Autumn
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Merry Christmas
On this blessed day, the birthday of our Savior, I wish each of you, a very Merry Christmas.
Stephen
Monday, December 24, 2012
Her Last Gift
It was a very small Christmas tree and sat atop an old RCA radio cabinet, one of the fine polished oak models built prior to the war. The radio gave forth Bach. My mother stepped back after she so gently adjusted its volume. She loved Bach. Christmas and Bach she held, were like cream and sugar with afternoon tea.
It was to be our last Christmas together, a fact of which we were both aware.
My mother was so very poor.
The four of us had gathered in the small room and took seats where possible. I remember my brother and sister sat either side of my mother, a small woman of delicate lines with waste length dark brown hair and high fine cheek bones which reflected her American Indian ancestry. Her eyes dark enough to reflect sunlight under still waters. She was beautiful in both soul and outward appearance.
She remained very still had held both my sister and brother's hands and bowed her head. We respected the silence as she cried then composed her thoughts.
I was the older child. Four and five years between myself and my brother and sister. My next step into life would, as a result, take me forever from her home. There was a war. I had taken the oath. We together held fear in our hearts. Life isn't easy.
She began to pray, her voice soft and sincere. Her message to our Father has been lost to the shadows of time but is still recorded in my soul. A simple prayer of love for the season and a gentle request of protection.
As she prayed I remember the warmth of her old oil heater. The flames within so often a comfort to me under the roof of her simple and cleanly organized home built with the few dollars she'd earned from long hard hours at the local hospital.
She said, "Amen."
Then, she rose and took two of three gifts from beneath the tree and placed them in my brother and sister's hands. I watched as they quickly unwrapped their presents. I remember neither. They both smiled as we'd each discussed and agreed prior to this day. They gave thanks and prised her for such wonderful and thoughtful Christmas gifts.
She bent and placed her hands on either side of their faces and gently kissed their foreheads. I waited.
My mother then returned and took the one remaining gift and reached and took my hand in hers. "I'm sorry," she said, "But its all I could afford but the name on the bottle reminded me of you. It seems to describe you so very well."
It was a bottle of cologne. Trouble, by Mennen. I smiled.
I rose and took her into my arms. This small beautiful woman so full of grace. A woman attracted to books and music and art with a heart of pure gold.
It was her last Christmas gift to me. A gift of poverty, given with love.
I never used the cologne. It has traveled the world with me. It sits on a bookshelf in our home. Its contents have grown dark with age, its cap still silver and untarnished. Its lost very little in volume and when its cap is removed, as it was this morning, it still faintly yields a scent of her.
I lost her to heaven not long afterwards. She was so very young.
Ritualistically each Christmas I walk into my office and take down her last gift to me. I hold it, turn it slowly in my hands and remember.
Stephen
It was to be our last Christmas together, a fact of which we were both aware.
My mother was so very poor.
The four of us had gathered in the small room and took seats where possible. I remember my brother and sister sat either side of my mother, a small woman of delicate lines with waste length dark brown hair and high fine cheek bones which reflected her American Indian ancestry. Her eyes dark enough to reflect sunlight under still waters. She was beautiful in both soul and outward appearance.
She remained very still had held both my sister and brother's hands and bowed her head. We respected the silence as she cried then composed her thoughts.
I was the older child. Four and five years between myself and my brother and sister. My next step into life would, as a result, take me forever from her home. There was a war. I had taken the oath. We together held fear in our hearts. Life isn't easy.
She began to pray, her voice soft and sincere. Her message to our Father has been lost to the shadows of time but is still recorded in my soul. A simple prayer of love for the season and a gentle request of protection.
As she prayed I remember the warmth of her old oil heater. The flames within so often a comfort to me under the roof of her simple and cleanly organized home built with the few dollars she'd earned from long hard hours at the local hospital.
She said, "Amen."
Then, she rose and took two of three gifts from beneath the tree and placed them in my brother and sister's hands. I watched as they quickly unwrapped their presents. I remember neither. They both smiled as we'd each discussed and agreed prior to this day. They gave thanks and prised her for such wonderful and thoughtful Christmas gifts.
She bent and placed her hands on either side of their faces and gently kissed their foreheads. I waited.
My mother then returned and took the one remaining gift and reached and took my hand in hers. "I'm sorry," she said, "But its all I could afford but the name on the bottle reminded me of you. It seems to describe you so very well."
