Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Book of Barkley Kindle Edition is Out!



Barkley Memories -
Another evening of rescuing the oven mitt from Cone-An the Labarian.

The Book of Barkley Kindle edition went live today (Nook, within 72 hours) and you can even read a couple of  sample chapters with it before purchasing. Click on the picture of Barkley on the upper sidebar or go to the webpage to purchase here.

For those that ordered a paperback at Amazon (shipping in 1-2 weeks and soon, much sooner than that) or Barnes and Noble (shipping in 3 days) and want it autographed, please mail a copy of your Book of Barkley to the following address with $15 cash or money order to LB Johnson tucked inside to pay for the mailing as well as the address you wish it shipped to and the name to go inside.  That's a guestimate of the shipping, if you have change coming you will receive it.

Wild Hare Enterprises
1101 Cumberland Crossing Drive, #307
Valparaiso, Indiana  46383

This is not my business, but friends who are graciously helping me get the autographed books to you, my regular readers and friends, during the initial publication.

Monday, July 28, 2014

On Airplanes - There Be Dragons

I'll be the protector of your heart.
The front lines of your guardian angels
 - Lifetime, Steve Moakler

Battles have been fought in the air from the first day a small dove dived down from the talons of a hawk.  Man was not far behind.

In watching a movie about the dog fights of WWI, the battle was not much different than any sporting event played on a field, the field being simply three dimensional. They would  swing and soar and dive, maneuvering their craft with the unmistakable prodigal swagger that is their testament, over shattered roads and islands of tilled earth, desolate above the destruction which they carried.

A man's death was much less about firepower than simply the consequence of being bettered in a  fair contest with someone much like themselves.  Those that survived held court, not as enemies, but as gentlemen heroes, remembering those dogfights as the best of that which was otherwise, insensible and ceaseless battalions of time

The few that came home, did so to lives that were fixed by gravity and obligation, growing thicker and quieter, raising a glass of amber liquid up in the evening, finding that being dead while still breathing was a lot less peaceful than they expected.  But most didn't survive, their legacy among the tumbled ruins of war, the movement of lips as names were read, a photograph of a pretty girl that had already begun to fade.

WWII changed the playing field.  The technological development in aviation alone, let alone the dynamics of warfare, changed the face of the skies forever. The war went beyond a threat so very far away, from individual battles over foreign farm fields. Freedom, as we knew it, was in danger, and men took to the skies in droves, to do what they could to maintain that, a generation of men who dealt with that threat, that danger, by maintaining perpetual, intimate contact with it.  Unlike the pilots of WWI, many of them came back to live and play with airplanes, the transportation industry booming in the post war economy, general aviation becoming something more than a rich man's sport.

There are few of those airmen left now, their stories sometimes chronicled, more often, lost. But  many of the machines still fly, maintained and flown by men and women who, though they may not have even flown in war time, have that preternatural capacity for achievement that many earth bound mortals lack.
My Dad was part of the 8th Air Force, barely out of his teens.  Though not a pilot, he came home with pictures and stories of those years there, metaphors of daring, chronicles of  speed, that to my mind, would always have the indisputable stamp of the heroic on them. My Uncles as well, were in the Air Force, one of them coming back to be an engineer for Boeing,  his office filled with drawings that to us, were as mythical as dragons, esoteric shining shapes from which fire roared as the heavens shook.

It was not then, unexpected, that I came home one day as a teen and said "I'm going to learn how to fly" which was met with about the same level of support as "I'm going to shave my head and join the Hare Krishnas"  I can't blame Dad, with redhead children he'd seen his share of wild ideas, most of which we abandoned before we actually blew anything up.
The fact that I only had a minimum wage job slinging submarine sandwiches didn't deter me.  I got a job at the local airport pumping gas and washing aircraft for minimum wage perhaps, but able to get my lessons at a discount, sometimes trading a wash or wax for a couple hours of instruction from the CFI/owner.  Dad said, thinking he was out of earshot,  "she won't  last the week".  After the first couple of days of driving around that big fuel truck, hauling hose and climbing ladders out in the bitter cold, I was likely to agree with him but for proving him wrong.   For such are challenges both external and internal, hot and cold, fatigue and muscle pain, the miscalculations that can cost you, not just your job, but your life.

