Drip, drip

Broken water line into the shop goes, whoosh. Plumber, all smiles. Gives me a lolly-pop. I want to punch his lights out.

What the heck...it's only money.

Stephen

A Piece of My Heart

It had been stored in our attic, the red tricycle - Little Bit's ride when she was still ours to love. It was, in those days, parked in our garage in wait of her visits, and I can still see her tiny legs pump the red Flyer down our driveway and her screams of joy linger still.

Yesterday Sweet Wife came to me and said, "Get it down so I can clean it."

"Why?"

"I want it posted on Craigslist and sold."

Again, I asked, "Why?"

Her eyes were set to determination. I knew it best to drop the subject. I complied.

She took it from my arms and wiped away the dust, gave it a coat of wax. It shines. A pretty little red Radio Flyer - a tiny piece of Little Bit. I still remember her third birthday when it was presented to her. It had a big pink bow tied to the seat. Now, sadly, all that remains are the memories and three light scratches.

How does one price a piece of your heart.

Stephen

Come to Papa

These, will happen.

 

Just as soon as I make a run for the ingredients.

Give 'em a try.

Stephen  

Just Stuff

When I walked outside for the paper, this morning, I found a thick fog and the river was flat and I felt wrapped in silence. Smoke twisted from my neighbor's chimney and gave the slightly chilled air a brambly oak scented undertone. Acorns splatted the roof of our travel trailer as the squirrels fed.

I need to splat a few of them for the pot.

Fall, is the best.

Fifty years ago I'd of been out the door and deep into the oak groves well before sunrise. Back then I humped an old single shot four-ten purchased Lord knows where. It suited my purposes. It along with my worn hand me down tan hunting vest, and a lunch, and about ten shotshells, and my trusty nine shot .22 revolver comprised my gear.

Tree selection wasn't important as long as it was situated deep in the woods. I'd settle my young backside at the base of the tree and wait. The squirrels moved early and I took any target offered. Seems like I'd sit their for hours but in reality when the sun reached the peaks of the tree tops I'd ease out.  With my gathered game I'd move quietly towards the dark creek and field dress my furry friends. I dressed the squirrels with a half rusty old Barlow I'd found at my school bus stop. Even though it held a good edge it had seen better days. I just liked the name, Barlow. I remember this tidbit because I'm sure it's still snuggled deeply in the mud on the bottom of the creek where I lost it that day.

I still remember the stark white banks of the creek, the sand polished by eons of rain and yearly floods, tiny bleached bones of ancient rock, and how it squeaked underfoot. The creek sat beneath high banks where palmettos and cabbage palms formed walls of green and brown. Afterwards I'd fill my canteen with the tepid tannin water and then retreat to a dry place in the brush for my lunch.

I always had a small fire for company. Lunch was simple. Do you remember those logs of red paper wrapped bologna. That was lunch. I'd cut my slices thick and unceremoniously slap the slices between two slabs of bread sans condiments and then wrap my sandwiches in wax paper. I liked my lunches simple. Creek water and bare meat and bread - a ten year old kids fantasy of mountain men.

I'd often kick out the fire and walk the creek towards the railroad tracks  - the long way home. While on the trail I'd pretend to be Jim Bridger, the famous mountain man. As a child any mountain man was my hero but Jim held the honor as I had just finished his biography. Even kept a flint and steel in my gear bag which amounted to nothing more than dead weight.

It was a long walk back to our little house. I had to travel the tracks, cross a huge field of cattle and its six barbed wire fences, but I enjoyed the time. Then, back to the world of farm work and family and school, and my books. The boots stomped free of dirt and cleaned and placed near the back door of our little house. Inside my mother would smile and praise me as the great hunter of the family.

Another day in the silence of the woods lost forever. Then she'd always ask, "Did you leave a little piece of yourself among the oaks for memories?"

I'd answer, "Always." 

"Good. Then your dreams will be filled with happiness."

Perhaps.

Stephen









 

Bumps

I try, I really do try to write everyday. It's just these silly bumps in my life get in the way and hamper forward progress. Like this morning.

Walked outside to drive to work and my morning paper wasn't in its usual spot on my driveway. Thought, oh well. I'll call at the office and have another delivered. Went online and my account had a red flag, the 'ole red flag said my account was delinquent. Called the suckers. It wasn't. Lady explained they'd received my check the fifth of the month and would immediately have a replacement delivered.

Fine, but for some reason a little worm in the back of my memory flipped and I began to check all my accounts. Back around the first of the month I thought I'd lost a bundle of mail, checks, but convinced myself I had indeed placed the stack of mail in our outbox. All was well, of course, but my investigation only took two hours.

Then, the lock set and knob of the front door to my shop broke, again, this morning. Flipped the switch for the lights and four bulbs over the shop's front porch went sizzle. Now I face a trip to the local hardware store and several hours of repairs after I close today.

And, my medication awaits at the local pharmacy which only took two days to renew...and, well you get the picture.

I should be back to normal, soon. That is if nothing else breaks or disappears or doesn't find its way to the lost and found.

Bumps in life are a pain in the butt. Literally.

Stephen 

Dammit

I feel like I've lost a member of my family, a brother. This is what happens when I take a blog break.

I wish my friend, Paladin, all the best.

Stephen

Bits and Pieces

Our recent Nor'easter has diminished. I'll miss it as I like the cloudy rainy days and wind. Temperatures have leveled to the mid-seventies with low humidity. The dryness gives me drive.

I've purged my office. It's clean, less cluttered and the dust has all but been eliminated. Yesterday I humped six huge garbage bags of junk to the trash container and with each trip I dumped years of memories. I'm sure I made some bum very happy as he dumpster dived last night.

Anyone want a 1951 model Burroughs cash register? It works.

*****

Our group met here at the shop last evening. We've agreed to cancel our table at the monthly gun show, for reasons we'll not discuss. We have though agreed to attend and sell at a later date, perhaps early next year. Shucks.

The group will have its monthly work day in a couple of weeks and should be fun. After our planned projects are completed we'll hit the firing range and blast vast quantities of small caliber lead down range. We'll restrict ourselves to small lead as hunting season is underway and its a real pain in the rear to explain dozens of bullet riddled bodies hanging from deer stands. Laws kinda funny about such stuff.

What tics me off is these Fudd's are well aware their hunting grounds back our firing range. It's a shame they can't be sports about it and wear bright orange targets on their backs.

But what 'da heck, .22's are cheap.

*****

Now, a chapter from the daily news without commentary....

I've had at least a half dozen customers come in and complain they've lost their medical insurance. All are self-employed. One man explained if he chose the plan offered by his agent/insurance company, his monthly premiums would double and his deductible jumps from three thousand to seven per year.

Silence.

*****

Under a box in my office I've just found a stash of long lost military brass.  In total, about a thousand pieces. I'll not count. Seems to be a mixture of (in civilian terms) '06 and .308.

It's time to hit the bench.

Later, and hey, be careful out there.

Stephen