It's Just Silly

In this weeks Shotgun News is an ad for a Chinese SKS for five hundred dollars. Give me a friggin break. I remember when a case of Russian rifles still packed in their coat of cosmoline had a grand 'ole price of seventy-five bucks, and I turned down the offer.

Silly me.

Bet you in twenty years we'll regret we passed on these five hundred dollar beauties.

Stephen



 

 

I Remember the Hate

Deep summer meant thick fields of grass and calloused hands wrapped tightly around the ash handle of the sling blade. I hated the sling blade. I loathed the high grass of the fields.

I remember the arrogance of the man. He was perhaps fifty, fairly tall to a child of twelve, and land lord to my little brother and me. I remember, most vividly, my hatred of the man. We lived under his roof. He was my uncle.

I remember the cold winter day our mother stood beside her gray car and tried to explain her reasons why it was necessary for us to remain behind in her sister's care. "It's only temporary. Farm life will keep you busy. Mind your manners and behave. Your aunt and uncle are doing us a huge favor."

Then she was gone.

The farm stood close to a railroad. I remember the stand of hardwoods and the tattered fields of corn and how the land sloped away from the house and I remember the hog pens and the house garden and how hobo's had marked the back door with their jackknives. I remember, that first winter, how the old man stood on the lower stoop  and pointed towards a tract of land and said, "When the grass turns green it'll be your job to cut it. Every week, you cut it. You understand...no work, no food. For either of you."

Soon winter turned to spring and then summer. He took a slingblade from the barn, said, "Sharpen it then get on that field." I remember he kicked a chicken from his path and walked away to his bottle.

The texture of the grass was thick - juicy stuff. Each swing of the blade resulted in a watermelon scented blade of grass blood.

The first day was painful only for my lack of technique and style. I became friends with rhythm.

I still remember the day he walked out and stood close and said, "It's the chicken poop. I spread a heavy load on this field. Gotta let it dry, can't dump the wet stuff. "Yep, the chicken s*it makes the grass. Can you smell it?"

"No."

"What the hell is wrong with you. You mean to tell me you can't smell that fine fertilizer? You dumb or what?"

I kept the blade on the move. My senses were attuned to the ripe odor of green grass and the south wind and faint odor of oil and creosote from the tracks. I seem to even remember the scent of sweat and loamy earth. I'd never admit the undertones of chicken crap...because I remembered I hated him, and the farm too.

He bent and took a handful of dirt and squeezed, held it tight, then took the back of my head in his meaty paw and with his left hand shoved the dirt into my face. "Now, can you smell it? Ain't that nice?"

I spit. Wiped my face. Held the sling blade tightly. Eased it back. "Go ahead, boy. Try it. I asked you if you can smell that chicken s*it, and you'd better answer me."

I remember the tears on my face and how my hand came away streaked with dirt and bits of grass...and how much I hated the man.

"You a tall boy for your age but I'll still cut you in half if you don't answer me."

I took a step back and said, "No. I can't smell it."

I really do not recall his punch. I remember I awoke in the field. He stood above me with a huge grin on his face, bottle in hand - my uncle. 

I remember the ring in my ears, how my face hurt. A bit of blood on my fingers. He said, "Come here." I went. "Now, do you smell the chicken s*it?"

I wanted my mother, I remember that. I remember the high clouds as they scuttled high on the south wind and I think I remember a flock of birds but I'm not really sure of them. I remember hate filled my heart. Hatred grown from the lack of a father, and my mother's absence. Hate so vibrate it painted my soul.

"Yes."

"Yes, what, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."


Stephen
 


 
  





 

Smoke Signals

I wanted to post yesterday but my internet provider decided to take the day off. Sorry.

Just finished reading this article, here's the link, and I find it very disturbing. One thing is for sure, if you believe, as an American, your Constitutional rights still exist, please walk outside and count the number of moons in the universe.

Me, well, I believe I'll practice the old art of smoke signals.

Time for the me to hit the old grindstone....

Stephen

The Dude

This morning it was the same old thing. He's barely inside when he begins with, "Hey, did you know Wal-Mart is filled with those types?"

