Chukar Country

It was chukar season in the rimrock of Montana.

We were miles from any road it seemed, but chukar habitat in North America is generally not near agricultural land. So we did some serious driving in with the help of a sturdy four wheel drive to where we could hike in. Not for photos or fun, but stalking what was becoming, to me, as elusive as a steelhead trout. For we weren't hunting the "raised to be hunted" chukar, who can't run, can't fly and has all the cunning of of parakeet, lounging on it's shrubbery couch on a "preserve", somewhere flat. We were after the wild chukar.
The bird is known as chukar partridge, red-legged partridge, rock partridge, Indian hill partridge, kau-ka, keklik and, for people without spell check, chukka, chukkar, chukker, chuker, or chukor. The full scientific name of our subject is Aves Galliformes Phasianidae Alectoris Chukar.

The name comes from the sound they make, though like most game birds, the vocalizations are divided into the categories of alarm, courtship and social contact. The chuck, chuck, chuck is the most common call from both sexes that over time sounds more like a chukar-chukar, and can be heard from a surprisingly long distance.

Chukar were first introduced into North America in 1893 by W.O. Blaisdell from Illinois who imported five pairs from India. Alectoris chukar was introduced en masse during the 1930's and have established populations in all of the western states and into Canada. I was hunting in Carbon County, in Montana, where my family is from.

I've pheasant hunted in Iowa and I can't remember walking in so hard and so far to chase a little bird that, size wise, would be simply a snack to the average lumberjack. With pheasants you can hunt where it's flat, places good for aging knees and a hiker with an extra 20 pounds. Chukar? These boys like to live up near a ridge line that a goat would get altitude sickness at.

Chukar hunting is not for those that don't like to hike uphill. This bird likes slope grades over 7 percent with a rise of at least 200 feet. It's also not for the hunter who is not prepared for a small bird that, when spooked, reacts like a pilot of a high performance aircraft, turning altitude into speed as he flies downhill faster than you can get your bead on him. There he is! Where'd he go? The chukar is not a shy little schooboy like the bobwhite. He's a elusive little guerrilla fighter. That's part of what makes a chukar hunt worth the cramping muscles, the blister and the dangers of high, crumbling elevations.

Our eyes searched back and forth, looking for sign. Chuker droppings naturally, or an area of possible roosts. Chukars roost on the ground, usually under an outcrop, or lacking that, some brush, the nests being little more than simple scrapes, sometimes lined with their own feathers or grasses. Spotting one of these will be like spotting a hint of sense in a legislative bill. Doesn't mean you don't try though. If there are nests, they will be within 2 miles of water and water was nearby.

From up above, the siren call, chuck chuck chuck, not laughing at me as some hunters say about the call, but rather bring it on, bring it on. Not a mock but a challenge, telling me come on up and join me, pit your forces against my world. A challenge I can't resist. In Indian mythology, the Chukar sometimes symbolizes intense, and often unrequited, love, the chukar allegedly in love with the moon, sending out it's call to it's desire. It's a call I can not ignore.

I was hunting with friends from work, walking 40 yards apart or so, the dog forming a small four legged shadow to me, panting, eager. The tail began the wag. A sign that she smelled that extra treat in my pocket or there were birds in the area. A few loners, or a covey? A covey is formed of adults and their offspring, meeting up with other small groups around a common water source. You could easily see a hundred birds in a group like that. But this area had recently had a spring rain. With the rainfall, the birds would have likely scattered like leaves and those small groups remaining together would be the smaller and tightly knit family groups.

We knew well enough about the rain, we'd been caught in it. I don't care how hardy you are, there's nothing worse than a cold soaking rain when you're out in the wild, not expecting it. There's just NO getting warm. Movement is treacherous, the ground is a food sucking mess, alternating with slippery rock that would just as soon fling you down the mountainside, then give you a firm footing. The rain washes the scent from the air til even your dog starts getting cbored and cranky. It can be miserable. It can be mind numbing. The sensible thing to do would be to pack it in and go home and watch "Mythbusters". But when you look at the terrain of Chukar Country the word "sensible" just doesn't come to mind.

Today, though was cold but dry, so we continued until that moment came. It was the one I'd waited for, the dog going into point, the screech and a whistle of a bird too frantic to stay, exploding from an outcropping, diving down slope, green eyes looking up, looking down, and the burst from a 12 gauge echoing down the canyon. There was nothing left in the air but the shadow of motion and speed , the bird plunging to the ground 75 yards downhill. No one spoke. I stood, and there was only the snow, and the frigid air and the smell of gunpowder in the air.

The bird is small, hardly enough to feed the three of us, but that's not why we are here really. As a dense, gray feathered rocket bursts forth from the last hiding spot, I realize, it's not about the bird, it's seizing that last brace of freedom for both predator and prey.

From 40 yards to my 3 o'clock position comes an artillery of birds from a group of low shrubs. Guns raised, I simply wait, giving them their shot. Sharing with my friends that brief, unsubstantiated moment of glory that can not last, but will. Moments remembered in those quiet times when flesh hesitates to speak, but memory remains. Memories of the high country, a fierce little bird with many names. Chasing it down the draws that led me deeper into the wilderness of my heart.

One If By Land, Two If By Sea

My favorite gun range was flooded this month in the incredible rains that Indiana had. Atlanta Conservation Club. I've always felt welcome there, as a guest or a member. They regularly have open houses that are very family oriented and worth taking the time to go, to try your hand at the shooting events which are regularly a part of Club life.
Dang, I forgot the Mausers.
Our table was a little under the weather there in the photo but it should be up and dry now. (picture from 45shooter at webshots)
If range conditions permit and we don't have significant rain, the club will host their regular club IDPA match at ACC on Saturday, July 3rd. Check the website for further updates.

Someone did mention in one of the gun blog comments that the tactical guys shouldn't let a little water stop them. Swim fins? Check! But what about collecting the brass? We could get some Cormorants which the Japanese train to use for fishing and. . . . . . .
Hope to see everyone out there real soon.

Supreme Court Decision - Why we Carry

There is a part of it that is as simple as self protection. As was my Dad in the Air Force, my Mom was a Law Enforcement Officer, a Sheriff, and I heard firsthand the abuses she saw against other women in the course of her work, women for whom their only crime was to be small and timid against a raging bully. Women who had yet to learn that evil does not go away by submitting, but by fighting back. So she and Dad taught me to shoot and the reasons for which they did needed no voice. Individually, collectively I believe it's a right of mine, as a law abiding citizen, whether I am a LEO or not, male or female, large or small. That being the right to protect my body and my interests for which I've toiled. And I would defend with each breath, against any interference with that liberty on which our country was founded.

