Sunday, May 30, 2010

Give Thanks to a Soldier

Dedicated to SP4 Ryan Campbell and the Stryker Battalion stationed in Southern Afghanistan.
- Brigid

In times of great strife

war close and at hand
We prayed to our God
for soldiers guarding our land

In those long ago wars
enemy surrounding us all
We waved flags for our soldiers
as on our Lord we would call.

But when those wars were over
wrongs seemingly righted
Our God was forgotten
and the brave soldier slighted

The war's closer to home now

we've got freedom to save
So it's in God We Trust
as we honor the brave

- Brigid 2010

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Home!

video
I left under darkness while some people were just getting home, and rolled in by morning. Fortunately I had my favorite black truck, which I had permission to take instead of squirrel transport since I was going to be gone a long time, and vehicles were already reserved. I learned a lot about music on the drive across the center of the country, as I always do.

(1) No matter where you are in Oklahoma, somewhere, on some station, someone is playing "Bad Bad Leroy Brown".

(2) If the singer is going on about taking you for a ride on his "big tractor", he's NOT talking about farm equipment.

3) Despite talk to the contrary, NO ONE misses their ex spouse.

And finally, after 7 hours straight of broke down, done wrong, sad tears kind of songs I realized that -

4) At the gas station of love sometimes you get the self service pump.

But the music helped the miles pass and soon I was back near home, with some gifts for family members and one of the IND bloggers who dog sat Barkley while I was gone.
Finally it's time to go home. (As always you can click on any picture to enlarge.)

Who says there aren't hills in Indiana. Look, there's one coming up there on the road towards my house, there in the distance ( good thing for four wheel drive :-)
Slow up for that turn, my ears just about popped. I'm almost home.
Barkley is happy to have Mom home, the house is in order. The sun is up, coffee is brewing.
It's going to be a beautiful day. I'm not sure why the neighbor said what he did about that the lightning killing that tree. That'll buff out.
No roses (sorry, but I hate roses), lots of lilacs. Heaven.
Even I got a treat, fresh ammo.

And a box of cat shaped dog treats for my faithful friend.


Uh, Barkley. . . remember me??
Thank you for all your emails, comments and phone calls while I lived out of a suitcase for a while. It made it all a lot more fun.

Friday, May 28, 2010

A Short Story Before I Load Up to Drive Home

Some photos just call for a story.
The sun dips towards the trees, the water still, the insects not yet biting.

I've had my best success whitetail hunting right at dusk, often after being in a blind since before dawn, only venturing down for nature's call and a peanut butter sandwich during the time of the day that the deer are hunkering down.

It's a time not suited for the impatient. A small window of opportunity that might arise after a day of chattering squirrels and small deer too little to be disturbed in their growth. Minutes it seems, in which you sit upon a plank of coldness, waiting to stumble upon the chance of a shot, carefully calculating in the settling of the dark, the rapid and imminent shortening of the allotted span in which we find the treasures hidden in the woods.

Nothing good comes easily, or quickly. You learn it tending the land. Watching the seasons pop up like a wheel spring, corn rising like the tide, then being swept away in a tsunami of combines, leaving the land laid clean. Rain and drought come and go, as you are unable to do much more than sit against the fence rail and watch. Like much in our life, there are times we can only sit, knowing what we wanted to do, and couldn't and knowing what we could have done, but didn't, nature pressing on regardless of our choice.

Such things are reinforced in the blind,where you have been all day, hunting buried secrets, within yourself and there in your surroundings. Watching, inwardly and out for those minute changes in life that tell you when to sit quietly and watch and when to release the safety and act. Changes that most people miss, lost in the sound of a television set, a video game, the rush of traffic. Lost because they simply failed to look.
The wind shifts imperceptibly, the woods grow quiet as the sun sets down. Small creatures hop into grassy fields, risking a meeting with a predator for one last chance to put food in their belly before the darkness blankets them for the night. There along the tree line, a blur of soft movement, a whitetail buck. I hope he doesn't scent me, the smell of warm flesh, flame of hair and that odor of gunpowder and glory which seems to me to be the mark of the hunters garb.

