Spring is around the corner. .

So some garage cleaning was in order. A fresh coat of paint will help on the workbench side. My best friend had painted the other side a while back while housesitting with some bright yellow found at the Island of Misfit Paints at Lowes, so this didn't take long, once the work benches, garbage can and such were taken outside.

There's a lot of "stuff" that piled up on the other side of the garage, brought in when our temperatures got down in the minus 10's, the garage having a small propane heater for winter workbench projects. Things that could be moved elsewhere now that it has warmed up to a balmy 30. And the shelves, built by either the former owner or elves on crack, were about to fall down.

Get out the saw, get some scrap lumber and the shelves might never hold a lot of weight, but they might actually be useful for the miscellaneous Christmas decor, paint and targets that collect.

The Glock sign, which Doyle, my favorite range officer, once gave me, hides the old paint cans. Some rollers were put on the old cabinet there on the left so I could roll it around to use as a portable space to work or saw. Above it, fixed to the wall, a little shelf that's lower in height for guests that may not be as tall as I and want to get to some basic supplies.

There. MUCH better.

A fresh coat of paint on the workbenches.

The sink is old and discolored but it has hot water which is nice.

My "flying cow" sign from Oshkosh has GOT to stay.


As does Barney:And perhaps a couple targets from the other weekend.


It looks much better and the work took a few hours. I've been up since 6 am. Time to make some lunch!


Add some Italian meats and cheese and a topping of some homemade olive tapenada made with olives, pine nuts, garlic, rosemary and other spices.

Hard work yet rewarding work. A good shop and a home that's self sufficient in times of problems is good. And tools. Did I mention tools?? :-)

I enjoy hard work. And though it requires a lot of time, and sometimes help from friends with even more tools, buying up this older place was one of the best decisions I've made as a grown up. With all the changes that have gone on around me, diving into the purchase of a place whose final vision would require a bit of labor has taught me valuable things, and not just about budgets and planning, wood and nails and drywall. It's taught me about myself.

I spent one whole evening ripping out some cabinets, something I never thought I could do, and I worked late into the night, the sweat from my face tasting like what I am. I know I'm alone, and that I can do this and I swing the crowbar working side by side with it, like two old married people who know each others next move.

Now I'm done and fed, time to take a long soak in the big old fashioned bathtub. I put on an old bathrobe of someone who I loved dearly, who is now gone, after I got out of my old clothes. I don't have much of theirs any more, getting rid of some in the aftermath, other things given to those who could use them and make good use of them. I like the robe. It enfolds me and comforts the aching muscles, the aching questions. Would you be proud of me now? Did I do the right thing? I've totally reinvented my life in the last decade, yet with all the upheaval and punishment, sweat and bliss, I'm at peace here wrapped in the last remembrance of you.

If you could sit here with me, if you hadn't left suddenly that evening, I would have liked to have had a long talk with you. I would have told you how much that the years had brought me, despite the struggles. I would have told you how I've learned to live on what is important, not some yuppified version of life, hollow and high priced. I'm satisfied, be it with the salty tang of a simple meal honestly made, or the sweat on my brow from hard work. Work with skills I didn't have 10 years ago. I would say that I hope wherever you are, you are finally at peace, as my tears mingle with the sweat of my work.

Salt and truth.

Spring is almost here; it's time to build something new.

FRYDAY NIGHTS

Friday night for many people is a night out. After a hard weeks work, a restaurant meal, a date perhaps, time with friends. For some it's a noisy bar, laughter and ringing sound. I'm all for some fun on Saturdays or Sunday afternoon but on Friday nights, I just want to decompress. No phone, no noise. Just a nice home made meal and a book and a comfy bed to curl up in.

There's a lot of speculation in the comments about what exactly I do during the week. My favorite was "Medical Examiner, Personal Protection and Contract Killer."

It's probably a lot more boring than you think, but I can tell you it's sensitive enough I'd best not talk about it. I can say simply that it pays OK and that I have a Dr. in front of my name, but it's not a "Dr. your patient is here" kind of doctor. My job has many hats, some fun for an adventuresome sort, and some simply involving massive books and piles of paper.

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Potential disaster, death and terror. Not typical dinner subjects, yet ones that often come up in my social group. People who spend part of their time dealing with the mechanisms of disaster gravitate towards people who, like us, have a job that sometimes consists of nothing more than waiting for someone to have a really bad day. I worry about fate less; yes sometimes you are simply the bug on the windshield by being at the wrong place at the right time but I've also found that a good portion of our misfortunes arise, not from fate or ill health or the vagrancies of the winds, but from human rancor, fueled by innate stupidity, and those ever present justifications of the same, hell bent idealism and proselytizing mania for the sake of religious or political effigies. I'm required to be dispassionate and get into a routine. Empathy is a great quality in a person, but so is efficacy.

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Like others who do what I do, I've seen a lot, learning the hard way that there is danger and dangerous souls in the world and I'm not one to shy away from it because maybe I can do something about it. It's not a glamorous job, but for me there is hope in it, there is order. I've never had the sense of clockwork conspiracies, or some kind of imposing order of evil. There's simply a sense of things falling apart. That's my sense of how most bad things happen, that it's not usually some kind of calculated evil driven by karma, but simply control disintegrating. Most times, things fall apart and happen out of stupidity and carelessness, not any one's personal jihad. And I'm there to either prevent it, or if I can't, pick up the pieces.