Still, the old Cessna  I was learning in  paled against those craft of of those old stories, bearing  in my adventuresome mind, all the excitement of a draft horse. So, I'd go to air shows, finger tracing the outline of a cowl, taking in the scent of kerosene that bears with it some primordial fragrance of dinosaurs fighting to the death.   I'd not touch that which wasn't mine, I'd ask questions, and I'd simply sit and listen to those stories that fueled my dream. When a couple biplanes showed up to live on the field where I worked, the fascination grew, even as some around me said  "you're a girl, you'll never make it in that profession" or "you're going to just get yourself killed"
But I did not think of such craft by any means as being a threat to me when operated with logic and calm, any more than I think I'm limited by what I can do based on the plumbing God gave me, or anything other than my mind.  Rather, it's the measure of that which I have proven that I can do, of what I can achieve. Some of those early airplanes might have been small but what they brought to me can't be destroyed.

Earthbound we have limitations as varied as our lives. As pilots, life is simpler, as our will is freer; our lives, however different, are truer and more defined. No matter what we cherish in life, we cherish it more; home, friends, the smell of fresh tilled earth from a mile up, the heady gulp of pristine, crisp air that clears both our lungs and our heads.

For like sport shooters, hunters or other people for whom life involves the complexity of hand and will, even when we pilots aren't flying we tend to hover around the airport, like moths to a flame, just showing up to have a cup of coffee and grasp the collective knowledge of those that have gone before us, taking in the stories, the tall tales, the wisdom. The knowledge that is passed on, from veteran to youngster, from instructor to student is partly a flame, the warmth of recognition of what we recognize in each other, the pulse of blood within the hand that reaches out and offers to share the knowledge and wonder.
So it was in those early days, where in odd moments and at odd times, with no prior planning, a bunch of pilots showed up at the airfield to just sit and trade stories, waiting for the clouds to clear. I was the youngest person there, it seems that the yearning for such a plane as the Stearman grows with maturing, sprouting as you discover what is in you that means something. Like any other passion, flying biplanes is a passion often accompanied by a preference for that which surrounds its winged form, which in its absence still speaks fondly of it, in hallowed tones and animated stories. So these pilots, during those hours when they were tethered to the ground, delighted in the society of biplane pilots, sharing tall tales of landings gone awry, until the darkening earth bit into the rim of the sun, and the hangar all went to shadow.

You know how some young teens are smitten with horses, the feel of power and strength beneath them. I didn't want a horse.  I wanted a Stearman. Why would you want to ride my friend Flicka when you can ride the Yellow Peril?  It's big and it's got more horsepower than you'll know what to do with and feeling the rush of air coming back from that huge prop in your face like some silent explosion is as exhilarating as anything you will ever feel. Yet it is most defiantly a craft that speaks to you with a purposed and ponderous voice that demands that you listen to it, not so much with silence but with respect.
Many a day was spent whiling away an hour, little excursions of self discovery, edged with moments of "&*#*! you've got it!."  It's a flying that few experience any more, and myself find a rarer and rarer opportunity.  She's the toughest airplane built; aloft, you'll pass out before you break anything off, but on the ground she's as capricious as a mare who's never been broken and you quickly learn that she has to be flown until the moment she's tied down. With the help of a good instructor, I learned patience; to sense the mood of the wind before it knocked on my windshield, the curve of a farm field and the lay of a grass runway.

There's something about a biplane; you'll freeze in her, you'll sweat like a sumo wrestler in her, dodge seagulls, balloons and summer rainclouds in her. There's no glass, no electronic warning systems, no autopilot; simply a pure seat of a pants adventure that hearkens back to simpler times in far away farm fields. There's the wind in your hair, the sound of insects whirring in the fields and then a quiet night with a glass of amber liquid, not as  mourning for what is lost but as communion with what remains.
But it was time to move on, a slot far away to go learn how to fly the big and the bulky, to take up the mantle of doing something with my life that was behind the safety of a small town, a history without effort. I wasn't sure how I would do with a life of structure, rules and "I have to dress like everyone else?" but it was time to grow up and look at the horizon as more than my playground.