The Founding Fathers did not give us that right, they simply affirmed us that right, one over our own bodies and minds that was God given long ago. But with the right comes obligation and responsibility. Our country was not founded on the principle that government would take care of our every need, including protecting us at every instance. To have the law enforcement power to achieve that alludes to an Orwellian world I would not wish to live in. I carry because I am empowered with not just the right, but the duty to take care of myself. I am sovereign in my protection of myself, charged with that moral duty and supported by the Second Amendment and the steady hand that holds the grip. It is a decision that I alone make, to carry responsibly, to be proficient, to be sure. I can no more imagine giving that up, than the sibilant intake of breath as I squeeze the trigger.

Then there is simply the sheer love I have for that which is history, of the acts of courage that defined a persons freedom, of the mechanical workings of objects which support self sufficiency and strength. Planes, trains, steam engines, old tools, and yes, the gun. There's an attraction to old tools and old machines, the human values they represent. Nothing that withstands history gets built without brilliance of design, a laboring effort and the dreams of man. Some say a gun is a killing instrument. Man is a killing instrument. The gun is only a tool, from which we have the pure mechanical force which can keep one alive or take a life. As a tool it is as weak or as strong as he or she who hold its, as good or as bad as the collective soul that keeps it in working order. The guns I own are defenders of good, soldier's weapons, officer's weapons, my weapons.As a female, I am by some cultures considered weak, yet my will to survive is born out by a life that most would have shied away from. That strength, that utter potency of the will to live is instilled in some things more than others, and in my weapons I can feel it. Taking that, holding one in my hand, feeling the power and the recoil shudder through me is empowering. Using my own will and ability to place the precision of liberty onto a small piece of paper, it's history. That of the past, that of my continued future.

I support the Second Amendment as it supports what our country was founded on, the means in which as patriots, we can protect and defend. The true measure of the patriot is steadfastness. We all have small moments of wanderlust in us, tearing off on paths that others may not follow, testing limits, testing ourselves. That is the nature of man. Yet when we strive to hold true, to stand firm to our beliefs as free men and women, as a group, to carry our weapons and defend our land and our homes, the weak become strong, and the wandering hold together as one. For then we are united in something much greater than the elemental whims of mankind. Together as patriots we are much more of the courageous and less of the selfish, we become brothers in arms, one household at a time.

.- Brigid

A little bend in the road

Some days, no matter how beautiful the beginning, just go downhill. When left the house the other morning I was really tired and had a bit of a cough. I stopped by Speedway for my" bucket of brain freeze" and the Speedy Freeze machine was broken. Not good.

I had a day off after working last weekend, so after doing on some chores around my house, I noticed the AC was pumping out warm air. Not good. I'll call someone but I just didn't feel good. I felt like, in precise medical terminology. . . . Cat Poop. I got to Rangebuddy's and he touched my forehead and said "Wow you're really hot" But not in a good way. He gave me some cough medicine, pain reliever and lozenges and I went off home to see about getting some sleep, afraid I was getting a cold and not wishing to hang out til I gave it to someone.

The AC was still toast and I was coughing pretty badly so I went to a hotel nearby to sleep. Nice hotel with kitchen, $64 at Priceline. Thank you Captain Kirk. The fever went up during the night and I woke up coughing up blood. Off to the hospital. It's pneumonia. I didn't have a cold that turned into bronchitis that turned into this. From gee my throat is scratchy to lung x rays was less than 48 hours. My mom was hospitalized with it just a couple weeks ago, before she passed, it's not something to ignore.

However, once I got to the hospital place, I had my usual fun with the female doctor, an older lively sort, as I had no intentions of getting all worried and serious on everybody.

Doc S. - Brigid - what medications are you on?
Me - I had a vitamin shaped like a little race car yesterday.

Doc S. (sigh). What method of birth control are you using?
Me - So far nudity seems to be working

Doc S (laughing) - You're quite ill and you're making me laugh, now STOP that.
Me - Watch that you don't trip over my purse there, it's full of Tribbles destined for Sick Bay.

She put up with me long enough to she got me squared away with something to let me breathe a little better, my tests showed I was down to Al Gore levels of required oxygen saturation, and after x rays they had me cough up some nasty stuff for the bacterial tests (they gave me a cup and a liberal magazine and put me in a little room to give my sample). After that I got some giant Biaxin tablets which I get to take a couple times a day for two weeks, an inhaler when I need it. No hospital stay after the first visit, just rest and sleeps and meds.
The Biaxin has a warnings for side effects such as nausea, vomiting, dizziness, shaking, difficulty sleeping, hallucinations, etc, etc, But the note says "the doctor has judged that the benefit outweighs the risk of side effects" Sounds like Health Care Reform in a tablet.

But, I know that for what I have, this is the right drug, and so far the only side effect I have is the one that says you may experience a bad taste in the mouth. I'm liking it to Haggis stuffed with lutefisk or lutefisk stuffed with haggis, but seeing as no one's going to be kissing me in the immediate future I guess I'm OK.

However, the AC is still out and won't be fixed for a couple of days. So I'll be a hotel for a bit while Barkley stays with G-Dog at RB's house with the family and little one. He likes it there, the last time I remember dropping him off, they were looking down the road for the magic yellow freezer truck that brings bacon.
A hotel for a few days is not ideal. I'd as soon have a cabana boy bringing me a 7-up and fluffing my, er. . pillows, but I need to take it easy and not cough on anyone.My friends are checking on me and I will be just fine. My best friend even offered to come over in a nurse's outfit with the eye patch (as in Kill Bill). I can still laugh, that's a good sign. A couple weeks of horse pills, rest and fluid and I might even make it out to the range to try out my new Zombie Targets.
She sort of looks like I feel. Zombie Targets are from Bill's Guns up in MSP.

Quote of the Day

Enlighten the people generally,
and tyranny and oppressions of body and mind

will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day.
-Thomas Jefferson

For Friday Night - A Small Toast and a Big Song

We had an unusual number of severe storms come through the area this last month, usually at night. On one such night, I went to bed, noting when I did, that I'd left the stereo in the bedroom on, after listening to a Johnny Cash CD.


About 2 in the morning, the power went out, then came back on immediately. I was alone in the house except for companions of the foru legged variety, when there was a small click sound, the drawer with the CD in it opening and closing, played on the cold air. The sound, unusual in my sleep, brought me up from deep slumber, but just barely.

As the ground shook and the sky boomed, the bedroom windows lit up with lightning. My eyes still closed, I was not yet aware of where I was, the sleep still lingering. Then a deep voice filled the room.

And I heard as it were
the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying come and see
and I saw
And behold a white horse

From my somnolent state all I could think was "It's GOD. . and He sounds just like Johnny Cash".

The song, the first on the album I had been listening to, is a favorite. As is the artist. I will toast the memory and talent of Mr. Cash. Admired for what he overcame and how devoted he was to his faith, his country and his woman. May we all have that in the dark hours of the night.