But it carries with it a load and by Friday night, I simply wish to be alone for a few hours, to savor that which affirms that I am alive.

Tonight, Navajo Fry Bread made into Indian Tacos. The fry bread is simple and cooked in just an inch of vegetable oil until crisp and golden, yet soft and luxurious in the middle.

Then piled with a non traditional mix. Normally Indian tacos are topped with just taco meat, cheese, lettuce and some salsa. Mine are topped with a blend of chorizo, blackened poblano chilis, potatoes, beans, corn, green salsa and crème fraîche. If you are vegetarian (and a couple of my regular readers are), or want a meatless version for Lent, try Trader Joe's soy chorizo or leave out the chorizo altogether.

It doesn't need to be topped by a truckload of cheese or sour cream. The filling is very creamy, densely succulent, yet not too heavy, a perfect mate to the crisp, yet soft fry bread. (or soft tortillas for tacos or burritos if you want to go even lighter).



You will need a knife and a fork.

Then, after Barkley has been fed and the kitchen cleaned up, time to curl up and read. Sometimes on the couch in front of the fireplace, sometimes in a bedroom, one of which also has a little fireplace. With an Indian blanket and a bunch of pillows, perhaps some tea or a glass of red wine, I can curl down into warmth and go back in time.
If you look at my sidebar, you'll see many of my favorite books, from which I'll choose one for tonight, but only after I finish the last chapters in a book I'd like to share. Ship of Ghosts: The Story of the USS Houston, FDR's Legendary Lost Cruiser, and the Epic Saga of Her Survivors by James D. Hornfischer. Long title - incredible book, a wonderful follow up to his first book The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors, another great read.

In reading this book as the wind howled outside and rain trickled down, I lost track of time, and I looked up and two hours had passed, as if in seconds, time stopped and there was nothing more to do than to just sit and soak up the words. To register the staccato of rain against the eaves, to hear the branches blowing against the house, providing percussion to the melody of the water. A syncopated song sent from above. An evening alone, the night filled with time, as if I could gather it up and save it in my purse; as if I could brush it aside, like a curtain, looking into another world, which is what I did. I stepped inside the pages and they transported me back to another time and another era. The rain become just a backdrop to the exploits of the U.S.S. Houston, the mainstay of a depleted Allied fleet opposing the onslaught of the Japanese in the early days of WWII, until finally she was sunk in a frenzied day of desperation against the enemy in the Java Sea in 1942.

Thunder rumbled outside as within the pages, booming 8 inch guns, bombs and torpedoes were launched in a desperate dance with time and death as the crew realized their fate. The rest of the book followed the Houston's survivors, numbering in hundreds. through the Prison Camps in Southeast Asia, specifically the labor camps on the Burma-Thailand Railway (which was depicted in one of my favorite, though not exactly accurate movies, Bridge on the River Kwai). Stripped of their weapons but not their determination, the prisoners, starved and brutally treated, cultivated a kind of heroism that is often only seen in war time, where survival pivoted around the ability to undergo sadistic hardship and humiliation without complaint, a mode of existing where the poaching of a single can of condensed milk to feed the dying was the ultimate act of reckless bravery.

This was the story of that ship, her survivors and the atrocities they faced and what they built in the face of it, true testament to any mans' will to live and return to his home A shadow on the wall signaled that the afternoon was almost over as I finished the last pages. The rain is letting up, yet somewhere there must be a leak in my roof, for I felt the moisture on my cheeks as I reluctantly set the book down on the bed covers.

As of Spring of last year there were only 7 survivors of the U.S.S. Houston able to attend a memorial held that year. The brave men of Korea are slipping away rapidly, and now even, some of those that served with honor in Vietnam, are leaving us. How important it is, these remembrances, these oft unremarkable memorials. Every soldiers death is a memory that ends with us, their lives are the stakes to peg our future histories on. Be grateful for them, for the smoke of their courage that lingers after every last candle has gone out.

If you get a chance to read Ship of Ghosts, do. Some books are better than others, They know more of the human heart, as well as it's capability for heartlessness. They will haunt you with the water of tears of hundreds of souls who suffered and strove, determined to survive wars deepest brutalities to see their homeland again. Some books have voices that speak out, that say, someone was there before me, someone braver and deeper and stronger, through whose suffering, the next generation knew safety and order. Someone who lived and died so we could be free. Someone who was braver in their duty than I could ever hope to be.

Someone

HAND KRAFTED

There is nothing like a pair of hand crafted grips on a favorite gun. Like some foods, some things can be made by hand, or mass produced. Mac and Cheese is one of my favorite foods. Probably a close second behind steak. But not the blue boxed kind. but When I have time it's made the way my Mom did. From scratch, with multiple ingredients, including ham and onions, slow baked until the top is just crunchy.

You can NOT get this in a box or a freezer case. (the recipe and instructions will be in the comments)

You start by sauteing some smoked ham and onions.

Then there is the cheese. Don't panic. This isn't a picture of a pound and a half of butter, it's Irish cheddar, fresh and pure and no orange chemical dyes.

You make a roux (don't worry, there's directions in the recipe) then add the milk and cheese, til a thick bubbly sauce is formed. There's all kinds of flavor in it, including a dash of hot sauce. Pour about half the sauce in with the cooked macaroni, add the ham mixture, then some more cheese, regular cheddar for a bit of color.

