(If Barkley could talk) - Moje vznášedlo je plné úhořů !
It's Friday. I'm home from travels safely, with an adult beverage, a new toy and a black lab always happy to play air traffic controller (Watch that landing Mom - Bouncy Bouncy!)
I've seen it all. Tam
gets the best ones, but I do get them, even without accepting anonymous comments. There's the one guy who leaves common sense comments on all the popular blogs - completely generic comments that indicated he never read your post. We may not all write Shakespeare in a comment but putting "loved your post! or great idea! - link exchange?" on a post about a death in someone's family or a soldier being killed while serving is beyond tactless. When it goes back to a blog that's pretty much nothing but ads, other people's writing you copied and other people's videos, it's just wrong.
But there is always the obvious SPAM that IS funny. There are the ones that seem to be written by someone whose first language is NOT English. (Hot, like a cow on fire!)
And the SPAM that comes via "thank you gmail!" Letting me know there's a source for everything I could ever want to know on the "craps workbench (verb or noun?),ascent tampon, gopher debilitator, or products from the Spiderman Pharmacy. Then of course there are the letters from folks with long legal titles in mangled English that begin with a narrative informing me of the giant foreign lottery I won that I don't remember entering, or the arrangement to cash a big check for someone overseas in exchange for a fee so big I could buy my own island -
"I humbly request your ass. . ."
Then there are the ones that just make you tilt your head like the RCA dog. Huh?
"Observe up the monumental hunk of process, I show handful points on this internet site also I deem that your net scene is rattling stimulating furthermore has places of splendid news.”
"Monumental hunk of process?" Apparently a Six Sigma guy on crack selling the "Western WeddingDress" (and there is no way in@#*& I'm clicking on anything with the word wedding dress in it.)
Of course, there are the the more mundane ones, simply a sensible sounding comment that makes sense but is so generic that it might not have any bearing on the actual post, but then again, it could. "I wonder who sent it ? There's no link, just a blogger name, this must be someone I know" (click on the blogger name) - "Act Now, get The Ronco Weasel Encabulator!"
The HOTR Crown Roast of SPAM
But this latest one, from a country where the currency exchange is likely based on the current value of a camel, did make me laugh after a VERY long and stressful week. Maybe because he called me "dude" before trying to sell me dental equipment likely leftover from the last Soviet invasion, (the last three words being a direct link which I did NOT click on.)
"thanx dude i am really ur post tooth extracting forceps"
A Christmas List was always a tradition in our household growing up. We did not get everything on it and never expected to, perhaps just one or two things on there. But it gave "Santa" an idea of what we wanted. Sometimes "Santa" branched out. There was one Christmas where our entire Socking was full of bubble gum. Mom seriously learned to regret that one. And then there were the Whamo Air Blasters for all (which was almost as much as fun as when we swapped out the "dual heat controls" on Mom and Dad's waterbed.)
But for those of you, not used to the tradition, it can continue on in your own home. I've supplied an updated, easy to use template so you can make your own Christmas List for your own "Santa".
Dear Santa,
I've been very _______ this year, despite the mishap involving bacon _______ and that ____ that resulted in an emergency trip to the ______. As for that __________ incident at the conservation club, I can explain (it WAS Russian ammo).
I have prepared ______ and a bottle of _______ as a snack for your arrival and have ensured my Christmas Stocking is free of pet hair, lint and razor wire shards of candy cane. So I hope you will remember me when you are in your workshop ramping up the North Pole Elfinator™ Five Stage Press in .223 or .45.
Remember, when you arrive, there will be _______ and deer heads on the walls, but I see by the non-faux fur on your Santa Suit you're not afraid of _______, ________ OR PETA.
It's not that I didn't appreciate the Attack Spider Pecker Repellent or the Marie Antoinette Action Figure with eject-able head but I was hoping for something along the lines of __________ and _________ this year, or something in full auto.