Choose Wisely

I picked up the phone and it was an election campaigner, someone who probably was calling all the female voters in the area. "You'd vote for Ms. so and so?" I was asked. "Actually no" I said.

What?" was the response, "I'd expect a successful women to support a feminist candidate who supports women's issues".

Actually I'm not, a feminist that is. Not in the sense of the word usually associated with it. I'm not going to burn my bra (except for that one that makes me look like I'm expecting an assassination attempt) and I'm not going to walk dutifully 10 feet behind my husband with my head covered. I'm a contradiction in stereotypes, a modern woman who can shoot, hunt, manage a team of a dozen or so ex special forces types, fix most things and survive on my own. But I'm also someone who still wants a strong rugged man to kill that spider, and understand that sometimes I can't do it all and am going to come home after slaying the dragon, go to my room and cry like a girl. I want someone who will read that 130 page technical report of mine, understand it and praise it, and then bend me like Gumby and make me forget my name.

I'm not the inaccurate stereotype that liberals would like to make of a woman voter of the right, some hillbilly woman with 8th grade reading skills and a baby on each hip. I'm successful, educated, pro life, pro Constitution and pro gun. I call older folks and all veterans Sir and Ma'am and I will bring my man a cold beer while he watches tanks blowing up things on TV (and likely join him).

The feminists probably wouldn't like me, and some of the more more traditionally brought up women I've met probably think I'm a different species. I'm not a woman that thinks my man should act like a women and treat me like a man. I may fix the damn door but I like it when you open it for me. That's courtesy not sexism. Like my parents, I believe that in a household,, decisions should be joint, discussed, like battle strategy, what is best for us, for the family, not dictated by the man simply because he is the man OR the woman simply to keep the peace.

So I find the idea that I should vote for a woman, simply because she is a woman to be as sexist and idiotic as having a politician elected simply because he looked good in an expensive suit and talked pretty.

Perhaps it's something with me, passed on from a strong mother, who packed a gun and still greeted my Dad in a dress with a with a martini on Friday nights. Perhaps it's the examples that have been laid before me.
My husband was from the deep south, a southerner of rigid and controlling values, not the gentlemanly, strong men of the south I've come to know since. I was brought home as some prize to show his parents, after they near disowned him for taking up with some bimbo. "Look what I own now", was how I was paraded around, like some prize cow, valued for anything other than love. I tried my best to fit in, cooking with the women, something I always loved to do for family, tending to chores. But I soon realized that the older women in the family all had a haunted look about about their eyes, a quiet desperation there amongst all the noise and bustle of large meal gatherings. Women were bearers of babies, burden and contempt, working all day in the heat and the noise on Sundays and holidays while the men got drunk and watched football.

My husband had moved away, living a different type of life than this, when I married him against my family's wishes. But his father's death brought us back to that place and soon he was treating me the only way he knew, the way his father had treated his mother, with idle disrespect and the occasional fist. The first Thanksgiving was an eye opener. After cooking all day I went to set down at the table and was informed by a senior member of the house that the women should "eat in the kitchen", not with the men. We were there to wait on them and clean up after them, and if we had time for a bite somewhere in there so be it.

I came into that relationship with a college degree and pilot wings on my uniform and soon found that although I loved rural life, I hated the way I was treated, simply because of my gender. If I went into a feed store I'd be asked if what I ordered was what my husband wanted. I could be up all night wrestling with a tractor, pack my bag and go spend my weekend flying a large transport, only to come home and be patted on the head, and called the "little woman" while the salesman talked to my husband as the money I earned was spent, as if I was not in the room.
I was not alone, I'd see women at the church socials, wearing plain clothing, with downcast eyes bearing trays of food which were made with the passion they weren't allowed to show in any other public way. I worked, as the money was needed, but few others did, other than selling cosmetics or kitchenware or other "at-home business". I was asked to attend one of their meetings, watching the team leader whipping the group into a lather of frenzy that reminded me of a church revival. "Who's going to book 10 parties!" and the group response with liturgical precision. "We Are!". The products were usually good, and some women actually made a fraction of the money they dreamed of. I'd see in those meetings their eyes, that would blaze up like a lantern just before the oil runs out. There in that small moment a brief blaze of freedom that for many will be snuffed out once they got home. So I understood that small stand for independence, that recognition of hard work they didn't get anywhere else, a place where they could speak freely, cloaked in the conspiratorial whisper of pink perfume.
But these were strong women underneath, and like myself we went into such marriages with the naive vision of youth, picking someone because everyone expects you to get married. Someone likable, nice looking someone strong, able to change your lives for the better, without a strong look at family, character or integrity. And we stuck it out because of. . . I can only explain it with a phrase that came from the Bible that I had not understand before. "A peace that passeth all understanding". Passeth all understanding. Yes, for in looking back I see it now, that decision to stay that bears no understanding on the surface. That pride, that furious wish to hide the abject folly of your youthful decision, bearing that load around like a large platter, too large for a small girl to handle. Not speaking up, not crying out but carrying that decision, for some, all the way into burning ground.

I will never forget that but I have forgiven it, as almost 20 years have passed, people and places change, and fate steers us to where we need to be. Society too has changed since those days when I was a young bride. I can now go into most gun stores and say "do you have the new XDM in .45?" and no one bats an eye. I drive a large truck and don't get funny looks in traffic. And if the seat of the truck is covered with cakes and pies it's because I wanted to bake them for the men in my life, those I work with, those I love, NOT because I'm expected to.
I let one my friends to read this post and asked if it was too personal, too somber to make public. He said I should. He said I needed to. I look at things in great detail now. I see things not as a whole taken at face value, but as the individual components which comprise the whole. Just as in a crime scene you sift through those seemingly unrelated disbursements of strong and and fragile, the sniffles and sighs that echo in the air even as flesh cools and hair scents the air with ammonia perfume, those illusionary wholes of pieces of life and strong bones, detached yet familiar, so secret yet familiar. I look hard at things, including people, having learned the hard way the years of long sentence that are the result of foolish choice.

Choices without prejudice. Freedoms with responsibility. On the day that I vote, like most days off, I will likely go to the range first and shoot, watching the bullet fly free of the firearm, like the stream from a fire hose. I will watch it fly with freedom and power, and I will stand in awe as to the damage that can be done when such power is misused.

Then, when the day has come, I will go home, clean my weapon, throw my apron in the wash and go to the voting booth where I am NOT going to vote for a woman with a pro choice button and hair stiff with hairspray. I would not vote for her any more than I would vote for a woman with a firearm and hair stiff with hairspray only because she is a women. I will vote for the best candidate, one who can articulate in the face of adversity, stick with a commitment and put the interests of the people of this country ahead of the social schedule, book signing or Hollywood coverage. I want a candidate who, when confronted with a threat to our life and liberty will not stare at the ground or a teleprompter. I want a candidate who will fight for us, just as I am drawn to a man who is willing to fight for me (even if the ammo he uses I might have reloaded myself).