Then pour the rest of the sauce over the top of it all. By covering up the last bit of cheese, the top can slow cook without getting too brown.

Slow cook til it's perfect.

And plate up. Remember, if you try your hand at this, try to avoid stampeding house guests, barking dogs or marriage proposals. This dish would convert the most hardened dieter and is worth the calories once in a while.


Seconds? Sure.

This is a truly handcrafted meal, harking back to the days of our childhood, where dinner was neither takeout or delivered but a labor of a parent's love. This dish is neither particularly simple or cheap to make, yet in place of those frugal virtues, it provides a rich palate of flavors that bring back memory, or create a new one. Like the handmade grips on a great big gun in the household, some things are best in the memory as hand crafted. For this is the only blue box I want to see on my counter.

MOVIES AND POPCORN

Movies and popcorn. Even on a work night, you deserve it once in a while. Especially on nights where there's nothing on TV but more news on the Stimulus Plan.

I think I'll pass. I have a nifty collection of sci fi as well as Westerns. Tonight will be a Western and a snack that will make you forget politics for at least a few minutes. Corral Caramel Corn. Pair it up with a good Western and even with all the butter, it's probably better for your blood pressure than what else is on TV.

Here's my 25 favorite Westerns, not in any particular order. I tried to do just 20 but after viewer complaints :-) I felt compelled to increase the list to 25. So make yourself comfortable, curl up in front of the fire while the cattle low, the popcorn pops and hot wind blows across the Plains. Then tell me YOUR 5 favorite westerns.

1.The Shootist - (1976) (John Wayne, Lauren Bacall, James Stewart)
2. High Noon - (1952) (Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly, Lloyd Bridges)
3. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre - (1948) (Humphrey Bogart, Walter Huston)
4. The Magnificent Seven - (1960) (Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson)
5. Stagecoach - (1939) (John Wayne, Claire Trevor, John Carradine)
6. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly - (1966) (Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, Eli Wallach)
7. The Searchers - (1956) (John Wayne, Jeffrey Hunter)
8. Rio Grande - (1950) (John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara)
9. The Outlaw Josey Wales - (1976) (Clint Eastwood, Sondra Locke)
10. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance - (1962) (John Wayne, James Stewart, Vera Miles)
11. Unforgiven - (1992) (Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman, Morgan Freeman)
12. The Wild Bunch (1969) (William Holden, Ernest Borgnine, Robert Ryan)
13. High Plains Drifter - (1973) (Clint Eastwood, Verna Bloom)
14. Ride the High Country (1962( John Anderson, R.G. Armstrong.)
15. Tombstone - (1993) (Kurt Russell, Val Kilmer)
16. McLintock! - (1963) (John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara)
17. The Professionals (1966) ( Burt Lancaster, Lee Marvin, Robert Ryan_
18. The Alamo - (1960) (John Wayne, Richard Widmark, Laurence Harvey)
19. 3:10 to Yuma - (2007) (Russell Crowe, Christian Bale, Ben Foster), a new favorite which I discovered (and will return, honest) from Ahab at Gun Nuts Media
20. The Gunfighter - (1950) (Gregory Peck, Helen Westcott)
21. Gunfight at the O.K. Corral - (1957) (Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas)
22. A Fistful of Dollars - (1964) (Clint Eastwood, Marianne Koch)
22. Lonesome Dove - OK not a movie - but a mini series. (Robert Duvall, Tommy Lee Jones)
23. Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) (Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson)
24. True Grit - (1969) (John Wayne, Glen Campbell, Kim Darby)
25. No Country for Old Men (2007) (Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, Josh Brolin)

I AM A HUNTER

Camo Gear is the Mathews Collection by Gamehide-Solo .
Nice stuff.

Sitting in my hotel room, with Arthur C. Clark's 1984: SPRING, A Choice of Futures, Heinlein's Glory Road, and the USA Midway Hunting Gear Catalog to read. Looking at bow equipment, I pondered the age old question as to whether Heinlein was more a gun or a knife man. Heinlein in Glory Road talks of guns to a certain extent, mentioning 1911's and '03 Springfields, but in Tunnel In The Sky, he armed his protagonist there with a Bowie knife strapped to his hip and a smaller dagger attached to his leg. I have my share of bayonets and knives around and it's a rare season I don't draw out the bow.

But tonight's reading was not about the method of hunting but the type. Whitetail season. Surfing through the net I saw an article. . . . "I Wish She'd Go Hunting with Me", a web article about getting the wife to go hunting with minimal fuss. I admire the authors intent, introducing his spouse to the love of the outdoors and shooting, and perhaps this method works on the average woman. He wrote very well. He obviously loves his family. But had my friends spouted these lines to me when I was starting out, they know they'd have been found hog-tired out in the woods doused with Tinks.

For women, hunting is perceived as macho and unfeminine.

Generally speaking, men are competitive and women are cooperative

She has other household responsibilities, she just can't go hunting for two weeks (like men do).

She probably could care less about the technical data associated with the cartridge she shoots.

Women need to communicate all the time.. You will spook game because she needs to talk at inopportune times.

As she gains experience, let her do it her way. She will make up for what she lacks in focus and determination with the ability to be "in the moment" .

Hunter. The word is not gender based, nor should it be. Some of us are just born to the hunt, born to the woods, with no more need of urging to get there than a race driven horse with the scent of water in his nose.

I think of my last day of a bow hunt, sitting in a tree bind in abounding woods, stillness and quiet out among the trees and patches of snow.

