screams. Then, she levitated, and screamed. In one step and bounce she was on top of the bed. Best flat-footed jump I've seen since high school.

Snakes will do that to a person....

She asked from where the little booger came and how in the heck did it get inside our home. I reminded her we do live on a river and have a fairly large game preserve next door. She didn't buy it. So then I said it probably came from my pants. I tried to explain I'd mowed our yard earlier and it had probably hitch-hiked a ride inside my BDU's, and when I came inside it had dropped out and taken residence under the bed.

She threw a pillow at me.

I laid the poor dead critter on our vanity and snapped a couple of shots as it twisted and turned. I'd smacked it with my handy bamboo back scratcher. Sweet Wife said the back scratcher must now be thrown into the trash....then screamed as she watched the snake twist and turn. I explained this was normal behavior for a recently deceased reptile. Didn't change her course of action.

She said, "Flush it."

I did as requested.

Stephen