So Mr. Pollster, there you have it. Present to me a candidate that can do those things and I'll vote for him OR her, but only on those terms. There are some mistakes we don't wish to make twice.

Warriors of the Desert

I've made a lot of friends on the blog in the 26 months since it went public and some of them have become close in real life. One of them is Shannon, who, like Lin in New Mexico, I call "sister" even though we're not related by blood. We talk almost day, which isn't always easy, myself busy with work and she with a houseful, including four kids at home, her beautiful, active and artist Mom and husband. She knows my secrets and I share in the life of food, kids, family and stability there in the desert. We live in two different worlds, but we're cut from the same cloth, even though mine is dark blue, overly starched and worn with uncomfortable shoes and the occasional hazmat gear and hers is one of fluid colors, softness and strength.

I love you "little sis". Be safe.

Warning - The Range is Hot

There are those nights where it's too hot to cook. But that doesn't mean I want a cold, bland supper. Homemade Corn Chili Salsa. With a crisp, clean taste that's not grab the water spicy, it's the perfect accompaniment to grilled fish or chicken or whatever.

But hot kitchen or not, you can make this in 20 minutes. It's better than even the best bottled and can be ready in 20 minutes. Perfect with grilled chicken or fish or whatever.

1 small ear fresh or fresh frozen corn (Farmer Frank to the rescue) 1/2 cup approx.
1/2 medium red pepper seeded and cut into strips
1/2 medium yellow pepper seeded and cut into strips
2 red Fresno chili peppers, stems removed
1/2 Vidalia onion
1 large clove garlic, roasted and diced
1 cup fresh cilantro leaves
1/3 cup diced tomatoes, drained if using canned
1-4 to 1/3 cup tomato sauce (depending on how thick you like it)
Squeeze of lime juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cumin
dash of Penzey's Southwest Seasoning (optional)

Blanche the corn in boiling water for 5-8 seconds. Dry and remove kernels when cool and set aside. Using a chef's knife or a food processor, chop the peppers, onion, garlic and cilantro. Stir in tomatoes, liquid and spices and stir well. Lastly, stir in corn. Add more liquid if needed, either tomato sauce or lime juice to taste. Will keep one week but this makes just a little over a cup so it won't last long.

It will serve nicely paired with plain grilled chicken or pork. But since I have a microwave to melt cheese and I don't want to heat up the oven, I'm voting for dicing up some grilled chicken to top whatever.

From the Library - Bladerunner

"Fiery the angels fell. Deep thunder rolled around their shores... burning with the fires of Orc"
- Batty - Bladerunner.

I admit, Bladerunner is one of my favorite classic sci fi movies. I like watching movies of the past as well as the future. My life is made up of a future I will only dream of, housed within a past that looks at me from light glinting off forged hardness. Hardness that's seen battle, if not blood.

The weapons stand at attention, dressed in bayonet wear, ready. Ready for simply a polish, a cleaning, perhaps one or two fired without bayonet on a weekend that's not 20 degrees out, with winds and snow moving in. Long time warriors standing at still attention. Pictured, a Yougoslav M48b Mauser, Lee Enfield #4 mk II, Chinese type 56 SKS, Mosin Nagant 91/30, and a Turkish Mdl 38 Mauser.

What would it have been like to fight up close and personal with such a weapon? A battlefield rising in dark silhouette, a small stream that once sustained peaceful cattle, alight with mirrored fire. Around a black arch of formed earth a man moves around and in towards you. Friend, foe? Creeping between flares, fox hole to crude trench, looking for a light that would lead to a gap in the wire, the straining, determined gleam of wire, strung between remnants of fence. A fence once holding in prosperity and freedom, now nicked with bullets, fragmentary ammo removing rust and mud to where only a small sentient soldier of wood is left. Seeing that darkness advance, holding in your breath, you have no choice but to defend, to leap bayonet-first into yet another trench full of groaning shouts, hammering blows against your body.

Someone is there, too close to get a shot off, an exclamation in foreign tongue, sung under a rocket glare that lights up the sky, smoky death. The enemy, caught in the act of creeping into your line, no time to think, only a visceral reaction of base survival, your bayonet goes into his throat. Death up as close as it can be, the body shaking, the bayonet advancing seemingly on its own, a thrust, a cry, he falls back. Time stops in that moment, your blade embedded in his crumbling body, pulling you forward as you cling to the only thing keeping you alive, pulling on it, wresting it free, as if shaking a sausage from a fork

That night, while a man lays open eyed, throat torn, a stray poppy blooming blood red in churned cabbage fields, you write a letter home. A letter written by candles light to your wife, asking her to hold the baby you have yet to see, asking about the farm and telling her things are fine, words in a letter she may never get, or may take four months to arrive. You write after you wipe the blood from your blade.

Warfare of old. Warfare with a bayonet - a thing of historical significance, formed into an instrument of killing. A last resort weapon, for close quarter battle. A weapon as old as firearm warfare.
The term bayonet came from the French baïonnette - a knife, dagger, sword or spike shaped weapon that fits over the muzzle of a rifle barrel. Typically they are "custom" in that they are made to fit a specific firearm, not much different than the accessories we buy for our modern weapons.

The origins of the bayonet are, like most battlefields, a bit smokey. The Chinese were believed to have first used them in the 13th century, when the developer of the musket found they were ineffective in killing at close range. They then introduced two types of firearm, one with an attached knife and the other a spear. Owning more than one Mauser and being drawn like a fly to them, I have more than one bayonet in the household now, as I do Mausers, always looking for new ones when I'm out and about like these up in Minneapolis.

The term 'Bayonette' popped up in the later 16th century though its origins are still obscure. It might have first referred to just a simple knife and not for a military weapon. Cotgrave's 1611 Dictionarie describes the Bayonet as 'a kind of small flat pocket dagger, furnished with knives; or a great knife to hang at the girdle' while a Baionier is given as an old word for "crossbow man". Perhaps the first "bayonette" as described by the French was a contrivance of a hunter who, after having fired his last round at dangerous game such as a wild boar or having missed, shoved his knife into the muzzle of his piece to bring the animal down. That is plausible in that firearms of that day were fairly inaccurate and took a long time to reload. The makeshift bayonet then allowed the hunter further defense or a killing instrument if needed.

It is also rumored that during the mid-17th century irregular military conflicts in rural France, the Basque peasants of Bayonne, depleted of powder and shot, shoved their long-bladed hunting knives into the muzzles of their primitive muskets to form a spear and whether by luck or design, created an ancillary weapon. In any case, the first mentioned use of the bayonet as an instrument of war that I could find was in the memoirs of General Maréchal de Puységure, the weapon being introduced into the French Army in 1647 and becoming common in most European armies by the 1660s.