He moves from behind a small ridge of earth, seemingly rising out of the earth itself as my Browning rises from my lap, a synchronization of fate. A 10 point buck, emboldened by the late hour as well, believing he has the woods to himself and a shy little doe, the rest of the hunters all having long retired to a television set and a cold beer. But I am still here, waiting. He moves on down a slope of earth that dips like a hard swallow, seeking. He stops, sniffing the air for the one that he seeks, leaving the familiarity of woods and bed, to wander after love, no sense of reason, walking willfully into hope and doom.

With the last drops of the sun leeching from the sky I have only this one hesitation, this moment, this one shot. As he moves away, quickly sensing perhaps a darkness that is final, I squeeze the trigger, a sound of profound meaning and fatal touch. The buck bounds up and forward, flinging the dirt as he darts away, quivering upright, in labored heave and surge of form. Dead, but not willing yet to quit the earth though in this moment his flesh has already been returned to it.

It was a fatal shot, one through the heart, and I found him yards away, down, the light having passed below the horizon of his iris, stare fixed into eternity. I take my hat off, and give thanks, for the day, for the bounty, for food for the table for a long winter. I mouth that prayer of thanks, as I look down on his still form. My breath assumes the air that his body had vacated, my eyes seeing the objects, fence and field and trees, that his eyes had lost, a glimpse of thanks for life and the ability to sustain it through the coming days.The light is all but gone as if the dark had slipped up behind me, my back exposed to the creep of time, so enmeshed by the sound of the rifle that I scarcely heard its whisper. The moon is out, the shadows diminishing to its curve, until even the shadows are drenched in black. For a moment, there was no movement, the deer's still form barely visible, its outline growing weightless and faint, the night itself mesmerizing me with it's own primal inertia. Too soon it will be my time to leave.

A light comes through the trees, a neighbor, hearing the shot, coming to help me bring in the game, for which I will share with his family."I'm over here", I shout, but my words are still, my small voice already lost in the woods infinitude. I can only stand still, my shadow long departed, running free somewhere with a whitetail buck, into the darkness, seeking the sun.

Timing


Mal: "Well, look at this! Appears we got here just in the nick of time. Whaddya suppose that makes us?"

Zoe: "Big damn heroes, sir."

Mal: "Ain't we just!"

- Firefly "Safe"

Thursday, May 27, 2010

PLAY ON

I was talking privately to a friend about all that's happening with legislation, life changing decisions that are going to impact our lives, and those of our children and grandchildren. When I quietly expressed my concerns on some issues, he said "don't worry, have faith, there are elections coming up."
.
The subject of faith takes me back to a Spring evening at the symphony. The chance to hear the local city orchestra play Mozart was enough to make me dust off my little black dress and my lone pair of high heels and make an evening out of it. There's a part of me that loves the ordered, mathematical precision of Bach, especially on a guitar. But here is just something about Mozart that speaks to me. Perhaps what I find so heartrending in Mozart's music is the intensity of change from one mood to another. Other great composers have expressed the extremes of life: affirmation, despair, the sanctity of grace, the rush of sensual pleasure, fertile touch and barren void. But only in Mozart can all these emotions co-exist in the infinity of a short song, making it fuller, richer, touching a chord deep within.

Mozart was a man
redeemed through his art, finding forgiveness as reconciliation with what lives deep inside. He inhabited the landscape of the absolute. Not absolute as defined by black and white, but in those gray shores, where beauty ebbs in and away, like the tide, where everything is contingent and nothing simple, and time is so very short. A place where, as Henry James’s Madame Merle says, "an envelope of circumstances encloses every human life". It is a place where genres fuse; where concertos become operatic and arias symphonic; where glee and grief, the downtrodden and the sanctified, become one. A place where time is much too short, as with each note we are aware of our allotted span dwindling, time in which we not only have to find our true path, but derive some joy from the journey.