He hates gay people, or so he claims. His assertions are never ending...always with the hate talk. Like this, "I hate those mother*uckers. They're everywhere. I bet six out of ten men in that park are lip smackers. Know what I mean?"

I change the subject. Ask if he's seen or has knowledge of a box of .32-20. Then, it's back to the subject of gays. I think perhaps he protest far too much...especially since he dresses in muscle shirts, tight trousers, loud colors. He's married with two children.

"I'm telling 'ya, Stephen, those people have ruined our country."

"Okay, Mac."

I again changed the subject. Mentioned the Marine in Mexico. Him, "Boy I bet when he leaves that prison you'd be able to hear a BB rattle in his rear."

See what I mean....

Hey, live and let live.

******

Sweet Wife is home building a beef stew. My phone has only screamed twice, so far. She's a good cook, but the structure, routine of a beef stew is new to her.

Still, I bet it turns out just fine...

Gotta run, later.

Stephen

Let's Ramble

If it were possible to pocket a piece of summer; fold its essence within an envelope, I would. I'd remove this slice of season when needed, or better yet, when my mood suited. Like last night.

I'd just wheeled our garbage container to the street. A nice warm south wind carried the scent of sweet flowers and pushed the Spanish Moss. The moon was bright. The river flat and glassy. Perfect. Warm enough yet not hot. My kind of summer. A slice of summer children remember.

The adult me hates summer. I find its heat uncomfortable. But once in a blue moon I find a taste of my youth in the months of June and July. Seldom August. Yet, late summer nights often make me smile. Now, if I find a way to bag just a few moments of what I experienced last evening think of the possibilities of its use during those long cold and dark winters ahead.

*****

With the children out for summer vacation the street and park seem abandoned. Business has grown to a crawl. It's slow. Believe it or not the basketball courts are empty. Even the Urban Campers have ducked beneath the earth.

So, I clean firearms. My hands smell of gun oil. I should dab a bit beneath my ears. Stuff smells kinda good and has been noted to work out the wrinkles. We'll see.

Sweet Wife has never said but I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts for my weird habit of firearms cleaning during those nights of movies and certain television shows. Me and my little bottle of Break Free, bore-snake and shop rags, two or three handguns....keeps me busy. I've an old Colt Official Police that has been cleaned so often it absolutely sparkles. She sits upright on my mantle with a shotgun shell thru the trigger guard. I have the old girl filled with vintage rounds of .38....just seems right somehow. Old firearm, equally old ammo. She stands guard just above an ancient rabbit eared shotgun. My Colt came into this world before Hitler invaded Poland.

Told you. This is a ramble.

*****

Over at Gander Mountain this weekend I found the shelves filled with ammunition, well, other than what I wanted, but none the less, the place held tons of boom-boom. But, the prices were silly high. I mean, damn. I passed.

This price increase, I believe, is the new normal. Guess it's high time I dusted my loading bench and lubed the press.

*****

Now, if you'll please excuse me I've blogs to read and comments to answer.

Go thump a watermelon and smile.

Stephen


   

.32-20

All I want, at present, is one small box of .32-20, just one. Stuff is rare as hen's teeth. Can't find it. None, and it ticks me off.

See, the thing is I want to shoot. I miss the faint odor of gun powder. The thump of lead (the real stuff) as it slaps a target, and I sorely miss the fine company of my friends.

For far too long I've denied myself the therapy of the gun range and the fellowship of my friends. And, I've a new toy. It requires this most antique cartridge. The load is still manufactured - when component parts are available. Every source is badged back ordered, or out of stock.

Anyway, soon. Soon I'll take the fresh air and sling lead.

*****

As an aside...we're both fine. She's out of pain and the mass the doctors found in my lower body isn't....

Thank the Lord.

To all of you...my sincere thanks. You're good people.

Stephen

Almost

Isn't life wonderful.

I've missed you guys and gals. Not quite ready for the daily grind of the blog just yet, but almost. The last two months have been awful, to say the least. So far all is well.

Next Monday we should cross the bridge, hand in hand, into the light and begin, again, a normal life.

Thank you all for your kind prayers and good thoughts.

Stephen