I promise Barkley won't ______ your sled this year, and we'll move the skeet shoot to earlier in the evening.
Thank you for visiting. Please be aware that there will be a prominant Nativity Scene to navigate around, as, no offense, it's not all about you.
If there is any advantage of getting up sometimes at 4 a.m., it's occasionally getting done in time to enjoy a little bit of last light, a short trek around the fields and trees that surround my little town. With a couple hours free before darkness drew a cape across the face of the moon, I had time for a long walk around the area, on some property of a friends. Time to gather my thoughts, ricocheting around inside my head with all that's going on in the world. Time, after travel and busy days, for stillness and quiet, out among the cold and a few trees.
At the base of one tree was the trunk of another felled during the recent wind storm and for a moment I could stop and sit and think, just taking in the winter landscape. Had it been warmer I could have taken a nap there, leaning against the tree. I've done that while pheasant hunting, where I would set my gun down and exhausted from miles of walking, simply lean against a tree with a patch of sun tattooing my skin and sleep. My black lab would drop to his haunches at my side, sniff the air for trouble, then doze himself, twitching to rabbity dreams.
As kids, my brother and I would sleep in the yard on many a starry night, dragging out the little pup tent, and setting it up under the canopy of the apple trees. We'd lie on our backs in our sleeping bags out on the grass, tracking satellites through the air and speculating on the nature of the heavens and why the plain Hershey bar was just better than the one with nuts in it. We were kids, and there were no worries, about death or taxes or bears or hydrophobic porcupines. We'd wake, ground cold and soggy with dew, and hike back those 10 yards to the house, bleary eyed from lack of sleep yet energized with the joy of believing that we would live forever.
The woods still fascinate me.To be alone under a shelter of trees is divine. I know many that would not be so comfortable, not truly happy unless they are the center of attention, with lights and music and action. Not I. To drift alone in thought in the presence of the trees and the proximity of the earth is much of what I feel when I'm flying. In it I get a sense of the truly spiritual. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ablution that comes from placing ones self at the alter of the planet, and for just a moment picking out a little infinity from the perpetually crushing teeth of time.
As I pause for a moment, among the trees, I'm reinforced in the smallness of my form next to their trunks, smiling as the branches separate me from the chatter of the world that echoes outside the woods. There is comfort in these trees, old and strong, even if scarred, for I am stricken by the thought of tremendous roots threading their way under the ground beneath me, weaving themselves into the soil, becoming one with it, taking nourishment from it, in a way we poor ground dwellers rarely will. Such gravity of purpose.
The weather is changing and a small sting against my face tells me it's time to head back towards home. The chill of the rain wakes me from my thoughts, a pinprick of cold, each lance full of the promise of its remission, here one moment, then gone, like the tears of a child. One moment, there is the rumble of thunder, water released from above, then it's gone, fleeing southward on the wind, leaving behind only spent confetti of moisture on pale limbs that gather and drip into puddles that reflect the sky that only moments before had prisoned them.
Leaning against the trees, sun glinting off of those small drips of water that cling to ancient wood, the secret whisper of wind invisible to me and silent, asks of me - would we find the beauty in anything if we lived forever? Would the gems of thoughts and feelings and desire be so precious if we knew they would always be upon our shelf? Or would they fall to the earth, trickling through our hands like water, evaporating on the cold ground, because we thought our hold on them was eternal.
Life is fleeting and beautiful, yet I will fight strong to hold onto it until the last dwindling dawn. I will quietly fight against others that would disparage me and my life. I will fight for those that wish to take the freedoms and liberty that those around me have worked so hard for. As these thoughts unbidden flit through my mind like the scattering of sun against a few remaining leaves, I pat the gun on my hip and am thankful that I am free to carry it on land that I own as a free citizen.