Sitting up in the blind, I could stop, sit, think and survey the chilly landscape. Had it been warmer I could have taken a nap there, leaning against the tree, but to relax vigilance in a tree blind is dangerous. I have taken a short "shut eye" while pheasant hunting, setting my gun where it would be safe, exhausted from miles of walking, simply leaning against a tree with a patch of sun tattooing my skin and sleeping for 10 minutes. My black lab would drop to his haunches at my side, sniff the air for trouble, then doze himself, twitching to rabbity dreams.

The woods still fascinate me. To drift in thought in the presence of the trees and the proximity of the earth is much of what I feel when I'm flying. In it I get a sense of the truly spiritual. Not as Christ in the wilderness, but in the ablution that comes from placing ones self at the alter of the planet, and for just a moment picking out a little infinity from the perpetually crushing teeth of time.

I am not a tree hugger. Not for me the granola fueled protests to save the spotted owl. Growing up in the mountains of the wilderness, I appreciate a tree in the form of a pile of two by fours as well as in it's original state. I do not think the trees are the home of sentient druid spirits, nor do the trees speak to me; but I am pleased to take shelter under or in their branches, reinforced in the smallness of my form next to their trunks, smiling as the branches separate me from the chatter of the world that echoes outside the woods. There, branches are what conceal me as I wait for my prey, like any animal, participating in the cycle of the food chain. I am an omnivore and those less equipped than I, forget that at their peril. It is the bringing home of sustenance. Bringing home, not a trophy so much as a sign of provision, that those that work and strive will be rewarded with a full belly and warmth.

There is comfort in my smallness in the trees, for I am stricken by the thought of tremendous roots threading their way under the ground beneath me, knitting themselves to the earth, embracing the soil in a way we poor ground dwellers never will. Such gravity. So sitting up on the vast trunks I rest, and wait, and they feed my soul as surely as if the roots were joined to my own veins.

When I hit 30, I made a will, a simple one, simply directing that I be placed, not in a box, not into a cold mausoleum. Make me ash, with the fire of woodsmoke, and sprinkle me into the waters and the woods that I love. My remnants becoming part of the rough skin of the planet, as time settles into itself and the microscopic bits of me will blend into the cosmos, seeping gently through the leaves in a graceful descent back to where we all became. The earth is a beautiful cradle in which we are all bound to sleep. Hopefully sleep will be long in coming, but I rest better knowing where I will rest.

In my job I'm at war with death. Collateral damage is inevitable. Sometimes in the midst of it I wonder why I fight at all. As hard as sometimes we try, I realize that sometimes anothers life is not ours to save. Some are hollow shells before the spirit has even left the body and we can only watch quietly as it slips quietly over the vale, walking away with revered sustenance of breath.

Perhaps that's why I see beauty in so much, because I deal with death on a daily basis. Leaning against the tree, sun glinting off of icicles on mighty wood, the secret whisper of wind invisible to me and silent. Would we find the beauty in anything if all things lived forever? Would the gems of thoughts and feelings and desire be so precious if we knew they would always be upon our shelf? Or would they fall to the earth, trickling through our hands like water, evaporating on the cold ground, because we thought our hold on them was eternal.

The sun setting fast, Time to leave the forest, the small chattering woodland creatures scurrying from my enigmatic gaze as I climb down. Clouds move across the sun, water drips like blood from a small frozen knife of ice. I quietly walk across the leaves that blanket the earth's secret. I look up to the sky, thirsty roots sunk deep.

I am a hunter; one with the earth.

COLD (BLUE) CASE FILES

Sometimes all you need is that one little piece of evidence. Sometimes you just need that one little ingredient. As the character on House (one of the few shows I'll watch outside of the History Channel, Red Green, and Firefly) often says, quoting the Stones, "You can't always get what you want".

But sometimes you get what you need. I learned that early on. My grandmother learned to cook in the depression era and could make about anything without some ingredient, be it flour, or eggs or sugar, finding substitutes in her cupboard or in the wild. From her, widowed at 34, my Mom, and the next generation learned to fix our weapons and tools with what was on hand, build a fire from scratch and just generally survive. But we did more than survive, we learned to make and tend to wondrous things. I've learned to do the same.

Today dawned cold and with the cold came a craving. Ice cream. Something to make and share with a friend who loaned me a chain saw to take care of some downed limbs after a storm. But, I've been gone, and the fridge is pretty bare. No eggs! Not to worry. You can make a rich creamy ice cream without eggs. Good enough for two scoops, savored in a favorite spot to sit. (And yes, I prefer the very old fashioned "sugar cone" to the behemoth waffle cone things.)


"Making do" got me thinking about another thing that needed to be tended to; a couple small scuffs on my standard big city carry. Just a tiny little ding or two. Something a cold blue technique would work for. With the high cost of a professional reblue, many of us may have to admit we've attempted to blue an entire gun with cold blue, as some of the cold blue manufacturers promoted doing so. NOT a good idea. Frankly my gun turned out to be the cosmetic equivalent of Tammy Faye Baker. No matter what brand you use, it's difficult to avoid streaks or patchy spots. Yes, the dreaded "gun leprosy" on a large area made more noticeable as the color is just not quite right, like that paint you loved on the sample at Lowe's that just looks different on your wall. Unless you are part wizard, part gunsmith, the home done all-over cold blue just doesn't impart that beautiful blue black tone you expect from a professional job.