The benefits of this little "add on" were soon apparent, as that early hunter of the wild bore may have found out. The early muskets fired at a slow rate (no more than 3–4 rounds per minute using paper cartridges and down to a slovenly single round per minute when loading with loose power and ball), making them both inaccurate and unreliable. Bayonets provided a useful addition to the weapons system when an enemy charging towards you could advance across the musket's killing field (a range of about 100 yards for even the most wildly optimistic) at the risk of perhaps only one or two volleys from their waiting opponents. Rushing through two volleys only to meet a pointy exclamation likely reduced that urge to "charge" in some folks.

The bayonet was originally a defensive instrument. A good long bayonet, extending to a regulation 17 inches during the Napoleonic period, on a 5 foot tall musket ending up with a reach comparable to an infantry spear. Steady infantry, standing two or three men deep, could adopt a defense "square" formation, an defence to a sudden rush of cavalry with a reach that could defend against a man mounted upon a horse, though the combination was much heavier than a polearm of the same length and would take some real strength, not just skill.

You see the problem here. You plug it, you can't fire it. During the act of fitting the soldier was virtually unarmed. It's like having your 1911 in the bottom of your briefcase when the robber/murderer says howdy. Not a good place to be. Even more annoying, you plug it in too tightly, you won't be able to get it out short of damaging the weapon (anyone got any WD40??. . and. . uh. . duct tape)? Yet, in 1671, plug bayonets were happily issued to the French regiment of fusiliers and later to part of an English dragoon regiment that disbanded in 1674, and to the Royal Fusiliers in 1685.
The outcome of the Battle of Killiecrankie in 1689 was due, in some part, to the use of the plug bayonet; as a sudden rush of Scottish Highlanders overwhelmed them as they were fixing bayonets. Shortly afterwards, the defeated leader, Hugh Mackay, is said to have introduced a ring-bayonet of his own design. These "socket" bayonets offset the blade from the musket barrel's muzzle with a bayonet that attached over the outside of the barrel with a ring-shaped socket, secured on later models by a spring-loaded catch on the muzzle of the musket barrel. With the socket bayonet the blade would lay below the axis of the barrel, leaving sufficient clearance to permit the weapon to be loaded and fired while the bayonet was fixed.

Many of the socket bayonets were triangular in cross-section. It was said in some history books that this was designed so they'd wield wounds "that were difficult to stitch when attended to by a medic, as it is more difficult to stitch a three-sided wound than a two-sided one thus making the wound more likely to become infected". This is more of an urban legend than reality, for surgeons have sewn up jagged wounds using more stitches when needed, since field surgery began. Instead, three sided bayonets were designed to provide flexing strength in the blade without much increase in weight in case a bayonet struck a hard object. For in that event it's better to have it bend and be repairable then to have it be so stiff it shatters on impact.

Shortly after the Peace of Ryswick in 1697 the English and Germans both abolished the pike and introduced these bayonets, but owing to a military cabal they were not issued to the French infantry until 1703. Thereafter, the bayonet became, with the musket or other firearm, the typical weapon of infantry.
The long type of bayonets for early rifles were designed with the same intent as the medieval pike, the rifle and bayonet becoming a long pole with a lethal spear on the business end. As warfare evolved, so did the bayonet. Mass collisions of troops were less frequent, and the blades became shorter, becoming secondary to fighting knifes. The idea of using a short sword as a bayonet was tried on occasion, but the first regular users of the sword-type blade appear to have been the British rifle regiments in the early 1800s. But, with the onset of breech-loading, and then magazine arms providing infantry with a firepower capable of beating off cavalry, the bayonet evolved even further, from a primarily defensive weapon to one of offense.

For this, a knife-like blade was of more use than a spike blade, and so from the middle of the 19th century, the use of knife or sword blade increased, though a few armies still hung on to spike blades.

All nations boast of their prowess with the bayonet, but few men really enjoy a hand-to-hand fight with the bayonet. English and French both talk much of the bayonet but in Egypt in 1801 they threw stones at each other when their ammunition was exhausted and one English sergeant was killed by a stone.

At Inkerman again the British threw stones at the Russians, not without effect; and I am told upon good authority that the Russians and Japanese, both of whom profess to love the bayonet, threw stones at each other rather than close, even in this twentieth-century."
-J.W.Fortescue, Military History

18th and 19th century military tactics included various massed bayonet charges and defenses. The Russian Army used the bayonet the most frequently in any Napoleonic conflict. Their motto was "The Bullet is foolish, the Bayonet wise." Given that the bullet of the smoothbore musket of the time had Dick Cheney-like accuracy, almost unpredictable beyond 50 yards, they believed that in a bayonet fight you were less likely to miss, though in actuality, many soldiers reverted to using bayonet-mounted rifles as clubs, primitive fighting at its best.

The experimentation of bayonets continued through much of the 18th and 19th centuries. Prior to the Civil War, the U.S. Navy tried their hand at affixing bayonet blades to single-shot pistols, which soon proved useless for anything but making dinner. Cutlasses remained the preferred flat edged weapon for the navies of the time, though Queen Victoria's Royal Navy gave up the pikes once used to repel attacks by my ancestors in favor of the cutlass bayonet.

The 19th century gave us the sword bayonet, a long-bladed weapon with a single- or double-edged blade that could also double as a shortsword. Its initial purpose was to make sure that the riflemen, while holding ranks with musketmen (whose weapons were longer), could form square properly to stave off cavalry attacks, when sword bayonets were fitted. Though the sword bayonet on the Infantry Rifle needed to be removed before firing, as the weight at the end of the barrel affected balance and stability (and you all know what that does to accuracy, it was a decent combat side arm when dismounted. When attached to the musket or rifle, it would turn almost any long arm into an effective spear, useful for not just thrusting but for slashing.
The inherent problems of fixing bayonets in the middle of a heated battle led some armies to adopt permanently-attached bayonets. These folded above or below the barrel of the weapon and could be released and locked into place very quickly when required. A singularity of the Imperial Russian Army, which carried over into the Soviet Army, was the permanently fixed bayonet; no scabbards were issued, and the bayonet remained on the rifle muzzle at all times. The Soviet blades, now made of steel, were stiffened with a small cross-section in the form of a cross, in order to make them more compact in form and fold better onto the sides of their rifles, such as the 1944 Mosin Nagant. It was said that self-inflicted wounds made by soldiers to get themselves out of the line of battle would be recognized as such and bring them greater disciplinary punishment.

In All Quiet on the Western Front, author Eric Maria Remarque stated that in WWI, French Soldiers killed German prisoners who had serrated blade bayonets, as they assumed they were for cutting off the limbs of Allied soldiers. Whether this was true or not, World War I did see the bayonet being shortened even further into knifed weapons useful for some very bloody hand to hand fighting or as trench knives, so the majority of modern bayonets you will find are knife bayonets.