Perhaps why that is why I believe so strongly in the Second Amendment, a part of the U.S. Constitution that did not give us that right, but AFFIRMED it. Was it not the rights of those that planted these lands, and their fathers before them, to carry arms to protect and preserve these plots of ground? Ground that they labored until death to maintain and preserve for the next generation. The land is precious, as is the fruits of our hard work. As I walk through the woods, I rest my hand on the wood that makes up the grip of my weapon, feeling the cold power of its strength, that in turn flows through my arm, emboldening my step. I walk boldly, a woman alone in a vacant field, knowing well that my gun may not be needed but for the day a politician tries to take it from me.
As I turn to head back to home the words of Benjamin Franklin come to me.
God Grant that not only the Love of Liberty, but a thorough Knowledge of the Rights of Man, may pervade all the Nations of the Earth, so that a Philosopher may set his foot anywhere on its Surface, and say, "This is my Country.".
This IS my country, and THIS is my land. I believe that as strongly as I believe that I have the right to protect it, to protect myself from those that would wish to take it from me to share the wealth with those whose days have not known such labors as I. Selfish? No. I am part of this land, and it is part of me. I have earned the right to be here, and I will rest my ashes in its ancient depths when I am gone, when all the light of freedom gathers in one fierce expiring inhalation, time to go home to glory. We're almost home, Barkley looking up at me from his enigmatic gaze as I move towards the door. Clouds move across the sun, water drips like blood but with no warmth, the lifeless chill which bears no kinship with the healing wet of holy waters. I quietly walk across the leaves that blanket the earth's secret, carrying with me hope, history and the steel of eternal vigilence. I look up to the sky, thirsty roots sunk deep.
Severe thunderstorms had been culling the area. After listening to the old fashioned stereo for a while, I went to bed, leaving it on, noticing the light on the console near the bed but deciding just to roll over and sleep. About 2 in the morning, the power went out, then came back on immediately. Then 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".
Some voices just stay with you, for you to recall in an instant, a memory.
I grew up on Loony Tunes. I was surprised so many years later when I heard that Mel Blanc did almost all of the voices and there's few of us, no matter what generation we grew up in, that doesn't recall them.
I was coming out of base with a load of cargo, when on the local departure frequency, we heard this airplane with the call sign ending in Bravo Romeo who was transversing the area. Except the pilot had some sort of speech pattern or accent that made it come out as "Bwavo Womeo". After hearing that a couple of times, I could not resist, and when Bwavo Womeo confirmed a frequency change and signed off, I quickly keyed the mic and said "That Wascallay Wabbit!" It took the controller a minute to quit laughing.
But the voices we really remember come with memories of more than the TV set, but times and places in our lives. Such as a favorite science teacher in high school, his voice competing with the clatter and clink of glass, the hoarse cough of the Bunsen burners and the animated chatter of apiring geeks, his voice a calm direction among chaos, as we attempt to blow the whole experiment up.
Being teens we tended to ignore him. Yet it was his voice I heard, years later, exhausted from two jobs and graduate school, pouring over books that I read not so much in that I wanted to read them, but knew that I must. Must somehow absorb them in these brief night hours, measuring the turned pages against the fleeing minutes of irreversible time, like the pendulum of the library clock.
Voices that direct, words that explain, words that should offer more meaning than what is actually stated. Such are voices I've listened to, cut off in mid sentence, replayed over and over again, trying to catch something, anything that was not indicated in mere words. Small reminders that we don't always get to finish what we say, any more then we get to finish what we plan, death not requiring us to keep a day free on our calender.
There are words we wish we never would have said, words we wished we'd had the courage to say. There are words saved only by their recording, simple calls telling you someone was safely in their travels, retained as they are the last words you ever heard them speak. You play that recording over and over, trying to glean something out of it, then realizing it is only words, it was always only words, the voice itself is gone, as you hit the delete button.