Before I left, I go up in the Steaman one more time. In that moment I can pretend to be a fighter pilot, dodging sunbeams and sparrows out high above a farmer's field, smiling at the feel of its power and the response to my controls, the craft, for this one perfect moment in time, an extension of both my hands and my will. As the stick comes back, the sun hits my eyes, a flash, a glare, this moment, not the steady flame of everyday existence, but that one bright flash of a struck match, that burns so much stronger than valor or fear, if only for this moment.
As the wheels chirp upon the pavement, shadows bow before a wavering sun, the chill in the air an intractable summons of fall, here in early summer skies.  This was going to be my last such flight for a long time.  I pull my leather  bomber jacket around me, but not because I am chilled. I draw in a deep breath, to sustain me in the airless days ahead.

As I leave that little hangar where I earned my wings, I look at the wall, at the photos of old pilots and old war birds from generations ago. Even as those men stand there silently, they swagger just a little, leaning against those mighty forms of man's imagination, looking not into the camera, but somewhere beyond, looking not quite of this earth, but rather like some ancient Norse gods, glimpsed for just a moment as the sun breaks through the clouds, then disappearing forever with the clap of thunder.

I give a quiet little salute and shut the hangar door to darkness.
 - Brigid

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Get Off of My Lawn - Garand Days

Yes, that's the shell flying.

I've got a couple days off with Partner. Until I come back, please drop in and visit  The Book of Barkley.  I think he would be pleased.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

The Book of Barkley is Available - Barnes and Noble and Amazon plus an e-Read!

Nook and IPad editions are still being set up, but you can order a paperback from Barnes and Noble or Amazon to be shipped soon or an e-book you can download today for just $9.99 as well as a Kindle edition here.

The first review is in -  5 out of 5 stars on Amazon, from someone I don't know, but am deeply grateful to.

5.0 out of 5 stars A Remarkable Book: An Affirmation of Our Lives Here, July 25, 2014
This review is from: The Book of Barkley: Love and Life Through the Eyes of a Labrador Retriever (Paperback)
This is a remarkable book, penned by a remarkable author. It traces the life of a wonderful labrador retriever, and yet his life is so interwoven with the life of the author that we are left wondering how any of us continue through life when our beloved dogs complete their lifespan. This should be read by anyone who has ever loved a dog, and also by those who haven't yet known the honor.
------------------------------------
Borepatch, my  long time "blog brother" also has a very touching review up

To order, click on the book cover on the right sidebar. Or The Book of Barkley

Amazon is temporarily sold out.  I would ask that if you planned on ordering from Amazon you place your order now to get in queue as more copies make their way to them.  Barnes and Noble is shipping copies within 3 days.

Autographed copies will be available in approximately 3 weeks (in limited numbers right now).  I am not set up, for privacy reasons, to mail them from where I live other than to those friends I know off blog but a friend has offered to set up a PO box so you can mail us a copy for autographing.  I'll advise when that is done. 

I do hope you enjoy The Book of Barkley, and  please share online if you do (and feel free to use the photos on this post).  Let the world remember this one small soul.

For there is a great measure of trust and love contained in that warm web of bone and fur, the eyes that can commandeer your pancakes and the tail that wags for you as if you were the only person on the planet for them, and maybe you are.
The Book of Barkley

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Fine Whines - Squirrels and Dogs

Don't I look all soft and adorable.  Please feed me bacon.
 And this pretty girl that had dog treats in her pocket petted me and shampooed my fur and we  came home with a new squeaky toy!
I am SO out of this thing.

Abby went for her first grooming (that I know of)  tonight.  I normally try and do business with the small local groomers, rather than the Big Box Mart type pet stores, but the only time I could get this done was in the evening, and they were the only ones open in the evening when I was off work. 

But she needed it, with fur a little softer than a purebred lab, she had an undercoat that was coming out like crazy.  I knew she'd feel better after a bath, ear clean and a dance with the "Furminator".  She did great, her groomer, said.  I have to say I was very pleased.  Even though we were early they got her right in and settled and she was in and out quickly.  She wasn't stressed at all when I picked her up and they were attentive to the fact she was a rescue and everything is still a bit scary to her.

Though she ditched the pink scarf about as quickly as I would have a pink anything.

For tonight, yes, another dog post, as I have a lot on my mind between work and Dad's care.

From the Book of Barkley (Outskirts Press, sometime in late July 2014) and some photos of Barkley with my little Point and Shoot that you may not have seen.
 
CHAPTER 34 - Lady and the Tramp Stamp

I've had some bad haircuts in my time, as with very fine but also curly hair, it happens.  Barkley, however, has been spared getting shaved and groomed but for the occasional bath and nail trim.