But bluing does get worn, rusted or or gouged with use, and we find yourself soon singing the blues again. But I might advise, for the average person, to use a cold blue just for those small little touch ups. Cold blues only work on normal carbon steels. Some guns, or parts thereon--such as the barrels on my Remington 700 Magnums--are made of stainless steel. They are not blued but darkened with a plating that gives the illusion of bluing. If the metal shows absolutely no sign of darkening, it's probably stainless or some other alloy, which may require a custom touch-up job.

Bluing only works on steel or stainless steel parts for protecting against corrosion. Because it changes the Fe into Fe₃O₄, it does not work on non-ferrous material. Aluminum and polymer parts are largely unaffected by bluing; no protection against corrosion is provided by bluing processes on them, although uneven staining of the aluminum and polymer parts can be caused by attempts at bluing.

By cold blue, for the new to firearms, I mean the "touch up" bluing that is simply swabbed on. If you're doing it to add color, well, it's better than painting :-) but it offers no rust protection. All blued parts still need to be properly oiled to prevent rust. What it is good for is simply touching up those small areas, those little dings or worn spots that aren't bad enough for a quality reblue but need a bit of color and cover to perk things up. Sort of like my little "Spackle box" of makeup, it provides that little bit of "something" to draw the eye to the finer features.

Like Coca Cola, the quality cold blue manufacturers have highly guarded formulas, each solution with different quality. What you need to concern yourself with is durability, and yes, color. For areas that take a licking, safety buttons, the top levers, bolt handles, you're thinking more for durability. For the rest, a good color match has it's selling points. Some of the newer brands, frankly aren't all that durable and don't pass the steel wool muster.

My favorite - Brownell's Oxpho-Blue. This stuff is tough. You can scrub on it with fine steel wool until the chickens come in to roost and it will not harm the finish one bit. It is also not as picky on grease, oil, and fingerprints when bluing and is much tougher than others. I've used it on an old Mauser that had been used as a can opener I think, to great success.

You can order it from Brownells - World's Largest Supplier of Firearm Accessories, Gun Parts and Gunsmithing Tools or Cabelas carries it as well. Cabela's Official Website - Quality Hunting, Fishing, Camping and Outdoor Gear at competitive prices. It does, however have an appearance that's almost charcoal, more darkest grey than blue/black, and it's a bit more shiny than matte. You may want to try other brands for a color you like better, this is simply my favorite. Some folks online say they've had good luck mixing two or more different brands, alternating between coats. I'd caution anyone from mixing different solutions of different properties. Randomly mixing chemicals can quickly earmark you for the Darwin Awards.

Another reason I like the Brownells. With many blues the littlest bit of oil can mar the end results, but Brownells handles it a bit better than other brands if the gun's not a pristine clean. In fact, the tried and true way I've used it for "touch-ups", is with steel wool, which has a fair amount of oil present in it (to keep the fibers from rusting).

It's easier than you think for a little cosmetic work. Remove the microscopic rust and oil residue by buffing with 000 steel wool. If you don't go wild on it, it won't hard the adjacent bluing. If you've used some of the high-tech lubricants and rust preventatives on the market, especially those containing silicone, you may find it hard to remove from the metal and it may resist the bluing.

Cleaning the metal? A little evaporating solvent such as lacquer thinner or alcohol. Then apply the bluing mixture as per the instructions. Size the application swab to the area being worked on, so you don't get the equivalent of a 38C bra, trying to fit a pair of 32AAs. For tiny little dings, use a toothpick. Q-tips, which you should have on hand for general gun cleaning, are great for the slightly larger little scuffs, and for the large areas, try some cotton balls clamped in a clothespin, or a bit of old clean t-shirt.

Try and do just one pass with the solution, and as evenly as you can, keeping the applicator as saturated with fluid as possible without dripping. The steel getting a good steady bath of it produces the best results. Watch that you don't get the solution on the areas you don't want to blue, that can leave a little "ring" around the area you are working on as areas you didn't want to darken just may. If you see a spot where the solution sort of beads up from a a bit too much oil (like sharp corners), try lightly rubbing these spots with a very sodden Q-tip. Use a new swab for each application, as the residue that can build up degrades the effect you're going for. With the Oxpho blue, what works even better for a deep, streak free finish is, after swabbing it on, use some steel wool, 0000 or finer. Use it like a cloth, no heavy rubbing pressure, it's being blued as well, as it is distributing the bluing solution.

Another suggestion is the Brownells "Oxpho-Blue" Creme Formula which might be a little easier to work with than the liquid. You still need to degrease thoroughly, then try heating the part with a heat gun to just "very warm" applying the bluing with that same type steel wool, and work it in like polishing it and do this several times.

The amount of coats can very, small receptive little parts may just take two or three. In other areas you may need a half dozen or more. If after several coats of cold blue there are spots that just refuse to darken, start over by sanding the area with fine sandpaper. How fine depends on the polish of the adjacent metal; not more than 320- or 400-grit though.

If the process seems to be stalling out, it's time to quit, put everything in a safe place, wash your hands and have a beer. With some blues you'll get to the point where it starts to make it look worse, not better. Remember, you'll not get that same dark richness as you can with a factory blue or a hot blue. It's intended for a little "refreshing" not a complete refinish.