In any case, it was not a weapon you hoped ever to have to use. Despite the support of military leaders, the practical use of the bayonet was somewhat rare. At Inkerman during the Crimean War in 1854, only 6% of casualties were attributed to the bayonet. In World War I, the ‘Spirit of the Bayonet’ was a mantra of combat instructors, but not popular in its actuality. Of the 13,691 men of the American Expeditionary Force killed in the war, only 5 died from bayonet wounds. Still for military strategists, the morale that interfaced with the fixing of bayonets was generally considered to outweigh their drawbacks, which included restriction of movement and lack of real utility. Modern bayonets are normally knife-shaped with either a socket or a handle, or are permanently attached to the rifle as with the"SKS". Depending on where and when a specific SKS was manufactured, it may have a permanently attached bayonet with a knife-shaped blade (early Chinese, Russian, Yogoslavian or Romanian)or a cruciform (late Chinese) or triangular (Albanian) spike type, or no bayonet at all.
The development of repeating firearms greatly reduced the combat value of the bayonet though they were still retained through World Wars I and II.

With the adoption of modern short assault rifles, the utility of the old style bayonet as a weapon was doubtful, the combination being simply not suited to fighting, yet modern versions of bayonets are still in use. The British Army performed bayonet charges during the Falklands War and the second Gulf War. United States Marine trainees at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego still get their first instruction in using the bayonet as a lethal weapon on their 10th day.

In a modern concept of warfare, bayonets are used for controlling prisoners or as a "last resort" weapon for close quarters combat, such as when a soldier is out of ammo or has a weapon jam. However they are not normally fitted to most weapons, as the bayonet impairs long range accuracy even more so in modern weapons.

Bayonets, whether you consider them a hindrance or a lethal fighting tool, many of them are rapidly becoming collectors items. I've just a few, as the bayonets for some of these weapons cost more than the weapon itself. But I still like to hold on to them.

Pieces of history that point to freedoms still threatened.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

The photo brought up the words. Don't read any more into it than necessary :-) In actuality, I'm in Moose slippers waching Mythbusters.

The summer sky is scheming
as ravening thunder rumbles
your face distant in the mist
obscure as dark, rolling clouds
your voice in my ear, resonating
making me need

Lightning flashes, strikes
piercing my defenses
hard shafts of light
torching my earth
drops of rain
striking the earth like bullets
piercing my defenses

I long for your hand on
my damp skin
the wind coming in
hot breath on my neck
a gasp
then hard honeyed raindrops
impellent wetness
to soak the needy ground

Brigid

Breakfast Science and Bacon

Bacon!! Buttermilk Bacon Waffles

The basic waffle batter recipe comes from the talent of Andrea Greary at Cooks Illustrated. But, like always, I had to experiment with it, adding a couple of things. You know, like bits of brown sugar caramelized bacon

I've had readers comment, what is it with you and waffles (or pancakes?). It's comfort food for me, Mom making them for dinner, with farm fresh bacon on the side when the budget was really tight. As kids we loved it. Still do. But I can't abide the metallic taste of the frozen ones or the limp ones that result from many recipes.

These buttermilk waffles not only have BACON, but they are crisp, fluffy and light, but not insubstantial.

The secrets?

It's the most basic of science. The melted butter in the recipe is replaced with oil. Butter is 16% water which contributes moisture to the inside of the waffle, which on removal from the iron will start softening your crispy texture immediately. Additionally, with less moisture IN the waffle the outer surface will reach a higher temperature faster, giving the waffle crust more time to form. The result? Crispy golden brown outside, soft fluffy interior. You won't miss the butter taste but this simple trick will keep your waffles from turning soggy.

We've got the crisp outside handled, what about the inside? Most gourmet waffles use whipped egg whites to get that fluffy center, as the whipping adds millions of little air bubbles to the batter.

But whipping egg whites is a repetitious, monotonous task involving time and repeated motion. You've got better things to do, you know, like process that pile of .40 brass in the Dillon press.

As C.I. instructed, replace the whipping the eggs step with seltzer water (not sparkling water, it's not bubbly enough). Using the seltzer with powdered buttermilk powder inflates the batter the same as a chemical based leavener, without the metallic taste. The little bit of baking soda keeps the buttermilk/seltzer mixture from being too acidic to brown the waffles.

The recipe makes 8. Enough for you and yours and an extra, slightly cooled, one to fling off the deck like a Frisbee for Barkley. He doesn't understand science, but he does like a good waffle.

Life and Liberty

(c) all rights reserved Home on the Range 2010

The Right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. The phrase, penned by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence and written 11 years before the U.S. Constitution was adopted, is said to have been influenced by the writings of John Locke, who expressed a similar concept of life, liberty and estate (property) in his work.

What is a Right? It's a principal that defines and sanctions a man's freedom of action within a social framework. There are many rights, but the one true right is the right to life, not in the context of the right to be born, but a man's right to his own life.
What is liberty? Again, I think Jefferson was somewhat influenced by the words of John Locke, who said in The Second Treatise of Civil Government (1690) -

The natural liberty of man is to be free from
any superior power on earth, and not to be under
the will or legislative authority of man,
but to have only the law of nature for his rule...
freedom of men under government is, to have
a standing rule to live by, common to every one
of that society...
and not to be subject to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown,
arbitrary will of another man....

Life and liberty as integral parts to a whole. He goes on to say:

This freedom from absolute, arbitrary power,
is so necessary to, and closely joined with a man’s preservation,
that he cannot part with it,
but by what forfeits his preservation and life together:
for a man, not having the power of his own life,
cannot, by compact, or his own consent,
enslave himself to any one....

Life and liberty not just intertwined, but binding. Strong words for times that gave us the words of Patrick Henry who uttered “Give me liberty or give me death!”

As to the "Pursuit of Happiness". No where in the words of our founding fathers did it say the "right to happiness". Only that we have the right to pursue our own happiness, to engage in self sustaining activities, to build up a sweat chasing whatever it is that is our dream. We have the freedoms to do what is necessary to support, further, and daily savor our own life; freedom to do so by our own voluntary, uncompelled choice. As to our neighbors, a right means that our actions should impose no harm or obligation on them, they are our actions for our lives. If your dream is to stay home and watch a brand new TV all day that is fine, but that that doesn't mean that I am obligated to buy it for you.

We have the right to liberty, to freedom. I do not personally believe that means that we are free from helping to reasonably support or maintain that which we use, our roads, our parks, our libraries, our schools. That does not mean we are free to shrug off responsibility for elderly parents or those children we bring into the world. But we have the right to expect that our efforts won't be wasted. We have the right not be forced by threat or law to give up our possessions or income or hand over our Second Amendment rights which protects the safety of that family or personal community we do provide for. We should not be forced to take the food off of our table, there from our own toil, to give to people who do not have the desire to produce, only to consume. Given with no measure of accountability that they will not come back to rob our table again.