Why is it a breed that loves the water and will cannon ball into any available pool or pond, hates getting baths?  When he was a puppy he just got his baths in the tub.  He wasn't too happy about it, but I could hold on to him and although I'd end up as wet as he was, we got it done.

When he was older, it didn't go so well.  You know those wildlife clips from Africa that show the lion running and jumping on the zebra, taking it down in a flurry of legs and hair.
 
It was something like that.
So I had to take him to a "groomer."  It was a lady recommended by his previous vet where we used to live, the groomer working from her home out in the country.  I asked if she did larger dogs and she assured me she did all the time.

I left him. She was very friendly; the place spotlessly clean, her instruments shining and well cared for, the other dogs there, waiting to get picked up, looking content.

When I came back, she was there, with another girl I did not recognize.   "I had to call for help," she said.  Both of them were drenched, with wet hair, clothes, everything.  There was water on the table, on the floor, several of their tools had been flung across the floor, and the picture on the wall was all askew.  They looked like they'd been in a tornado and flood combined.

 Barkley was in his pen, drying out, with a scarf around his need, looking ALL happy but not liking the scarf much.

 "I'm sooo sorry, I said, please; let me pay you extra for your services."  They declined, but I gave her a huge tip with a second apology.

 As we left, she looked at me and said, "Miss, I appreciate the business, and hope you'll think of me if others ask about pet grooming.  But please do not bring him back."

So baths got less frequent but we managed.  There were no more fashion accessories though, at least until he came home with a square of fur missing from his lower spine.

 It was some simple veterinary surgery to remove a small benign fatty growth from that area as well as four little skin tags on a couple of his legs.  Common enough in older dogs but if he kept chewing on them it could do some harm, so off they came.  At the same time, since he would be under anesthesia, his scheduled doggie dental cleaning and care was accomplished.

 Barkley loves Dr. H., and is oh so excited to get in the door and see her. I dropped him off in the early morning and could pick him up after I got off of work.  He was not so happy with me when I picked him up.

 He looked at me as if to say - "You told me some pretty girls were going to check my teeth and pet me, and I come home with Brazilian Bikini Butt."


Barkley is a "no fuss dog."  Although he is AKC purebred and a hunting breed, he's lived a quiet life at home.  It's been a simple life of water and dirt and running amok, not constant grooming and bows in his ears and dog couture.  If I dressed him in costume as a food object or cute insect, he would likely steal the clippers and give me a Mohawk in my sleep.

 He was neutered as a youngster; there's lots of good rescue dogs out there, so he wasn't going to reproduce, bloodlines or not, but he'd had a life of only routine fussing over, just enjoying being part of my family.  His not-so-secret canine mission was that of most working dog breeds - to sniff every object in the entire world, peeing on anything that smelled even remotely like another male dog and then having done so, trying to -

(a) eat it

(b) bark at it

(c) carry it around in his mouth

(d) hump it



But his teeth needed attention, so this had seemed like a good time to get it all done. The vet sent me home with some samples of dog treats that help with tartar, as well as a brush and some poultry flavored dog toothpaste (mmm, for breath that's barnyard fresh!)  The veterinary technician said, "With a little practice your dog will enjoy his brushing."

 I didn't tell her that the Storming of the Bastille was better received and less bloody than my attempt to apply a few drops of flea medication on his skin between his shoulder blades a couple of years ago.

 I'd be wearing the chicken flavored toothpaste by the time we were through.  I won't mention the look of disdain I'd get at a pink toothbrush.  But the doctor only has his health in mind and we talked about some alternatives to keep his teeth and gums healthy.

 He did fine, though he whined a little when he did not get a full bowl of food the night before the procedure, by doctor's orders, and he was in a little discomfort when he came home.  I had pain meds, but I could not give him one until the next morning, so he got much extra care and got to sleep with Mom on her bed, something normally not allowed.

 I lay with him while he went to sleep, telling him he was still a handsome boy and even offering to show him the picture of me from the 80s when I had a mullet.  He declined, it appeared, nodding off to sleep, happy that this day was done.
-Brigid

 

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Canine Snack Attack!

Travel plans for the week sort of fell apart, so instead of sitting at the airport with book in hand, waiting for a flight, I ended up at the crash pad, back to the normal routine. After making the three and a half hour drive from home,  I was a bit tired while I unpacked.  I remember removing a pair of bright orange earplugs from my briefcase and putting them on the coffee table while I went to bring in my computer case.