And finally, in my opinion, there are just some guns you don't care if there are a few little tiny dings. Sure you want to prevent rust on those, and you will, with fine care. But covering up every little defect on an older gun is something I would not do for certain weapons. Are not the worn spots from Grandfathers hands, from Dads rifle rack, badges of honor and markers of history? Battle scars honestly won, the marks of hard hands on harder steel, those are history and should not be lightly erased. The worn edges of an officers pistol, carried for twenty years in service and passed on to the family, shows pride in service, not something I would wish to alter.

Around my own eyes are just the faintest beginnings of lines, from laughter mostly. I have my own small dings as well. That little one across my hairline where I decided to see if I could do Mach .82 on my bicycle, the tiny one just above my eye where I got whacked hard wrestling a tree blind into place, the few small freckles from hours spent chasing after pheasants in the heart of our nation. These little scuffs, these little marks, are as much a part of me as my breath. And no matter how many years I still have, though I'll wear my sunscreen diligently, I'm not going to resort to any surgical or chemical processes to rid myself of them. When time ages me, I'll wear it with honor.

Some things are just left alone, remaining as they are, with every little thing that makes them particularly unique, each life experience that makes them special - small marks on our memory.

But if you want a little touch up for your sidearm, the cold blue process is worth trying.

Cold isn't perfect, but there are times, it's pretty darn good.

Be Careful - They're Everywhere!

Until we return to our regular programming - A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR

Mom will be back tomorrow. She said something about having to go out of town to "earn a biscuit".- Barkley

She wasn't as cool as the Daisy Rifle but. . . .

Barbie turns 50 next month. The first one I remember well was the "twist and turn flip" Barbie, who had an unfortunate accident involving a soldering iron when I tried to give her a tattoo to make her more edgy for G.I.Joe.

I wasn't a huge fan, that Stepford Smile and hips that small, if she were a dog I'd be worried about dysplasia, but Barbie was something that few girls of my generation got away from.

Future Barbie's did get more interesting but, like my Barbie's of early childhood, they always suffered some sort of tragic fate. . . .

When you went to the planet wearing the red shirt, we all KNEW you wouldn't come back.

Happy 50th Barbie - it was fun while it lasted.

My Goodness My Guinness

Peteys Powderhorn ran a What Beer are You? quiz yesterday. I have to go to Chicago tomorrow to speak at some shindig. Chicago. I think I'll need a Guinness or two tonight, just to get used to that idea. On the plus side I only have to be up there a couple of days.
"Okay, we all know Guinness is the best possible score on any "What Kind Of Beer Are You" test, so you can just go on and pat yourself on the back now. Like the world's most famous brew, you're genuine, you've got good taste, and you're sophisticated. What else can I say, except congratulations? If your friends didn't score the same way, get ready for them to say: Guinness is too heavy; it's an acquired taste; it's too serious--and they probably think those things about you at times. But just brush 'em off. Everybody knows Guinness is the best. Cheers"

But even if you don't agree with the test review, or the brew, I'd bet you'd agree to a Chocolate Stout Cupcake, a little offering to my coworkers who will hold down the fort til I get back.

FIVE ROUNDS OF SELF DEFENSE

"(c) 2009 - Home on the Range - all rights reserved"
1. Be aware of yourself and your surroundings. Don't be concentrating on work, your love life or school. When you're on the street you need to be alert. Walk with head up. Walk strong.
2. If you feel afraid DO SOMETHING. Fear warns you.
3. When it is obvious that you are going to be attacked, take action at the first sign of threat.
4. If there is not time to flee, fight until you know you are safe.
5. If you carry a weapon. Know how to use it. Practice with it. Have it in easy reach.

I know many of my readers are married. I would think that more than a few of you have older daughters. But how many of you have had "that talk" with them. You know the one. The one about carrying concealed?

My daughter has a Glock. Now before you all jump up and down about bad parenting :-) I TOLD her she'd like a 1911 better, but you know how headstrong redheads are, so she has her Glock. If it was good enough for Grandma why listen to her mother. . . .

As my regular readers know, I did not raise her. I got pregnant just out of high school and gave her up for adoption. An open adoption where she could find me as an adult if she wished. With her parents blessing, I met her when she was 18. We are close. She has red hair, is 6 feet tall, and like me, loves sci-fi, steaks and the outdoors and, not to my surprise, had already learned firearm safety. I'm invited to the family gatherings. I was there when she graduated from college. I didn't lose out on 18 years to ever lose her again, so before she moved out on her own, we had "the talk", with her parents support.

For a young woman, for anyone, there are various methods of self defense. First and foremost is the brain. You always have it with you, and for most folks it's been optimized by evolution to keep you alive (though there are Darwin Award candidates that have proved me wrong).

Your brain is your best weapon with proper back up. The brain is an amazing thing. If you could witness it working, if it light up like a circuit board as it went about its processes, different areas would be popping on and off, one after the other. Those patterns, in their firing, are formed from unique experiences of our lives, giving rise to "instinctual" actions that are really based upon everything we've ever read, seen or felt, informed decisions at a speed of sound that could never be made by logic. All of these brilliant points of light taking place just beyond conscious thought, lightning strikes from shadowy clouds in the night.

Add drugs or alcohol to the mix and the lights become erratic sparks. Dimmer and dimmer. I enjoy my beer as much as the next person, and I didn't tell her she should never drink or that she wouldn't make it to 21 without one or two really good hangovers. But she knew the dangers, , drilled in from all of us, including a grandmother who is an LEO as well. Women who are solitary and intoxicated are the easiest of prey. Lambs led to slaughter.