Years later, I wake again, not to voices, but a sound one coming from the darkness, a foghorn, groaning without ceasing. Foghorn? Where was I? I looked around. I was on the ground, my bed was a sleeping bag. Lake Michigan is miles away, the ocean even further. I'm in deer camp and that is no fog horn off in the distance, that's Og.
Having lived on the road most of my life, I'm used to waking up in strange places with that sense of dark disorientation as consciousness alights, on a cot in a lab, in a truck cab, in the back of a C130. If tired enough, I can sleep anywhere with voices all around me.
I remember Christmas Eve as a small child. I'd sleep on the trundle bed that was normally underneath my big brothers bed. Mom would tuck us both in while Dad went to "do some last minute chores" (probably cursing up a storm during the assembly of the Barbie Dream House). We'd lay there in the dark, my brother, from his grown up bed, speaking to his baby sister in that soft whisper of childhood, under the glow of big 1960's Christmas lights outside the window. We'd left cookies and milk out for Santa, though Dad suggested he'd prefer pretzels and a Budweiser. Then we tried to stay awake as long as we could, hoping to hear his arrival.
The clock ticked later and later, the house quiet. "Do you hear it!" my brother would quietly exclaim, but the clattering sound we heard was not reindeer on the roof, but the dog's toenails on the hardwood floor as she patrolled the hall, checking on her two legged pups.
Mornings in hunting camp, for me are much like Christmas morning,, where even if my bed is hard and there is a demented air compressor sleeping a couple of sleeping bags away, life is good. When we arrived, there would be food and conversation, voices that to me are like family. Then, with the lift of a glass, a toast. A toast, not to the blood which will flow, but to the humble wish that in our years, we've acquired the strength and the skill to do some justice to the game. Then to bed early, sleeping bags arranged like some odd, lumpy crop circle there on the land.
But now it is morning. Morning being a relative term only in that it was past midnight. I wake, not to an alarm clock but to voices, a familiar voice. I get up and wake those that remain asleep with the covertness of a nocturnal predator, a hand on their their shoulder, a flash of white teeth, an expulsion of breath. Time to get up, we're at the top of the food chain and the forest awaits. I am no different then the men that I hunt with, the eagerness of the chase in me, a taste like brass in my mouth, the pounding of vein and blood with the draw of my firearm. Yet, like them, though they would be loathe to admit it, I still have that sense of tenuity against the infinite wilderness, even if the beast we were after was not some creature of lore, to be dispatched by silver bullet, but a mortal animal of silent cunning and soundless hoof.
Breakfast is assembled quickly, washed down with strong coffee that has the faint taste of woodsmoke. Time for just one last gulp that washes away the last drowsiness in me, leaving only the aroma of clean air and the succulent bite of cold that rushes in the door as we head on out.
We drive my truck down a few miles of road, parking it for the long walk in, the darkness all encompassing. There's a path in the corn that's barely visible, leading off into broad fields dotted with the sentient soldiers of battle weary corn stalks. The landscape in the dark is without perspective; the few trees a diorama against the flat earth, the chilled expanse of a southbound Canadian Clipper filling our morning with frost and the sounds of falling ice, ringing like bells in the distance.
It was cold, it was ungodly early, but there was an intentness in us, a kind of implacable transport as we moved deeper into the fields, mindful neither of cold, or burrs that drew blood, or the stalks that slapped our legs. We moved surely, a flashlight in one hand, a Marlin in the other, gaining rapidly on that which we did not intend to leave without.
As we walked deeper in, my hands were feeling the cold, snow clinging to eyelashes that rimmed green eyes that still remembered sleep. I thought back to a warm sleeping bag, the luxury of more coffee. My feet were already growing cold, my breath speaking in the finality of a lover's abandonment, cold, impersonal, disappearing, even as I long to hold it back in, to keep me warm
Do you hear it"? comes a voice from ahead, in the same tone as my brother that long ago Christmas Eve. And we did, the huff of a buck from the trees. From the darkness it came again. That glorious, sonorous grunt, the sound hanging motionless among the wavering shadows, the light beginning to prick the fabric of the landscape, illuminating much.
