The River

It's early afternoon and the shop's door is finally locked and the drive home is quick and easy and she has prepared a simple lunch and soon kisses are exchanged and then the nose of the truck is pointed towards the river. Take a deep breath.

The word is, expect wet. The late winter and now spring rain has so soaked the ground even frogs pack snorkels. Overcast, warm but green, our world. To drive and smell the freshness of spring is rejuvenating. Through the city traffic, a left on the expressway and then west on another and forty-five minutes later to northwards trek and the farm road is right there...lined with sycamores and brush. Then the gate is behind and I park, nose to nose with the horse.

Outside the truck I stretched and glanced around. Duke had backed his truck close to the front door of the Boar's Nest. Her husband, by use of four wheel drive, parked around back close to the range. Rebel too, since he rides a Rubicon. I played it safe and kept my rig close to Buster, the farm horse and only current full time resident. He bites, and has been known to fight coyotes, so I was certain he'd protect my truck parked as it was on the high and dry. 

The land slops towards the river. As is its seasonal nature, the tannin stained water hugs and holds close the farm, and will if given the chance, claim its ownership of the lower pasture. Barbed wire fences offer little restriction. Luck was with us last weekend and the river blessed us and held close within the tree line. I unloaded my gear.

Inside the bunkhouse voices from the deck were subdued. I remember light laughter and one of my brothers (blood) stood near the old cast iron sink and we exchanged hand shakes and light sibling banter. He's several years my junior and understands his place. Within minutes of my arrival I slipped away and walked the range and stopped and put match to tender and soon a bonfire roared. Large fires and rednecks are kin. 

With four members present we had our quorum and gathered at the range shed. Then, I remember the sharp scent of gunpowder. Range bags opened and unattended, brass gathered from the leaves as the bonfire roared and popped after Duke casually scattered several hundred rounds of old twenty-two in the fire. (Try this trick at a party and watch the flock scatter.)

Rebel's Ruger

As magazines were filled with fodder I remembered the warmth of sunlight, a flock of Robins as they searched the wet grass for worms, the treeline - Cypress limbs bare, the olive of Live Oak, the deep green of the wild Holly, the almost complete silence. I remember it felt good, just downright good this gathering of men, my friends.

Duke broke out his sweet old .357 Marlin, a rifle of a certain age...and I remember how it thumped. He feed her .38 Special rounds and it was nice to see the iron swinger jerk and dance as he fired. I remember how he was so very careful to track his brass, as was Senior when he put his new baby thru her paces. I remember the same careful control of brass when Rebel fed his Winchester the now expensive old, but tried and true, thirty-thirty rounds. 

I remember someone, maybe me, commented how some day soon spent brass maybe as precious as gold. All agreed with grunts and sighs. The line went cold and boots scraped the leaves aside in search of brass as the warm wind tickled our faces.

I eased back to photograph the unattended range bags and dug into their depths in search of rare pieces of history. Duke had a nice little nickled H&R nine shot twenty-two. It reminded me so much of my old model 999 packed in my youth.

I remember the solid fire of an old soldier, a newly acquired SKS Duke found at the last gunshow, the soft sputter of recoil from my Sub-2000 as it threw nine millimeter towards the tree line. It felt so darn good.

Senior's Advance

I remember thinking, isn't it nice free men can assemble and practice the art of self-defense. To still have the ability to gather and complain of our governments stubborn path towards the destruction of our country's Constitution. Albeit brief I do remember these thoughts.

Good 'Ole Twenty-Two's

Twenty-two rounds are our norm. The expense of ammunition is, at least to me, unsettling. I fired a few rounds of forty-five but each and every time the hammer fell I remember thinking, 'take it easy, this stuff is expensive.'

Duke's unattended range bag of goodies

Soon hunger drove us towards the Boar's Nest. When the oak fire was reduced to coals Senior took the steaks, huge mammoth sized chunks of beef, from the cooler and slapped them atop the grill. The man is a genius with fire and meat. One steak, one plate - I broke out my knife and fork.

Each, two inches thick

With two members absent four would eat very well indeed.

As we sat and waited and listened to the coyotes sing and the peepers squeal and as the meat seared we prepped the table. Duke was certain he'd noticed muscle movement in one of the steaks so rose and put the poor slab of beef out of its misery with a well placed round of thirty-eight special. Duke is deadly at point blank range.

His beans cut the flavor of the gun powder.

Like the cultured men we are we sat a proper table.