Music is as life is. One can not write music like that if one has not lived a life beyond the safe middle ground. Just as one can not lead without having been honed by the experience of the worst the world can throw your way.
As I listened, I imagined how Mozart must have struggled through these compositions, through the changes of lightness to deep night, happiness to melancholy, engulfed by the blazing brilliance of his vision, yet with no refuge from those days both irrevocable and unrecoverable. His music flowed like wine, spilled like wine, not as a a toast to his detractors and the conscious they did not posses, but as communion with something as profound and old as heaven.

He wrote his works in a span of just a few years, dying at the age of 35, on the surface, the work seeming effortless. But what must have gone into those works and how he continued in the face of adversity. He didn't listen to the critiques of reviewers selected for their negative view, he didn't stop when times were dark, because he believed in his vision, he believed in his music. And as I listen to the swell of the concerto I think of the composer and I think of each of us, perhaps afraid of the seemingly uncontrollable nature of our future, and whether we as one person can change that.
How easy it would be to let fear take over, for despite our best wishes that the center of our lives will hold firm, it never does. I took a dear friend for a flight lesson this last week. It was a sleek, high performance aircraft I needed to get some currency in and I let him fly from the copilots seat, my being a licensed instructor, and talked him through a takeoff, and then a landing. It's hard, there in such brief moments, to explain risk and hesitation, the wind and the drift and what you need to do to react to it quickly or risk losing it all. Life is like a shifting wind on final approach, one slight change and all patterns alter. One moment life feels full and content and the next your safe landing is in turmoil, or maybe you are. Things change when you least expect it. It's like being on short final, landing assured, and suddenly you're switched to another runway, another path and everything changesI've flown enough that I've felt real fear in an aircraft, shooting an approach to minimums in rugged terrain, snowflakes the size of postage stamps slamming into the window, my right hand on the throttle and sweat trickling down my cheek. I had never felt more present, more myself, more in the moment than at that time. The fear was right on the edge of either paralyzing me or propelling me into this place of being utterly engaged, that magic moment when I know I am honing years of practice into precision flying, and I'm suddenly out of the fear, into the light.

I could manage the fear because I have faith. Not blind faith in the promises that all will be well. But faith in my training, faith in my mechanic, my copilot, my airplane. Faith in what has been proven to me, not merely spoken to me. And yes, as well, faith that with needles centered, the runway should soon be straight ahead. For as it says in Hebrews 11:1 faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
But fear in an airplane I've trained for, I'm conditioned for. I've drilled and practiced and take a checkride each year to keep my skills up. But like any human, I still fear what I can not control, the unexpected emotions of my heart, the unreliable character of our bodies, and certainly the daily reminders of our own mortality. We watch it on the TV, see it in the faces of the first responders, or watch it being lowered with highest honor into the ground at Arlington. Denying the uncertainty, the fragile underpinnings of life, might make one feel safer, especially now. But doing so would not make life more predictable. especially now in these times that threaten the core foundations of what made this country great. Going along with pretty promises and ignoring the past are not going to make my future any safer.

Faith is the ability to close one's eyes for a moment, knowing that when your eyes opened again, the world would still be there, just as your strength will be. In Ulysses - James Joyce talks about the "ineluctable modality of the visible." You shut your eyes, open them again, and find the world continues without your witnessing it. It's a beautiful reflection on time, on faith, and on how we the people hold onto what is important.

But faith does not also mean that you sit and do nothing, blindly hoping that things will get better by your inaction. You need to learn early on that the people or powers you somehow expected to assist you, were completely interdict. I have walked in the darkness of the forest, trusting the Lord to watch over me and fallen flat on my face, the earth reaching up, if not to smite, me, to at least give me a gentle kick in the pants as to reality. As I sat up blinking, brushing the leaves out of my hair, it was apparent that although the Lord watches us, he will still allow us to fall, he will still allow us to fail. Though I had a pistol on my hip, the rifle I was carrying was unloaded, as I knew the area in which I would walk was treacherous, and it was undamaged. I reached into my pocket, as with the fall, I wanted to make sure the ammo was still there, and it was, the live rounds clean, the primer dented deep into the unexploded round, not much bigger than a fingertip, yet big enough to contain a life. Small things, powerful things, sometimes it just takes the actions of one small thing in the world to make a resounding noise.