We split off into separate fields, having mapped out who will hunt where, so not to shoot across areas in which one of us might be moving. I settle into the corner of a field, the tracks and trodden ground showing where deer were moving from one field to another.
As light increases, so does the sound, slowly sustained, not as a rush of of noise, but as water gently rising, lapping at consciousness, even as it settles into background noise you don't really hear. There was no movement at all, but for the flexing of my toes, trying to keep them warm in my boots. I can see little of the dark pools of distance in which my friends sat and as my body grew colder I thought of toasty blankets and a mattress that doesn't have rocks that bite into my tender backside like army ants.
But my body begins to get used to the temperature, my fingers still comfortable and I sit and wait to see what the morning brings. Way off in the distance, a muffled shot. The deer are on the move, the world is awake.
Somewhere out here is the form of which we hunt, not as big as in a dream, but as big as can be grown in the corn dappled fields of the Midwest. In these fields, where cold and sun collide like weather systems, it moves, as aware of my presence as I am his, stopping to lift his massive head and take a deep breath, trying to get a fix on my location there in a white and windless morning.
So I sit as still as I can, the thoughts from a cold night gone from my head, alert and watching from a bed of cold leaves until I will hear again that retort of rifle that lingers intact in the cold streaming air. In that instant, there is no cold, there is no fatigue. A bullet cleaves the air, one blinding glimpse of the absolute revealed as it passes, only an echo remaining in its wake. In that instant, the form of a whitetail leaps and falls, pulled into that absolute which, as well, is darkness.
I well understand the physiology of it but I'm always amazed how far a whitetail can go, even after that killing blow to the heart. Death arrives first perhaps, and then the dying is begun, or perhaps the dying and death both happen in that movement of dying that both foreshadows and follows it.
There's been more than one shot heard, then silence. From the distance a voice, a loud booming voice that is both calm and direction. We'll have more than one deer to get back and process. Plenty of meat for the long cold winter, a thankful blessing. It may be a day or two before I'm back home in my own bed. But I don't mind. There are moments in the world, places that take us outside of ourselves that are worth the lack of sleep, the taking of risk. Days when you wake thinking of only a cold bed, things unfamiliar. Days when you found you had been slumbering through even your waking moments until, with a priests voice of gentle guidance, someone said "Rise" and you did, your eyes lifting out of the deep quiet of your silent sleep into glory.
And there you will find riches on your pillow you never expected, a taste, a touch. So many things hings that warm your very soul; things you would have missed had you drifted too long without hearing, that shot into the stillness, heard as it were with the noise of thunder
This morning started with the smell of French pastry baking and ended with a trek into the city as part of Operation Tamalanche. There were some baked and other goodies in the front seat (including a message from Barkley) and a mission to be accomplished. For those of you who have been away this last month, Tam, everyone's favorite Mistress of Snark, my friend and Barkley's official "other Mom", is dealing with cancer and many out there are helping to raise funds for her expenses.. Some of the drawings for the raffles for medical care are still going on with the one for the Dragon Leatherworks holster on my sidebar being drawn as late as the 2nd.
But raffles aside, there were a number of people that expressed interest in sending Tam something via mail and our friend Erin Palette really took the horse by the reins and organized a care package round up. (There's more info and pictures on Erin's blog, so check it out). Ind blog meet regular The Jack lent a secure mailing address for the items and offered his help as needed.
Some of the package contents were discussed with great amounts of laughter, especially Erin's idea for some My Little Pony fun. There is something about geeks and My Little Pony. (Hey,there is even a pony that pays homage to Doctor
Who.) So Erin's idea was awesome, even more so with the addition of some G.I. Joe sized weaponry and gear that The Jack was able to procure for the plan. In addition to that fun, several of the bloggers donated books, including a Girl and her Gun and someone who will remain anonymous that sent this one. Viking meet Navy Seals - what more does a girl want?