Our menu; T-bone with Duke's cast iron beans and baked potatoes slowly cooked in the fire and of course, bread and butter.

Duke's Cast Iron Beans

And then...loosen the belt.

After dinner we gathered on the deck and waited for darkness. Rifles were placed close at hand, flashlights ready. Coffee set to brew. We talked. I remember Rebel as he stood on the edge of the deck and watched the bonfire slowly glow and I remember the way his handlebar mustache, gray and droopy, moved with the wind and the slow and thoughtful way Duke has when he speaks of any subject. Senior as he fiddled with his cell phone.

We waited for the coyotes until at last I asked Senior to Google us a YouTube video of their song. He hit play and I remember how instantly the coyotes yelled their response - a searing and haunting call of pure wild excitement. The night dogs were hungry too. Rebel rose and hit the tree line with his light and said, "I see 'em." He and I moved off the deck and I cross-haired one set of eyes and fired a quick three round burst of twenty-two from my M&P. The critters laughed.

Rebel and the bonfire

 All too soon the night was over and the sun took us from our bags. An unexpected storm front approached and it held heavy rains. I said, "Diddy Mao." 

Duke got stuck. Rebel came to the rescue.

Then both Rebel and Duke were stuck. This mud is as slick as goose poop.

Duke digs. Rebel watches. I stood by to supervise.

Soon I was home to Sweet Wife and a nice long hot shower. The rain soothed my sleep.

Take care.

Stephen




    

Take A Guess

Take a look at this awful cell phone snapshot and guess where and what I've done for the better part of my day....go ahead, take a guess.

Sadly we have become victims of our new healthcare system. We're now under a new plan and I had to change doctors - both primary and cardiologist. Today was 'get to know you' day. Said, "Howdy, Doc." Then had to have all my prescriptions renewed. What a crock.

Oh yes, you're day's a coming.....

Stephen

Little Bit

First I must apologize to the nice readers that commented on my post, 'I'll Catch You.' Today I goofed and deleted the post. Total accident, but no big deal. I'll live. Unfortunately all your nice comments went unanswered. Sorry, and thank you for your time.

Now, as you know our granddaughter recently had her ninth birthday. Here's a picture Sweet Wife received this evening from our son. She holds one of our gifts....just wanted to share.

My goodness, it appears my Heart will be a tall slim young lady.

Stephen

Fireside in a River Swamp

Until I have time to collect my thoughts here's a little video I shot last evening. Listen carefully for the little Peepers in the background.

Until then.

Stephen

Too Much Stuff, And a Request

You know you have too much stuff when you find a black bag filled with firearm magazines that fit several different firearms you're not even sure you still own.

The bag, marked Glock, was found under a box. The box contained, in no special order, a rifle scope, one full fifty round box of Winchester .44 magnum, ditto box of Federal .40, and two nice 1911 mags - one held four rounds of .45 hollow points. Never mind the vintage box of Remington .38 special sold circa 1960. Nice collectable box.

 I need therapy. This lost and found treasure thing happens far too often for my comfort.

Now, may I ask you, my nice readers for a favor? Pretty please.....if you have the time, when you are out and about your chores would you please price check the asking price of a one gallon can of Coleman Camp Fuel. Not the little plastic 32oz bottles, the cans. Even off brands. The fuel is normally sold at Wally World, K-Mart, and almost all hardware and sporting goods stores.





I'd really like to hear from my European and Asian readers too. I know you're out there. And, for my reader in Diego Garcia....what uniform do you wear? Been there and done that, my friend.

My friend Senior checked his local Wal-Mart late this afternoon and said the price was $12.98 here, quite a huge increase in cost over last year.

Thank you all, very much for you time and effort.

Stephen

  

Bits and Pieces

My print editions of Adrian's Undead Diary keep me company. Chris Philbrook is a fine writer. If you can tolerate the occasional raunchy word (okay, more than occasional) or two you'll find his series spell-binding. A bit of editorial work and polish and he's ready for the New York Times best seller list. His plans are for an eight part series. We'll see. Amazon, if you're interested.

I've read this story on-line, but will pack book one for tomorrows trip out to the farm. I doubt I'll sleep so the book will make fine company.

*****

As I write a heavy rainstorm pounds the city. Thunder, lightning too. It's February for pete's sake. Where's the snow and ice. Just checked the temperature, seventy-three degrees. Awful.

It's peaceful though. Just stood to brew another pot of coffee. I'm not sure which is 'nicer' as my Little Bit used to say, the thunder or smell of freshly brewed java. Ah, silence, just the steady and heavy slap of rain. Nap time.