It was a bottle of cologne. Trouble, by Mennen. I smiled.
I rose and took her into my arms. This small beautiful woman so full of grace. A woman attracted to books and music and art with a heart of pure gold.
It was her last Christmas gift to me. A gift of poverty, given with love.
I never used the cologne. It has traveled the world with me. It sits on a bookshelf in our home. Its contents have grown dark with age, its cap still silver and untarnished. Its lost very little in volume and when its cap is removed, as it was this morning, it still faintly yields a scent of her.
I lost her to heaven not long afterwards. She was so very young.
Ritualistically each Christmas I walk into my office and take down her last gift to me. I hold it, turn it slowly in my hands and remember.
Stephen
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Glock Magazines
This morning, as I waited for Sweet Wife's return from church, I searched the web for Glock model 17 magazines.
Why - guess I was bored. That and the fact my Kel-Tec Sub2000 wears the Glock 17's so very nicely...she likes to dress when she has a night on the town. Basic black, don't 'ya know...
So I hit Google and hit Google and for my efforts I read, 'Out of Stock,' over and over and over. I limited my search to Glock model 17 mags. There are a few ten rounders out there, but very few.
Many places, it seems, flatly refuse to 'stock' or offer handgun magazines on their virtual shelves. I will not name names but Cheaper Than Dirt was guilty of this practice (guilt disease) and it (excuse my language) pisses me off.
This proves my lifelong habit of multiple-magazine purchases and the hoarding of same will prove very valuable in the very near future in far more ways than one.
If, you have a nice stock pile of various magazines, protect your investment. If, like many, you failed to gather those minimum requirements of ten per weapon....well, shucks, good luck to you.
Now, remember, legislation has been written, that if passed, will ban 'clips' (heh) which hold over ten rounds. This doesn't mean (yeah, right) it will pass. So, you still have time. When you next hit the range with your buddies, go ahead, reach over and pinch his or hers and stuff your range bag full.
Trust me, they'll never miss 'em.
(Both Senior and Duke jump from their chairs and rush to take stock of their supplies.)
Stephen
Why - guess I was bored. That and the fact my Kel-Tec Sub2000 wears the Glock 17's so very nicely...she likes to dress when she has a night on the town. Basic black, don't 'ya know...
So I hit Google and hit Google and for my efforts I read, 'Out of Stock,' over and over and over. I limited my search to Glock model 17 mags. There are a few ten rounders out there, but very few.
Many places, it seems, flatly refuse to 'stock' or offer handgun magazines on their virtual shelves. I will not name names but Cheaper Than Dirt was guilty of this practice (guilt disease) and it (excuse my language) pisses me off.
If, you have a nice stock pile of various magazines, protect your investment. If, like many, you failed to gather those minimum requirements of ten per weapon....well, shucks, good luck to you.
Now, remember, legislation has been written, that if passed, will ban 'clips' (heh) which hold over ten rounds. This doesn't mean (yeah, right) it will pass. So, you still have time. When you next hit the range with your buddies, go ahead, reach over and pinch his or hers and stuff your range bag full.
Trust me, they'll never miss 'em.
(Both Senior and Duke jump from their chairs and rush to take stock of their supplies.)
Stephen
My Last (and His) Words on the Subject
"When a strong man, fully armed, guards his palace, his possessions are safe."
Jesus, Luke 11:21.
Just saying....
Stephen
Jesus, Luke 11:21.
Just saying....
Stephen
Saturday, December 22, 2012
My Day
In a picture....
This is a photo of my knee, as I sit and wait, covered with my lovely wife's partial selections of my gifts to her. I shall title this picture, 'The Chair in Hell.'
Until tomorrow, good night. I'm tired.
Stephen
Until tomorrow, good night. I'm tired.
Stephen
Later
We're busy. The siren call of the road has its hold upon us.
I mean - I must shop for the wife. Sigh...as she tags along. Reckon she doesn't trust me?
Oh, forgot. She asked what I'd like for Christmas. I said, "Anything firearms related."
Hint, hint.
Stephen
Oh, forgot. She asked what I'd like for Christmas. I said, "Anything firearms related."
Hint, hint.
Stephen
Friday, December 21, 2012
Today and Today Only
As soon as I catch a break I shall rush forth and get a beautiful 'I Survived The End of the World' tattoo.
I understand they're half price until noon.
Stephen
Stephen
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