It's not just the brain that will aid you in flight or fight. What I tried to pass on was that our whole body adapts to the environment, not just our brain. A lifetime of experience shapes our body's response and only a subtle change in the environment can mean that your body may not have the proper response, unless it's trained to respond.

Her brain is a self defense tool, but only if she practices the body's response to threat. Shooting paper targets teaches her hand eye coordination. What about moving targets? What about shooting in cold, dark, or wind? A rapist is not as likely going to try and snatch you from the parking lot in bright sunshine, though it does happen. Evil likes the darkness, and if there's weather adding noise to the elements to cover the scuffle, even better.

There's another factor biological of the body that needs to be considered. Stress releases cortisol in the blood, invading the hypocampus and interfering with how it works. The amygdala is powerfully connected to the rhinal cortex, the anterior cingulate, the ventral prefrontal cortex - the sensory cortexes. This means that the inputs and outputs of memory are affected and most people are incapable of performing anything but the most simple of tasks under stress. Stress also limits the abilities to perceive. Cortesol and other stress hormones interfere with the prefontal cortex, where perceptions are processed and decisions are reached. You will see less, hear less, missing cues that might save you. Everything becomes irrelevant noise, and if you are fumbling with a gun that you never took the time to learn to use until it was as natural as breath, the only sound your brain may register in that last moment is your scream.

You can prevent many crimes by being aware, using your eyes, your ears, and your brain. Prevent before you are in that fight or flight stress mode. But you must train. Prevention can fail, the body will flood with stress hormones, and even Superwoman will need to have something a little stronger than sass to protect herself. A confident, survival oriented attitude combined with a means to protect that is second nature, without hesitation, is a devastating combination.

If you truly believe you are strong, worthy of protecting, protecting to the death, you will project that attitude to those around you, and the average punk will tend to leave you alone. I'm told I walk differently when I'm carrying. I know I do.

Which is where we got to the carry part. On the college campus, they were handing out whistles. They called them "safety" whistles, not rape whistles. Rapes did not decrease.

I had missed out on telling her Fairy Tales as a child. But I could tell her this one. Believing that someone will come to your rescue when you blow a whistle or set off a siren is just that, a fairy tale. Don't fall for it. Not only are noise-makers and rape whistles ineffective at deterring crime, they are likely to do more harm than good, for several reasons.

When you hang that whistle around your neck, you are acquiescing to passivity. You are saying "I'm not strong enough to fight. I'll depend on someone else to rescue me!". You are pretty much betting your life that someone will hear the alarm, and if they respond, are capable of stopping the attack. That is way too many "if's" in one paragraph for me. Too much out of MY control.

The outcome of an attack is usually decided upon with the first 8 -10 seconds. It may be just grab the purse and run, it may be to kill. It's that fast. And you aren't privy to the thought process. But the act of activating the alarm or blowing the whistle can take 2 to 20 seconds. If the noise doesn't work, you're out of time, game over, and the criminal is free to try the other options he originally hadn't planned but now he might rethink. Rethink, seeing as how he has you all to himself and you can't hurt him. Stop or I'll toot is a joke.

Oh, and those little strings the whistles come on? They make great tools for strangulation or just choking into unconsciousness so he can take you elsewhere for his fun.

If you didn't have the whistle, you could scream, more time wasted while you increase your chances for victimization. Garner that breath, harness that adrenalin and fight. With tooth, nail or 9 mm. Fight as long as you have breath or can get away.

If you want to carry and legally can, do it. Don't let society, your peers or your environment dictate something as important as your life. Hecate tells a story of a rangemaster at the gun school, a sheriff's deputy, who met a nurse in the course of his work, a nurse who had serious ex-boyfriend problems. After responding to one of her 911 calls, he told her she should get a handgun. He offered to advise her on weapon selection and arrange for training.

She said she'd think about it, and asked her hospital colleagues what they thought. Thoroughly indoctrinated in pacifist attitudes, they were horrified and told her she should get a whistle instead. That was what she decided to do, and the deputy said he could not talk her out of it.

When her body was later found in the hospital parking lot, the whistle was still between her teeth. She had blown it until it filled up with blood as she died.

I think it's time you had that talk.

Hygge

It's a Danish word that roughly means eating and drinking and being together with friends, a feeling or mood that comes from taking genuine pleasure in making ordinary everyday things simply extraordinary. We don't have any such word in the English language, and life today seems to rarely accommodate such a ritual.

I can be insular, and driven. At work I take no quarter and am not intimidated by blood, death or Congressmen. Yet at home, I am a caregiver, as my Mom was with us. Even when she was tired, she would make us homemade cookies and pastries to have after school or with our lunch. Shortening scrapped from its can, dough formed and rounded, rolled flat, and rolled up, carefully studded with fragrant spices and baked golden.

When at school, I'd open up my lunch box, and find every given day, a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, coins for milk and an ice cream and a small tinfoil packet I'd unfold with great care. Inside, the scraps of her making, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, soft and whole. I do not share. I scrape the foil clean.

Fast food was only a monthly treat when Mom had bulk shopping to get done or an occasional Dairy Queen cone in the summer. Dinner was taken around the table meal every night except Saturday,which was Barbecued Hamburger Night, even if Dad had to dig the grill out from under the snow, and we ate off of TV trays, as a family, watching old Westerns.