When I came back, one of them was missing

Uh, huh, I think I found it.
 What?
 
Yup, looks like someone snagged it and spit it out
It wasn't a Cheeto!

Monday, July 21, 2014

Houses of Wood, Memories of Bone - A Short Story

I'd been peeling wallpaper for most of the morning, sweat dripping down my forehead, lighting on my tongue, tasting of the essence of me, salt and earth.

At first, the movements were enjoyable, the evening light coming in not as dimness, but bright as silver, the sun streaming through it, as if a sieve.  For a while I enjoyed the repeated motions, as I scraped the paper from old walls, free of obligations but to this task, its unique sight and unique smell, reminiscent of old books in an ancient library.  After about an hour, shaving never quite vertical pieces of paper from walls that steadfastly hold on to it, as if it was all that was supporting it's very structure, I was regretting not only my decision to tackle this job by myself, but to own a home at all.
A beer would be good, I thought to myself.  It would  cool me off a bit while I take a rest.  After another half hour of labor,  a second cold beer was warranted.  At that point it became not so much a task but a philosophical discourse with not just the house, but myself, seeing into the violated walls, not just a simple task of unpainted wood and sweat, but the very existences of  mortality and the doom of mere flesh.

When I started thinking about a third beer, I realized that philosophy would soon give way to either poems rhyming with Nantucket or off key sea shanties and  I realized I either needed
(a) a break
(b) C4
or
(c) a professional.

I called it quits for the night and went and got a long shower.

It was the bathroom in my last house.  My current house also has wallpaper, but it's of the textured, solid colored type, that from a few feet away looks like the paint that's in the other rooms and is in a condition it can stay up for another 2-3 years while the kitchen and more structural projects are completed.  It's a soothing color, a cool green resting place, that spot to where I always circle back to, like a wheel, hubbed in that place that can't be placed on a map, but steadfastly exists.
THAT wallpaper, on that long ago day, however, was what happened when someone had a three martini lunch and then let their Mother in Law pick out the wallpaper.  It could only be described as "Olive Garden" meets "Rocky Horror Picture Show", with flowering trellis's, bright flowers and grapes that looked as if they were bleeding O Positive.

And it covered the entire kitchen. We won't mention the foot tall cherubs that wound their way around the entire border of the master bed and bath.

The house was on a big pond, a wall of windows, corn fields behind that, yet close enough to shops of a small town that if Dad wanted to walk to the store for a six pack and some cheese he could. For with a diagnosis of late stage cancer in my Stepmother just before I bought it, he had mentioned moving in with me when she was gone.  For him,  I could deal with the wallpaper in the bedroom, kitchen and bath.
No one told me how hard wallpaper was to remove though. I tried the usual methods, spray on "easy wallpaper remover" which was about as effective as Congress just before recess. I tried sheer force and heat. In sheer desperation I resorted to swearing in Swedish (my Grandfather was a Swedish lumberjack, it's in the genes) But mostly it just took moisture and a tool sharper than muscle or wit. By the time I was halfway through the task, the wallpaper was Tokyo and I was Godzilla.

Sometimes when we start something we have no idea what it is going to entail. 

I'm not naturally "Miss Home Improvement", but it never stopped me. There is a photo of my Dad and I that I still have.  I'm probably 3 or 4 years old, in my little coveralls and painters cap "helping" my Dad paint the house. I honestly had more paint on me than the house. He didn't criticize though, letting me learn. For the last few years, Big Bro and I did most of the house upkeep for him, since that day I came home and found Dad on a ladder, with the leaf blower, trying to blow leaves out of the gutters. You think, as your parents age, that one day you'll have to take away the car keys, NOT the ones to the storage shed.
The serious stuff (rewiring/chimney) Dad pays for professionals, the little stuff I do now that Big Bro is gone.  There are bars to hold on to in both bathrooms to help in around the toilet and shower. There's a railing off the front porch, painted to match the trim, so he has something to balance on as he goes down two steps to water the plants. There's new linoleum tiles in the kitchen, and those 1970's orange beaded "drapes" Mom put up in the laundry room and one bath were replaced with some beautiful lace curtains found at a thrift store.