The coming days won't be easy for any of us. I can't tell you how we will survive, but I know that with faith, and the tools of the patriot I have a chance. Faith doesn't mean the absence of fear, it means having the courage to go ahead, right alongside the fear. The word "courage" in English has the same etymological root as the French coeur, which means "heart". With faith, with the courage that faith brings, I can acknowledge what I can't control, and place my heart and my mind wisely with what I know I can see and touch and feel, not simply words. With faith that I can separate the truth from all the lies that have been put out by the media, with faith that's backed by records, facts and the company one kept. With that faith I step into the voting booth, where I will connect with the truth of the moment as I move forward into the uncharted land of the next. I have a tape of Mozart on my stereo this morning, listening as I did that night months ago. As the music crashes around me I harness all my fear and uncertainty about what the upcoming months may bring, and surrender to the music. Just as with faith I will challenge and survive whatever life throws our way. The composer speaks to me in heightened sound, crystallizing an emotion, an insight, and experience. For the space of a song, we breathe together, and my breathing slows and I'm transported as if from the tumultuous edge of a snow squall to the still, clear air on the other side. A peaceful courage fills me, and I know that whatever happens in the coming days, I will survive, sure in my faith as to how to best live my life. It will be a life, sung to my own song, not dancing to some Pied Piper of promises. It will be a life heard, as I take my place, a single voter but a strong voice, in the voters booth where I will make that resounding noise. Where I will be heard.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Give me Yesterday's Bread.

Got a loaf of bread that's going stale and hard? Don't let it go to waste. Use it to make some Bread Pudding. Specifically Dark Chocolate Bread Pudding with just a hint of cayenne to spice thing up.

Save that saw for your mother in law's meatloaf, and try this special little dessert for two. (from gourmet magazine).

WHAT ARE YOU MADE OF?

I was flipping through TV the other evening, hoping to find the History Channel, when some show came on about people changing homes and lives with someone else for a time. I didn't watch, but for just a moment I thought about what it would be like if, for a brief moment of days, we were judged by what we had within us, not outside of us.

We too often judge by the obvious, the loud, the flashy only to discover the latest pop star only lip syncs. We rely on the media, on gossip, not realizing that most of that is as false as the motive that drives it. Myself, if you saw me in line at the grocery, you would see a pretty, well fed and curvy "farm gal". No fancy painted nails (hard work makes that a little difficult to keep up), no designer clothes and no fuss. My bag is from Midway or Sears, not Gucci. I'm someone's Mom. Someone's older sister. You might notice the hair or the eyes, or the curve of the hip, but the average young person would dismiss me as ordinary. You would not see that inner strength which could handle a load that would have sent most women and many men, packing. You would not see past the outer human form, one who has learned daily how fragile life can be; how tough, in violence, in loss, we are capable of being. Not the bones and the flesh, for they are transient, but the heart that drives those bones and that flesh into life. Fragile bones of unbreakable will.Look again. If lives were traded for a day, that quiet and unassuming man in the worn, faded but clean overalls at the feed store might be able to command an army, there in that moment being recognized as the complex, efficient steward of that which is important. While the lady or gentlemen on CNN, in their carefully cut hair, $1500 suit, and entourage of hype, would collapse in a bundle of dried sticks, unable to function without that support network of elective self entitlement.
What would it be like if, for all of us, there for a day or a span of days, you were not your bank balance, constituency, spouse, color or neighborhood? You were just you, without that haughty ancestral pride based, not on any core part of yourself, but simply the divine right of birthplace or parentage. A moment in time where you were judged solely on what you've read, what you've learned the hard way, what you are. Where you were valued by your innate abilities to survive and prosper through that day without birthright; handling yourself and your actions without help, teleprompters or a gold card, but simply by the human vanity of your own strengths.

How would we be perceived? And more importantly, who would we elect as our leaders?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Mausers and Muffins, on the Road

There are sometimes little perks about being on the road for most of a month.