But on those dinners around the big table, I can't recall so much of what we talked about or who said what, but I do remember the gathering, the smells of beef and fresh vegetables, of laughter, of stories from school, from work, a discarding of weighty thought and the simple gathering of those you love, for nourishment of the soul. I can't recreate the exact moments through what I cook, or who I serve it to, but I still can remember how those simple meals made me feel, the redemptive power of the communion of family

You've asked me how I learned to cook, and why. This is why. It's a continuation of family tradition, it's nourishment, it's comfort. The smells of the kitchen warm me, the tastes, a sensuous dance across my tongue. Most days my house is empty but my heart is not. My spirit expands with the smell and taste, texture and touch of something warm from the oven. Something I have crafted from my own hands.

Sometimes there are kitchen disasters; we all have stories of such to share. My first was when I was in college. It was a huge roast which took pretty much all my grocery money for the month. I decided to cook it wrapped in foil, on a very low temperature, for a very long while. But having the usual "look a squirrel!" attention span of a young person, I forgot about it while I readied my apartment. The smell of over-baked bovine soon reached my nostrils as people arrived and we pulled from the oven what appeared to be a charcoal briquette wrapped in foil. Anyone have any Doritos?

There have been other disasters. You've had them too. Exploding Pyrex, "oops that's not cornstarch that's powdered sugar", fully automatic peppercorns spraying around the kitchen after the grinder top came off (cover me!).

But even with practice, the first time I made a meal for a very large crowd I was as nervous as the first time I testified as an "expert witness". It was at Thanksgiving, when I was still flying to put that bread on the table. With most of us on call, hoping to earn some dollars to pay next quarters tuition, or too broke to fly home commercially, many of us had no place to go on Thanksgiving day. So I hung a flier up on the instructors bulletin board at my airport, for any errant corporate pilot, commuter jock visiting a instructor friend or my coworkers. An invite to come over to my little place for Thanksgiving dinner.

I'd not say I was "friends" with all these guys from the perspective that we hung around outside of work together but we were "family". These were people I'd spent hours in the cockpit with, occasionally getting the &*#@ scared out of us, absorbing the wonderful colors and shapes and shadows of the sky, making temporary homes in a series of small apartments with multiple roommates, cramming as much as possible into the rare 24 hours we actually were off sometimes, laughing, singing and maybe crying together. So yes, we were family, if only related by adventure and empty pockets. And for that, I could think of no better reason than to peel 30 pounds of potatoes, bake 5 pies, and to to bat my big green eyes at the butcher to talk him out of that extra ham at half off.

Yes, 30 pounds of potatoes, for although I expected RSVP's from about 6 people, I ended up with 27. They arrived with beer and wine for those off duty, pitchers of ice tea for those that were and chips and dips and things to get us started. And thankfully, some extra rolls and pies from the bakery.

It was a wonderful evening, with massive quantities of food eaten, countless stories told and much laughter, eating until we couldn't eat any more. There was something starry in the kitchen that night, where I learned as much about my ability to organize and create as I did about the essential bond that a meal around the table creates, even if it's a bunch of card tables shoved together with white bleached sheets over them.

Did it mean that we all got along perfectly after that night? No, for there were still those days that intruded darkly on hours normally full of light. Those long close quartered days where we plowed through thick dark clouds to reach ice covered firmament, cursing the light long unending demands of West Coast air traffic, and long lines for takeoff. Days where the alarm clock snatched us violently out of wrung out sleep, sweeping us all back into the thrall, impotent for days against returning to home. As much fun as flying could be, after a month of such a schedule, even the best of crews could bicker for a moment like husband and wife. Add trying to go to college part time in there and it was a life of scattered adrenalin, little sleep and scant time for real relationships. Just like life for many of us, with families and jobs and pets and demands.

But that night of re-establishment of ourselves as a group of pilots confirmed that, occasional squabbling or personality quirks aside, we were all in this for pretty much the same reason. We were brothers and sisters in the sky, wanting to do the best for our passengers, our students while we, in turn, strove upwards to goals that were often far beyond the sky. Because I think we all knew, what defines friendship and family - connection, trust, honesty, unwavering support, is what we all needed to find our way home. Home to that table of shared communion, laughter, the fullness of Grace, the flavors of our lives blending into something memorable.

You don't have to peel 30 pounds of potatoes. You don't have to be a Martha Stewart kind of woman. You don't even have to be a woman. Anyone can create a memorable family meal with real food, without a lot of work. Like this: fresh bratwurst style sausage sauteed in butter with some bottled spicy orange sauce and a couple dashes of Tiger Sauce til the sauce caramelizes. Hot and sweet, served over a big communal bowl of fragrant rice sauteed with mushrooms and some chopped green onion (which counts as your vegetable :-) Add a glass of wine, or a jug of tea. It's a meal. It's a memory.

If you haven't done so in a while. If you've NEVER done so, some weekend soon, plan a meal around the dining table with your family. The meals don't have to be six courses, they will not always be perfect, some will be the subject for family laughter for years to come. But do it. For I do know that if you don't, you will miss out on something. Remove the mail and the junk that collects on that formal dining room table, turn off the TV, turn the cell phones off. Don't panic if it's a bit burnt around the edge, it's still a meal in which you'll reconnect. "Eating and drinking and being together with friends". You won't have these days back again.

Hygge.