Live, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Or as John Locke defined it first, the right to property. Not the right to an object, but to the action and reward of producing and earning a product. Our founding fathers did not intend the issue of property to be a guarantee that all will have all they want, but only that if a man will own it if he earns it. It will be his to use, to keep or if he chooses, to give to another to help them in time of need.

We are well into a new administration, one who has stated that we need to change our country to be one where the rich will be made to provide for the poor. "Share the wealth" was not just words in a campaign, but what I perceived as being the culture of the party. What appears to be our future unless we speak out strongly with our vote, is the adumbration of our future, the ant-like, socialized destruction of the America that people bled and died for. No matter what your political party affiliation we would agree that there are many things that this country can improve on. But improvement is not, as it has been in the past, having elected officials with blind power to spend the taxpayers money without accountability to where it's gone. Accountability to dispel the concerns that it merely promoted many businesses that promoted said politicians.

We need to return to healthy businesses through competition, where those who use sound operating principals, offering quality goods and services that are wanted, thrive and make more jobs and those that don't fail. We don't need handouts to those without plans to do business differently or lifelines to companies by whose greed or ineptitude the whole mess started. There are a myriad of ways the country could be improved. But it can NOT be improved by changing the principals on which our country was founded. For no matter what bitter forfeit a change in government may bring, the loss of our fundamental rights, affirmed by our Constitution, should not be part of it.

The American Revolution was a revolution of greater note than the battles fought and the words penned. One of the most revolutionary outcomes of the formation of the United States was the subordination of government to moral law, moving away from societies in which the citizens life belonged to those that ruled, and the freedoms he had were only that which the rulers decided by whim he might have that day, or that week. The recognition of man's individual rights by the Constitution limited the force of the power and greed of the states, protecting its citizens from an unwanted collective. The United States was one of the first moral societies in history, all previous governments viewing their citizens as a sacrificial means to the ends of others, and society as an end to itself. Our founding fathers had taken note. They recognized two threats to a man's possessions, to his rights. One threat is a criminal. The other is a government. The most laudable accomplishment of our government when it was formed was its ability to draw a distinction between those two, thereby not allowing the second to become a sanctioned version of the activities of the first.

The Government of our founding fathers was structured to protect men from criminals and the Constitution was drafted to protect citizens from the government. The Bill of Rights was an explicit declaration that the rights of the individual citizens supersede any public power. We the People is I. And I support the constitution and ALL its amendments, not just the ones you pick and choose.

When our next President takes the oath of office, I hope that he truly hears those words as he speaks them from Article II, Section I of the U.S. Constitution:

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Preserve, protect and defend the Constitution. Support those words that gave us a country that worked, that thrived. Preserve. . . Because our founding fathers were smarter than we have been. - Home on the Range - all rights reserved

Memorials

She left us earlier in the week as Dad, my step sister, myself and the pastor who had just arrived, held on to her, saying the Lord's Prayer out loud. She left in the last few words of that prayer with a gentle sigh, as with a rumble of thunder, the sky suddenly broke with cleansing rain, even as the sun continued to shine.

She did not wish a traditional burial, but to be cremated and placed next to where her heart had been for so many years. Not for her to be encased in a steel cubicle that came with an expensive name that hinted at sunsets and rainbows. She was born of the earth, and returned to it, crossing the border between tame and the wild, brushed with fragrance, scattered with grace. Returning without the ritual crowded ceremony of traditional internment, but the gathering of those that she loved, and the so many that loved her and my Dad. Family and friends, most of them descended from the Norwegian settlers of this area, whose steel strong threads of family bear more weight than any pallbearer. People whose faith in God and and hard work ensured the next generation of survivors. We gathered in a room full of photos and her favorite pink flowers. There was no casket but the room was not empty, filled with her presence like held breath.

I got so many emails, comments and phone calls. There was one from Larry at Last Refuge of a Scoundrel who took the time to send a note even as he'd buried his 46 year old wife in the last two weeks. And there was one, an email from an old boyfriend, words that made me tear up.

"Take heart and keep your strength up. Yes, I know lots of people will lean on you, but you have an inner strength that will deal with it. Perhaps it's something that people can feel,and they instinctively know you are a Valkyrie at the core."

Thank you, all of you.

Fader vår, du som er i himmelen!
La ditt navn holdes hellig.
La ditt rike komme
La din vilje skje på jorden
som i himmelen.
Gi oss i dag vårt daglige brød.
Forlat oss vår skyld,
som vi òg forlater våre skyldnere.
Led oss ikke inn i fristelse,
men frels oss fra det onde.
For riket er ditt,
og makten og æren i evighet. Amen.

Letting Go- a Tale of Fiction and Truth

It was a blue shirt. Old, weathered, but not worn or laundered since it first took up residence in my closet. Worn on a Fall evening long ago.

Overhead, a sound passing by, the somnolent engine, the gnashing crunch of tires meeting gravel, the sound moving away, dying away, not to return. From somewhere close, a deep sigh, myself, or the wind in the trees, shivering stalks against the sky. Today will be tears, then tomorrow. But tears will eventually slow to a quiet seeping of dreams against a pillow in the night, muffled resignation that you hope no one sees traces of in the day. Days that grew round and monotonous, life slowing to one of quiet acceptance.

When someone leaves, you go through the motions of life. You endure your days, fueled by habit, filling up the hours and hope they're busy enough for you to fall asleep at night and not dream of the warm body that hasn't lain next to you for so long. It often doesn't work.Those are the nights when the loneliness clamps down hard, with sharp weasel teeth, when all you want to do is pick up the phone, or shout to the heavens, and speak to that person who become a part of you, then moved suddenly away, taking with them small bits of flesh, exposing nerve endings to the frigid night air. But you don't.

Sometimes you can't.

Life goes on watch, and you listen for that crunch of gravel that is only the delivery man, as the vines creep against the house, growing wild, overflowing to your heart, constricting it.

But there's chores to do, they do not wait, the smell of oak, smoked fire already burning, the instructions that someone once gave me, how to penetrate the honeyed wood, its core as hard as iron, the axe aimed down, straight to the heart of the knot. The axe strikes and the wood falls to pieces and the things you can not ignore burn into you.