(1) I don't have to make my bed

(2) There is no bathroom scale actually IN the bathroom

(3) I don't have to worry about "accessorizing" as my entire travel wardrobe would only appeal to Joe Friday.
(4) I sometimes run across some of my friends who live away from the land of Corn.


This month had times such as these. I got to play with toys and eat supper with friend and Miles who was residing during a trip to the grandkids about 15 minutes from where my business . I got to check out his awesome Smith and Wesson Model 66 and in turn, I gave him a flying lesson.
And I got to explore a HUGE Cabelas.
I'd post a more scintillating shot but we female bloggers were recently taken to task by a young female blogger who said most of us only have readers because we use cleavage and skin shots to lure in traffic. So for my 2.6 million readers, here you have the secret to Mausers and Muffins. Captivating photography.
The Cabela's was really awesome. We don't have one in Indianapolis. I wish we did.
I was tempted by a thing or two in their large assortment of firearms, but I'm quite a ways from home.

Besides, it just didn't match my outfit.

I will be looking forward to going home next week. I miss my friends, I miss my home, but for every day like today, I realize, that at the Range or on the Road, I am truly blessed.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Wild Things in the Garden

Being Celt AND Norwegian I have the usual yard gnome or two. I also have other things running wild in the garden.

Namely Asparagus.
It grows on two side of the house and there's been enough to harvest it several times a week.
But what to do with it all? A simple veggie/cheese dip that can be assembled from some previously roasted veggies in about 3 minutes, then baked. I showed up at a friends house with it and some bread to be the appetizer. No one got to the meal. Creamy Veggie Cheese Dip. At first there was a general sniffing, it's not particularly attractive though it smells wonderful. Then a nose upturned as they dipped into it (uh, what is IN that?), then a tiny little nibble just to be polite, then someone else nibbling, and then all sense of humanity left them and they tore into it like zombies showing up at Lilith Fair.

Spinach, lemon roasted asparagus, roast garlic, chives, artichoke hearts, cream cheese, red pepper and a bit of mayonnaise all baked with fresh grated Italian cheeses until bubbly, served on fresh baguette bread.There was nothing left but an empty bowl and a couple of baguette crumbs.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Day ?? in a Hotel

Behave yourself and don't drink that last Guinness. I miss you very much.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Casting Spells

Werewolves are common in folklore, and part of many a childhood nightmare of my own. The source of the word is debated. One etymology derives the first part of the word from the Old English weri (to wear); the full form in this case would be wearer of wolf skin, lupine equivalents of the berserker, said to wear a bearskin in battle.

Other sources derive the word from warg-wolf, where warg (or later werg and wero) is cognate with Old Norse vargr, meaning "rogue," "outlaw," or, euphemistically, "wolf". A Vargulf was the kind of wolf that slaughtered many members of a flock or herd but ate little of the kill. Herders had to destroy the rogue wolf before it took out an entire block of lambs, using what means they had at their hands.

You do what you have to do. But it helps if you have the proper tools.

Look what the mailman brought me before I left! Time to learn something new.

But I was thinking, if the "casting lead" thing doesn't work out, I could always try Silver.
You know, just in case I run into one of those other bad guys that wander off the Moors into town.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Wild West?

Some people believe that by allowing more carry laws, states will lead to a return to the Wild West. Quote in point . . .

"Open Carry' Gun Laws Turn the Country Back into the Wild West"
-Rep. Carolyn McCarthy , seven-term congressional Democrat

I wonder what a resident of a 19th Century Western landscape would think of us today were he transported here? There, men and women were armed and were often trained in the defense needed of home and property. Yet in such places, homicide was rare and usually involved a transient shooting the same, in violation of local law, or a professional gunman who took care to protect innocent life while bringing a fugitive to justice. The "Per capita" robbery rate was only a single digit fraction of today's urban city. The burglary rate was less than 1%. Rape,though likely still not reported sometimes, was almost unknown.
The notion that the Wild West was one of chaos and violence was popularized, not by actual historical accounts, but by Hollywood entertainment and fictional literature. Crime records and historical research suggest otherwise. For instance, in one record, "Only two towns, Ellsworth in 1873 and Dodge City in 1876, ever had five killings in any one year.” Abilene, which was considered one of the most “wild” cow towns, had records that cited that “nobody was killed in 1869 or 1870.” The earliest cowtowns actually had strict gun laws that soon proved what we all know today. There were guns on the streets, but they were only in the hands of the bad guys.