I've also found homes with family members or Amvets for some of the clutter that made it difficult for him to navigate in the dark.  A few small  but good chairs that were never used, decorative tables, all found a place.  That men's suit rack, you know those waist high contraptions that sit in a bedroom, holding your good clothes all neatly (as if you don't own a closet). Well, after bumping into that while getting up in the middle of the night while in the one bedroom with A.C. while Dad was in the hospital recently,  I thought for a moment there'd been a home invasion by a well dressed midget, and almost put a round of .45 through it. THAT got tossed.
But I enjoyed all of it, even the back breaking work. Perhaps I'm odd in this thought, but like some automobiles, I feel that an old  house is like a living thing, in how you care for it, react to it, trust it or hate it, simply accept it or love it.  I occasionally come across one in late hours of the night that has burned to the ground with the force of fates conflagration and in my tired brain I wonder if it knew, like some centurion whose mind has gone; did you know what has happened to you, do you even know you have died?

The time and relationships with such things have served a purpose. I've done things I didn't think I was clever or strong enough to do.  I learned some things one should NOT do  A bench vice works much better than your knees and a Bush Hog can do many outdoor heavy tasks, with perhaps not the ease of explosives, but with better odds of the police not showing up.
I've also learned about planning, about having supplies on hand, how to work as a team, and how to put one's ego aside and simply ask for help.  Anything of value takes work and upkeep.  That includes you. Sometimes you can do it on your own, sometimes you need the help of your friends.
 
Looking around now, I see so much done so very much still to do.  In the shop are so many tools, the cold brilliance of cutting edges, the precision of measurements, small and large objects that are more use than ornamentation.  They are spread out across the work surfaces, so diverse, yet somehow connected, that when the eye catches upon them, the mind sees an impression of action, of motion, still there in memory.
Up above are the journals, the books of instruction, in woodworking, in gunsmithing, in plumbing, many of them old, written when this house was still new, the basic skills still valued, even if the supplies have changed. I love reading of the small advances back then in what now would be considered commonplace. With them, are some books of leisure reading, should I wish to just sit down in a chair here while something rests in wait of the next step.
 
The books, all so old, and so varied, like individuals for all are bound differently, all have weathered time in their own way.  One is bright white and gold like the vestments of a Priest who on Sunday morning dons his finery and puts all of his burden onto a table to be consumed by the fire.  Others are plain, dark black covers, lined up in a row as if in a funeral procession, quietly waiting there in the darkness to be necessary. Then there are the newer ones, one bright green, another the color or a penny, as open as children, just asking to be picked up and gently held like small treasure.
 
Upon another shelf at home is a small collection of bones. Sometimes all I find are bones, laid bare to the elements, or burned clean. With the right temperature all things will burn, yet bone itself stubbornly resists all but the hottest of fires. Even when all the carbon is burned from it, bone will still retain it's shape. An insubstantial ghost of itself, it crumbles easily, the last bastion of the person's being transformed into ash. Yet in that ash remain large pieces, calcined and with the consistency of pumice, yet when held in the hand, almost seeming to posses a trace of warmth from within their core, as if still alive.
Some days I will pick one up and gently touch it, as I have a hundred of times before, endlessly fascinated.. I have studied bones untouched by anything but time. I have studied bones in fragments, co mingled with hundreds of others, burned and broken and laid bare to the elements. Still, I am always fascinated by the strength of that which is unfleshed. They are what lies at the center of us, not the heart, but that part of us that is the last thing to ever be dissolved, even if cut or disassembled or burned. It is the hardest, strongest most unwavering part of us, that which supports us, the last piece of us that remains of this earth, when everything else is lost. It's the surviving remnant of all that was dear to us.

But even the strongest of bone can be broken under the fragility of human flesh, as fate resolves us of all integrity, leaving us as wrenched asunder of all that was, smells of cooling flesh and salty tears, illusions of ice and rain and fire, detached and secret, yet oh so familiar. With these moments we pick ourselves up, and begin to rebuild.
 
So here in this space are the tools so that a hundred year old house can maintain its strength as my soul regains mine.  For I've learned, that your relationship with an old house is not much different than your relationship with people.  It was standing there long before you came along, and if you leave, it will still be standing, either better or worse for knowing you. It has existed before, perhaps, you drew breath, and may well exist  after you are gone, long after those things which reflect in mirrored surfaces, cease to be, and are replaced.
You can curse at it, words as hard as friction, make demands upon its  form, strike blows of physical violence against it as you attempt to pull some order out of superficial chaos. But whatever you do to it, the supports, the things that hold it together, even if hidden, will remain.

