A Ramble

The month of September fulfills me. It primes then gives me October which in turn prepares and loads me for hunting season and cooler weather. As a child Autumn meant a slight change to the color of our trees and chilly rain and windy dark mornings which kept the ducks low beneath the clouds, susceptible to the slightest squeak of my uncle's old and worn duckcall.

Long before sunrise he'd step into my bedroom, where I dreamed of sixteen point bucks and canvasbacks, to roughly shack the bed which inevitably spoiled my aim; I missed many shots while lost in dreamland. I'd tumble from bed and dress to find the house warm and filled with the wonderful scents of  perked coffee and fried bacon backed with a ting of Hoppe's Number Nine. His shotguns were always laid across the breakfast table, game bags hung from kitchen chairs, coats and boots spread at the door - a bed for the dogs.

She, his wife, made our lunch. He required bacon biscuits which she'd tightly wrap in old paper sacks and then pack inside a canvas bag along with two large Alladins filled with doctored coffee. Her biscuits were as large as my fist. For some reason she'd say, "I don't know what's wrong with ham..." She was strange, that way.

I was barely fourteen but still remember his International, a rust bucket of a truck that rode high for the ruts and how the drive to the blind took almost an hour with the constant flip and flap of the wipers - how the rain sheeted with the wind, the rattle of hard green seats and how I kept my shotgun cradled against the jar of the dirt road.

I too remember how I'd wipe the window for a glimpse of swamp or occasional peek of cattail filled canals - an indication of arrival. When you're a boy the anticipation of decoy placement and duck thick skies wears upon you. I was puckered for the kill.

It fell to me to hump the smelly burlap sack of decoys. I'd stand deep in the mud and reach over the bed for the wet sack of heavy and then make my way along the trail of cold water as the Nor'easter slammed my bent form. There was the thick salty smell of tidal marsh, the crunch of oyster shell, the faintly lighted horizon where deep dark clouds scudded before the wind and in the distance often the whistle of pintails. I was happy for my Woolworths heavy shirt. Still I shivered.

It was the rain and wind which kept the flights low as they sought shelter. The sixteen old wooden decoys and the small cove of sheltered water gave us our shots. We'd tuck inside the blind and find a place on the board, our seat. My one and only box of twenty gauge sat to my right, opened and ready. Then, we'd wait for sunrise.

Years have melted my memory of the shotgun. I remember it was a double, fairly heavy for a teen. Other than its gauge, it lines escape me. Probably a Savage or Mossberg, doesn't matter, it filled my dreams of ducks on the water. Even the hunt isn't important to me now. The dogs are long gone, as is my Uncle, a man I didn't truly like. He was just my ride. Whatever became of the shotgun I'll never know, it too isn't important.

It's the captured mental picture of the cold mornings, the Nor'easter, scents of an Autumn breakfast, gun oils, decoys and flannel shirts, and oysters and saltmarsh - the feel of a still warm drake, the clunk of spent and fallen shotshells, the rise and fall of tides and the push of a good 'ole double against my shoulder - these I shall always remember. That, is what's important to me. 

The First Cup

Please allow me the first cup of the morning, then we'll chat.

Or, at least I'll try.

Funny, business. One day you feel as if you need to stand outside and beg them to walk inside, the next find yourself screaming, "Leave me alone." Which I'd never consider. I love 'em all.

I hear a crow scream...Autumn has arrived.

Stephen

Peter's Book

Fall is upon us. It's the reading season. Unlike most I'm not a summer book advocate...I like cool and rainy when I sit back with a good read.

I highly recommend,

 Now available on Kindle. For more information, click here.

Stephen

My Day

In a snapshot.

The rain pounds, dark skies, with wind.

Now, thunder.

If not at work I'd hold a book and keep my coffee close.

Stephen

A Question Answered, and Thanks

To my new friend and follower, Jane Lemm. I promise, dear lady, to always reply to your comments. When life has taken a bite from my ankle it will sometimes take me a few hours, but trust me, I will keep my promise. If I fail, call me on it.