But firearms were prevalent, not only to protect against wild animals, Indian raids and the like, but also against the rustler and the poacher, to whom the laws, gun or otherwise, meant nothing.

What was of note in the time, if you study history, which apparently many of our elected representatives do not, was not the gun laws. What is notable was a new code of behavior was becoming acceptable in the West. People no longer had a duty to retreat when threatened. This was a departure from British common law that said you must have your back to the wall before you could protect yourself with deadly force. In 1876 an Ohio court held that if attacked you were not “obligated to fly.” My own state also upheld the legality of ‘no duty to retreat.” The code of the West dictated that a man did not have to back away from a fight. He could also pursue an adversary even if it resulted in death. He needed to retreat no further than “the air at his back.” He could legally fight back, with deadly force, and if threatened, he would.
Yet crime in the Wild West was not higher than anywhere else in the country at the time, even though almost all individuals owned a gun. In some areas it was lower, the "Wild" West not being as "Wild" as one would think. In fact, in some places it was downright peaceful. I think of the Robert Heinlein quote - An armed society is a polite society. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life.

Incidentally, the historical accounts on the West underline a fact that the writers of the scripts of the old Westerns barely touch upon, that the "Wild West" was "tamed" not by any large officialdom, not by increased government oversight, but by private enterprise and the rights and means a citizen had to protect that which he had worked and built up. The "public officials" of the day were more interested in keeping their jobs, than in actually doing them, unwilling to risk their own personal holdings and hide for the safety of a community far away, not at the wages that were likely paid.What was far more effective in bringing a degree of order to the West, as towns built up and people grew and thrived, was the fact that every man (and many women) carried their own government with him - there in his holster as he worked his home and land. Private protection that carried a strong voice. When needed, the citizen of the town could work to employ private enterprise to augment it, such as local "police", armed and deputized, as well as organizations such as Pinkerton. The citizen decided what was needed for the town and how much, knowing it was there to help, not replace what he could do on his own to defend and protect. He knew too, that there were larger entities, the U.S. Marshall service starting as far back as 1789, but he also knew, that in the day to day of survival when times were tough it might be HIS weapon that would be on hand, the Sheriff or Marshals miles and miles away from his land, spread thin in a population ever growing. He valued the professional lawman, but he trusted in the judgment of his own hand on his own weapon in the defense of his person or property at home.What would he think of us now, with so many of our law-abiding citizens in large cities unable, by law, to carry a weapon or have one in their home to defend and protect while criminals run rampant with them? How would the Old West resident transported here today, take the news that when confronted by a thief who kicks down his front door, he would be expected to meekly surrender what he had worked hard for months to obtain. Or perhaps to feign sleep and hope he's not murdered in his bed or forced to sit by helpless while his loved ones are ravaged in his own home.

Would he ask us how in these last 150 years that we lost our way? Would he look at us and ask, what weakening of our personal will led to this change, what power did we give to the officials we elected that slowly stripped us of these things that could be counted on to protect and provide? Would he ask us how the courage of a nation was muted into blind acceptance? Even more troubling, would he ask how long it is until we hand the barbarians at the gate the very keys to the lives we built on the principals of our forefathers.

Would he then, in response to the silence of too many of us, take a deep breath and remind us of that which he brought with him to this day and time. That being the knowledge that when we give up our right as legal, law abiding citizens to protect ourselves and our homes, the protection of our culture, our language and our very borders will soon be next. Then we will see a land of chaos and violence that he never knew.
An American of the Old West, trusted with a weapon to protect his life and property, would look at all that is around us now, the murder rate soaring the highest in cities with gun bans, even as I write this. He would see our country flooded with people that respect neither our values or our past, and nations far and wide pointing their own guns in our direction as we sit and attempt to play the peacemaker. He would ask more than how. He would ask WHY?