It's easy to forget that behind the whitewash and paint, that which has been updated for the times, lies symmetrical brick and old wood beams, things that hold fast what time attempts to change. But sometimes you remember, sometimes catch a small glimpse of it, the delicate and ineffacable mark of its retrospection in one of its windows, those shiny surfaces from which the world is viewed.
It cares not that you have a piece of paper that says you possess it, or if you are just renting.  It is as it was designed to be, and though you can effect the outward form, or perhaps even the function, it is as it was designed, by the grand architect. The American Indians believed that even the inanimate has a spirit, for although something may be made by man, it was made with materials provided by God, and therefore is sacred. Sitting in this old house, looking through the light of the stained glass windows, I can believe.  For there is sacred space in that which we keep, which we hold deer, even the intimate, our responsibilities awakened in that solemn recognition.

If you are fortunate, treating it with care, overlooking its defects, you can share either briefly or for a lifetime, this point in space with such things.  When that time is over, you will find, that short of the rending of the earth itself, its foundation remains, even as it outwardly changes, much like yourself. For behind the paint and the polish, lies still, steadfast bones from which one's house is built.

 - Brigid

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Weekend Adventures - Cans, Cars and Cluck for a Buck

This is my extra homemade shop lamp.  Look, it DOES say "electric perk".

The 36 hours I had off before heading out again was spent at home, food from the freezer and supplies on hand, some yard and shop work, and time with Abby and Partner and some long chats with my Dad on the phone before I leave again.

A day off has to start with a homemade breakfast, not something out of a box or a bag.
After cleaning up, it was time for the yard work.  The  Purple Coneflower is not only a pretty plant, but they are dried and kept as medical items in the bug out stash.
Then to the garage to to bump (ow!) and grind alongside the stripper.

The finished product.
once looked like this.
Left on a local curb with trash, the particleboard  top was trashed.  But the legs and lower shelf?  Solid hardwood and only lightly scratched.  $40 at the home improvement store for wood for a new top and a little elbow grease and we had a table that would cost hundreds in a store.

Time for lunch.  Pineapple glazed ham sliced thin with baby Swiss, on thinly sliced oatmeal bread, then grilled and served with some sliced apples and carrot sticks.

Then back to the garage.

Miss Madeline - theTR6, is happy the temperatures are warmer.
But for now, Abby needs some playtime and a walk to say hi to the neighborhood dogs.
You want a piece of me?
Once we were home, a few last minute projects.

The glass was once a large light fixture at a local business, built in the 20's or 30's.  Partner got it from  the owner for $10, and built the base fixture out of pieces and parts in the Batshop  It's about 2 feet across at the base of the glass and will look really cool (well, it will once the ceiling is finished out) with the kitchen upgrade that's a summer/fall project (though I will miss the contact paper covered kitchen upgrade of the 1930's (not).
This is the general plan.  The kitchen itself is very tiny so using the space wisely is essential. Light yellow walls (my favorite color and will look good with my Swedish decorative items).  White cupboards.  The antique washboard sink will be on the parallel wall to the right (which will be a total re-plumbing of the kitchen but will give me a huge surface to the left of it on which to work). The look will be antique, but other than the sink and the fixtures, everything will be new. The counter may be hardwood, I'm doing some research on that as far as wear and keeping it sanitized. 
It's been a busy day, time to get out some adult beverages and start the barbecue.


This is going to be a very cheap dinner. The chicken "pinwheels" (legs and thighs) were picked up at a locally owned (not a chain) grocers, two bulk packages for the price of one.  Add in some veggies purchased in bulk and frozen, steamed rice (also bulk purchase) and some  sauce made "from scratch" (no extra charge for chicken puns) with items on hand and dinner was on the table for less than a dollar per serving.
Sweet but not too much and slightly spicy, it was wonderful brushed on the chicken after it had cooked about 15 minutes. The recipe makes a little more than cup, just enough to glaze a  family sized batch of chicken or beef.
After brushing one side, the chicken was flipped, brushed with more sauce and covered up to finish grilling to 165 degrees F.




The efforts today were worth it, the house and the yard, taken care of, nothing to do now but relex and enjoy a good supper.

We ended up eating this with our fingers, to get every last succulent bite.



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