Finally, one day, after a dark and introspective night, you'll wake to the sound of warm rain beating against the eaves, flush with dreams, your body alive in a tangle of sheet. Not quite remembering the particulars of that night dream but just the feeling it imprinted on you, as you breathe in wakefulness, bringing back memories of that long forgotten. Dreams of longing, memories of love, of desire, fleeting things, reflections in a river, seen for just a second of quick glance, then swept away in the solitary stream that is your life now. For it seems you can hardly remember what it was like when you felt that way. When you loved, with urgency, with pressing need. Then something, just a simple smell, touches the place where that feeling was, a touch as slight and quick as fabric against your skin, as soft and fleeting as a birds wings against your face. And you'll quicken to the memory. And hope takes wing.
The shirt was found unexpectedly while cleaning out in preparation for a move, and in the suddenness of its discovery, it trickles trough my hands like tears, puddling to the ground as the memory awakes.

That evening so long ago, was much like any other Autumn evening, with the air crisp with cold, brushed with the scent of kindling alight. You too, have had an evening like that, where anticipation waits like an embrace, ticklish like a stray hair brushing against the back of your neck. An evening, perhaps recently, perhaps long ago, where you were swept away for only a moment on a late night, a moment that's repeated itself, minute by minute in your memory, wrong man, wrong moment. One of those times that you wish you could turn back on itself, as if you had never been there at all.

I'd heard he was in town on business. How long had it been since I'd made that decision, the one to end things. I was wrapped up in my new career as much as anything, chasing dreams, and somehow the whole lifelong commitment thing loomed into the horizon, I knew I had to make a decision. So I made the call that was one of the hardest I had ever made. I called him to say I couldn't see him any more. He sounded hurt, he sounded relieved. He sounded unbearably tired. But mostly relieved. I wasn't ready for anything serious, not like he wanted. After all the changes in my life, a new career, family to tend to, I wasn't ready to give what he wanted. Yet. So I cut the tether and let him go.

Renovating an old house became my sanctuary, the power of saw and sweat the tithing of my soul. My mind was desperate to sort out the past before I made a decision about the future, decisions that could change not just my life, but anothers. Sometimes creating something with hard work and wood helped. I tried not to think of the last months since we said goodbye on the phone. Impersonal, distanced, spoken through a cold receiver, the dial tone as he hung up echoing in the empty room. The conversation that made me want to just get in the old farm truck and drive until the horizon filled my whole world. Why is escape so difficult? Finding peace. Why can I sometimes only find that in in in the power of a hammer, the scent of black powder, the feel of a yoke or steering wheel under my hand? Forces that, for an instant I can control. But I knew that I did the right thing, for to promise to something, to someone who cared so deeply, when I was not ready to give it, was the cruelest of good intentions.

So I went back to the life of fire and wood. As I swung the axe into another small log, I thought of his last words " I will come back, you know", the words as a hand against my back, a feeling lingering across my shoulders, down my arms that whisper their own aching promise But months passed, and when I realized I was finally ready for what he was asking, the phone lay silent.

I was finishing a second coat of paint when finally, the phone rang. "I'm in the neighborhood, can I see you? There's something I need to tell you". He sounded wistful, he sounded happy, and my heart unexpectedly missed on two cylinders as I suddenly smiled. Truly smiled, for the first time in months. I placed the piece of drying work aside, racing around trying to compose my thoughts, my regrets, the decision that I should have made when it was there for me to make. Trying to ready a dog hair filled house in just a few minutes. I needed to make us some supper. How long had it been since I'd had someone over? Soon the kitchen would be warm with spice, the ripe juice of something fresh picked bursting on my lips.

Before you know it, before I'm showered and changed, he's waiting on my doorstep. That blue shirt. The way he stood, inviting smile and eyes the color of an evening sky, body relaxed in a pair of khakis. He was smiling a boyish hesitant grin. The sight of him dries old tears and turns my empty heart to longing. Was that you I said goodbye to?

I pull back, feeling a knot of nerves tie in my stomach, the fear a noose around my heart. I step back as I look into his smile, struggling to see his motives, searching his eyes to define my own. "Can I just touch you, will that help me let go of my angst?" I say to myself. For there is so much unsaid there, so many questions, his questions, mine. My fear. His? These are the intangible walls that distance us, the walls of heartache, made of concrete laced with steel, impenetrable. Walls that protect. Walls that distance.

Let me just touch you, I say silently. Tear down that wall, rip the concrete from it's foundation. Words only heard in my soul.

But as if reading my thoughts, he pulls me towards him in the familiar hug of a best friend, I hear my heart pounding as he opens his arms to envelop me. He finds a dab of of thick yellow paint tattooed to my cheek, just underneath my eye. A kiss lands nearby. My lips silently call to him as his clean, masculine scent makes me want to just blurt it out. But I don't. I have to stay in control, I tell myself.

I draw him inside, into a house that now feels like home. "I just wanted to see you in person" he says. "I wanted to hear your voice". I can't keep the words inside much longer. I was an idiot. I love you. I want it all. I'm ready. I want to just get it out. But I keep quiet, afraid to interrupt.
"I wanted to be the one to tell you in person", as he takes off his outer blue shirt, with the precision of movement and form that made me weak in the knees. Setting it on the chair, he stands before me, looking happy and hopeful in his work worn pants and T-shirt. The words hang in the air, dense with longing, waiting to be breathed in deep.

When you're young no one tells you the full story about love, that there is seldom a fairy tale ending like at the movies. You had rehearsed your love story over and over in your head, speaking the words you had scripted so carefully, waiting for what you know he will say back. Then, braced with the chill fall air, I open my mouth to speak, to finally say the words. He speaks first and the words are not what played in my head.

"I'm getting married."

My eyes follow his voice as it drifts out the window and fades. All I can see are dying leaves, windswept trees, barren fields, barren plans. I pretend to concentrate on a plant I'd set inside after last night's frost, too late, touching the skeletal frozen buds, making the ensuing silence that much sadder.

I step step away from the warmth of the room, so he doesn't see the beginning of tears and face the yard, as a tree outside explodes into flight as hundreds of birds are startled into escape. There I stand, that spot of paint on my face a dam holding back the tears, drying next to the warmth of his kiss.

As the tree bursts forth, I watch hundreds of birds vanish into the evening, gone as if they never existed, as the tree stands empty, except for just one lone bird.

One left, like the shirt there now, forgotten in his departure. A shirt the clear blue of tears, trailing in the wake of his words of apology for not telling me sooner. "Are you OK, you look pale". "I knew you'd be happy for me". Words biting my skin like insects, drawing blood from veins that had little to spare. I couldn't wait to get the door closed behind him, attempting a smile, telling him I had to go, something had come up, but congratulations, honestly, really. Then collapsing into tears, as I waved him gaily out of sight.

Now, on another chill evening, with the sound of a guitar playing in the background, I hold the fabric close to me, breathing in the heat we might have made and the smell that still clings to that blue shirt of his that remained, hanging in my closet, a remembrance of scent and touch. The cloth is faded and fragile, like all dreams. Then, finally, I put it away, deep in a drawer and find that finally, its touch is but dim memory on my fingers.

I look out into the skies, to birds returning to the trees.