Tam, now don't read that all at once, in your flu weakened state I don't want to have to get out the smelling salts or anything.
But I regress.
The first part of the mission was the integral "drop off" of the package of goodies. It was agreed I could make the drop off . Instructions were sent back and forth and instantly deleted, code words were exchanged, R and P calculators were synchronized. With my little contribution, as well as a book for Roberta X, also under the weather, the secret package was delivered by the "Bark Park" (secret code name for the "Bark Park") by The Jack with the appropriate super secret codewords. We are both in dark trucks, he has a dark hat pulled low over his brow, I have fuzzy mittens. We look around to make sure a dog doesn't pee on our tirescheck for suspicious characters. (Remember the codewords, remember the codewords.)
Me: *@(# it's cold
The Jack :ah yup. here's the box.
We've got this squirrel stuff down, I tell you.
With the flu running rampant at Roseholme Cottage, Tam was not feeling her best, nor was Roberta X. So I stayed just long enough to see her open the box and get some pictures for those of you who put so much time into this and especially you Erin, for without whom it wouldn't have come off without a hitch.
So much cool stuff, from a number of folks. A number asked to remain anonymous but thank you everyone.
Elvis mug and Elvis Chocolates and Hot Chocolate. .
A bulletproof clip board
Game meat! mmmmm. Meat!
Plus all kinds of cool books and food and seasoning things
Plus there were cards, personally written notes and a couple of checks to add to the fund.
And lasso, but definitely not least, Erin's (fully armed) My Little Ponies, including the special edition Tam version, (with black ball cap).
Thanks again Erin for all the Tamalanche thought, creativity and coordination and to you, The Jack, for his assistance with everything.
As I said goodbye to all, including Roseholme Cottage mascot, the Fed Ex frog, her smile, even feeling as punky as she was, said it all. Thank you out there for helping brighten someone's day who is much deserving of it. This is a great blog group and the way you continue to care for one of our own has been something to see.
Going into my first year of junior high, girls were not allowed to wear pants. Being the 70's, my classmates and I were allowed to wear an assortment of incredibly ugly clothing, including disco shirts, male jumpsuits (not just for prison anymore!) and the "let's dress alike in a creepy sort of way", his and hers outfits from the Sears catalog. But in our little town, our schools dictated that all young ladies wear dresses, even as most of the country had already relaxed the school dress code for girls to include pants.
Of course, being the era of the mini skirt, some of those dresses were pretty short and once even I had to kneel and have a female teacher measure the distance from floor to hem. It barely squeaked by but at least I wasn't sent home to explain to my Dad, how in Home Ec, I'd learned to change a hemline.
Finally, one Fall, as school started, the rules changed. The much anticipated day had come, where girls could wear pants (no jeans, that would be a few months off).
Except my Father said NO. There would be occasions where my wardrobe choice
and my Dad collided (Daisy Duke shorts) but I never imagined that on that day, he would not allow me to dress like everyone else.
So off I went, humiliated to be the only girl in the entire school wearing a dress. No one actually said anything directly to my face as I was generally well liked. But I was not unaware of the many whispers and looks of pity from my friends as well as the looks of contempt from the "popular girls".
We all know about "popular girls", for they don't change as they age, not content to merely overshadow others with their sex appeal and possessions, that brings with it popularity not earned, but to extinguish them with their scorn so that they are as inconsequential as they themselves, feel inside. Now I just pity them; back then it simply hurt. At that age, no one really wants to be "different" and on that long day, I felt about as accepted as a Wolverine at a bunny convention.
I got through the day, waiting long after the last class was dismissed, everyone gone, so I could walk with my calm face into the empty halls, down into the schools entrance where I leaned against this big cooled vending machine that sold apples for 10 cents, leaning my face against the glass until the heat diminished. Then I walked home, head held high, but alone, under a sky the color of iron.