Now allow me to change the subject. Of recent I've had a very nice reader email me several times with the question, 'Why don't you post a picture of yourself?' Why indeed. Well, I like my privacy. I live and work in a very large city. I own a small business, and as is the case, after thirty-one years, I'm known by hundreds of thousands, really. Need I explain further....

Heck, I can't use the porta-pottie at the state fair without bumping into someone I know. Talk about your tight fit.

As an example, a few months back my wife and I took our granddaughter to dinner. Our waitress, a stranger to us, recognized my Little Bit from pictures I posted of her on this blog. My butt is still sore from the chewing it received from my wife. Then I posted a picture of my dear wife, a day or so ago, and again - sever butt kick.

But, hey, I try to please. Say hello to my well kicked rearend.

Again, Jane, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.

Stephen

Silver, again

This is a great deal.




 

That is all.

Stephen 

Bits & Pieces

One of my nice customers, an older gentleman, came into the shop yesterday and placed a half-pint of his home canned jelly on my counter. It was green. Said, "Its kinda hot."

Seems his new hobby is home gardening and he leans heavily towards peppers. He likes to jar the fruits of his labors.

I smiled and said thanks. He continued, "Its my third batch. First two were too mild." We Southern folk like our food with zip.

This morning, after I built my first pot of coffee, I removed the cover from my forty year old toaster and slipped an English muffin inside. When the muffins were nice and brown I spread butter and a wee bit of his jalapeno jelly on it. Took a tentative taste. Waited.

Zing...

Love it. I broke a rule and had another muffin but this time I slapped a big glob over both sides. He and I need to talk recipes.

*****

Sweet Wife is late. She left for church at 0800 and it's half past 1300, she should have been home over an hour ago. Seems I've been made a widower by the church.

I don't begrudge her the peace she receives from her worship nor the friendships she has made since she joined her church. Lord knows she deserves peace in her life. She loves her church and Bible study.

But, it seems of late her church affairs take far more of her time than even I get....which makes me a jealous husband. She's my best friend. We still hold hands when out in public...silly, I know, but there you have it. We've been married over thirty years.

I'm about to break a rule and post a picture of Sweet Wife. Here she is on a recent visit to an Atlanta hair salon. She's just had her hair ripped from her head. Isn't she a cute little thing. 

Now, back to the subject of church. She also, I think its called, tithes. She gives our money to the church on a weekly basis. Fine. Again, it makes her happy to give the minister a new Lincoln every year and a free home all while he retains his salary tax free.  Nice job if you can get it...

I work for my money. I'm not a church man. Yes, I do believe in our Lord. But, concept of church isn't on my radar. The building, that is...

On my maternal side of the family both my great-grandfathers were ministers. Baptist to boot. My paternal side were Catholics from Ireland. I took after my father. We say hello in the liquor store.

Back to the cash. This morning as I sat at my desk deep in a pile of statements, writing checks, I noticed a debit in our check book for double her weekly church payment. Double.

Is it possible the ministers needs have increased since last week. Has the church's toilet broken. Perhaps their bell tower is scheduled for a fresh white wash, I don't know, but this I can tell you requires a long sit down and chat.

The church widower isn't happy.

(If you don't hear from me soon call 911)


*****

I built a nice pot of bean soup last night. It simmers, waits, as it gently calls my name. I debate on whether I should or should not fire a rue as an addition to the pot. Rue gives flavor and richness to bean soup. Yet, the soup holds bell pepper, onion and garlic with half a small ham. I've yet to test for salt and pepper.

White or yellow rice...we'll see.

Corn bread for sure....

My demands are small.

*****

The song of the cicada has about played out.

This morning while out for my Sunday paper I stood and listened for several minutes, only to remember. The music of the cicada is the song of late summer and its fast fading away.

Take care out there.

Stephen