*****

Tonight, after I arrive home, I need to pack my bits and pieces for the camping trip. My gear is scattered all about the house and garage, and I think, a few pieces in the attic. I plan to pack light. It's only a one night stay, and I very much doubt I'll sleep. No matter, I will take my sleep system, (remember when we used to call them, sleeping bags) and my pillow. Pillows are important. My pillow. It fits my head and I've slept on rolled shirts and jackets and rocks and bundles of dried brown grass and once on a nice sun bleached cow turd, and trust me, your personal pillow is important when you're as old as me....we thirty year old fellas need tenderness.

When I was a boy we thought pillows were for sissy boys. If we had an old wool blanket and a hat we were set for several nights in the outdoors. Make a hooch from palmetto fans and tree branches, pull together a fire bundle and we were by goodness, slap 'ya dog and momma, ready for the night. Bring on the boogeyman. Now, not so much. I even pack my old leather L. L. Bean house slippers. When I settle in for an evening around the fire I want my work boots off.

In the past my good friends and group members teased me a bit about my slippers. I'd give 'em a look - they'd wince and find something else to occupy their attention as I slipped on my comfort. Since then I've noticed several pair of camp slippers about the Boar's Nest. With age and experience comes intelligence, not to speak of common sense.

I purchased my old slippers in Maine at a local Bean outlet store. They're perfect for camps, hard soles and good rugged tanned leather. Suckers are comfortable. Gives my feet a rest. Not sure which is the most important...my Bean slippers or my chair. I bet when I arrive late tomorrow afternoon one of those boogers will have his butt firmly planted in my chair. Trust me, it will be vacated.

*****

Senior just sent a text. He drove to Georgia for our steaks. He knows of this special meat supplier. Arrived and reported back five steaks, that's five (5) chunks of beef muscle, will cost us just shy of one hundred dollars. I haven't replied but I'm sure the meat is on ice and headed south back to Florida. Lord, grant me patience.

I've received word my friend, Duke is hard at work on targets and target stands. He welds. I shoot. I will bust his work all to hell and gone. Count on it.

Back to gear: need to find my headlights. I've two, somewhere. Or three. Can't remember. Even have a hat one of my younger friends gifted me one Christmas way back when....it has lights in the bill of the cap. Kinda cool. I will wear it even though this young man isn't attending...which is a shame, he's a nice young fella. At sixteen he can shoot the wings off a dung beetle at two hundred yards...with a Mosin Nagant.

One bag, that's all I'll pack and hump. Along with my firearms. I need to choose which sidearm to carry. I plan to run a two gun, if Senior draws one out in his spare time. Rifle, well, maybe the Smith .22, or my Sub-2000 in nine. I shall not waste 5.56. Makes me flinch with every shot...all I think is, there goes another dollar. Screw that happy crappy.

Magazines - gotta find my spare magazines and not forget my range bag. My heavy black sweatshirt. Sorry, I'm using you good people as my note pad.

See that lamp....she's mine. Own two of 'em. They're permanent residents at the Boar's Nest. My chair sits next to it and tomorrow night it will again give me a soft glow and I'll read deep into the darkness.

Later.

Stephen




 

A Penny Here, A Penny There

And pretty darn soon you've a dollar in your pocket. Folks that know me, I mean really get down to the gut level of my soul know me, aren't surprised when I bend to retrieve a misplaced or lost penny from the ground or floor. The way I look at it I've just found, depending on the coin, four cents.

Here's the thing - not so much of late. The stray Lincolns are have gone into hiding. I've only found three in the last few weeks. (Here, talk amongst yourselves for a moment....gander on the possible reasons for this rare phenomenon. I need to jerk a cup of coffee.)

Ah, better. Bet that got your attention, didn't it. I goofed and posted this sucker before I was finished - hence the coffee.

Back to subject. So lost and dropped coins have become rare....why? Now this is only my humble opinion and like the old but tried and true statement, we all have one, I believe it's simple - people need every single penny they can possibly find. When flush, ah, what's a lousy one cent piece worth to them...chump change. A stray dime, forget about it. Let the bums have it.

Just outside the door to my local market, embedded in the asphalt of their parking lot, I know where a Mercury dime has sat for at least two years. Its two thirds covered. I'm still hard at work to figure out a way to free it with chisel and hammer. It bugs me. But, then again, I'm one of those poor poor victims of this government's ineptness.

Just my two cents.

Stephen