We all remember well the angst of such years, out of proportion, most certainly, to the actual severity of the events that took place, honed by hormones and need into something that stays with us for years until one day we just look back and say "was it really that big of a deal?"
On that day though, it was all you can think of.
I still recall that walk home, down a rural road at the edge of town, past a sentient cow in a field, postulating life, not in the fact that it was breathing, but because it took the form of something that was breathing, even as it seemed to hurt to take breath in myself. I wanted nothing more than the day to be over, for that time when morning, afternoon and evening flowed back and drained the sky of light, leaving me in shadows where I could be invisible.
I can smile now, thinking back. But at the time, it was the end of the world; that simple social faux pas.
Dad didn't understand the outcome of his actions, but apparently a brother did, one who attended the same school, and he had a frank talk with my father that night. Dad didn't apologize, he did what he thought was right, in the way that he was raised, but he knew it had caused me unintended hurt and the next day without much fanfare, I wore pants.
Soon, the dress code was even more relaxed and for the remainder of my school years I lived in Levi's, button down shirts, and shoes we knew as "waffle stompers". Other than church, volunteering at the local nursing home and this orchestra I played in well into college, I rarely wore anything else.
Then, after college and flight training, life was the "uniform thing". I liked that. I didn't have to "coordinate an outfit". Nothing was figure flattering which leveled the playing field in the whole female "I look better than you do" nonsense, which unfortunately has existed among certain individuals since someone donned the first Saber Tooth Tiger Skin Bustier. I liked uniforms. No "what to wear" decisions at 5 a.m., no wasted money on something you'll not wear twice. However I did find out that to a black lab named Clyde, a uniform hat with "scrambled eggs" on it makes it no less edible. "Sir, about my cap."
I could never understand the female obsession for fashion, for owning more clothing than you can wear in a matter of weeks, for having a closet full of things that some magazine tells you is what you have to wear to be liked, to be loved, to be desirable. I look at a designer handbag and think "Wow, I could get a .380 for that". Besides I already have TWO purses, one for the range and one that is powder residue/errant bullet casing free, so not to annoy TSA any more than I already do.
Then there is the whole Brides Magazine thing, where women fawn over dresses that have enough fabric to clothe most of Burma, and the engagement ring ads. You know the ones I speak of, that tell some poor guy that if he doesn't spend three months salary on a ring she is pretty much going to go to work and hold up her little 1/2 carat ring, point at his picture on her desk, laugh derisively and say "It's so SMALL".
That's simply marketing and has as little to do with love as integrity has to do with politics.
I look at my parent's wedding picture. Dad is in uniform, my mother is wearing a dark blue suit, tailored to compliment what he is wearing, yet feminine and something that could well be worn with other garments long after the wedding vows were past. The Depression was at hand, and both of them knew that what was important about this day was not what they wore, it was what they were. It was a quality that each recognized in each other, a single life's capacity for devotion that abrogated the exchange value of any material thing given in an attempt to secure it.
But many people put great value into what one wears. I once interviewed a group of men for a position, civilian sector, the perfect job for a new grad school graduate. I looked out into a room full of blue suits, white shirts, red ties and a pink tuxedo. Not just ANY pink tuxedo but one with ruffles that looked like it came from South Beach Formal and Live Bait. Everyone was trying not to stare and failing miserably. When the young man came in, he handed us his curriculum vitae and said, with a soft southern drawl. "I bet you're wondering about the suit."
Apparently, we bought him a ticket to fly in for the interview, The last leg was on a tiny, hot and cramped little puddle jumper, so he wore khaki shorts and a t shirt, his good clothing going into a carry on that ended up in the the cargo hold as it wouldn't fit in the tiny overhead. From there it disappeared. He landed at 9 something at night, with no bag in trail and literally sprinted to a taxi to go to the nearest mall, where the only thing still open was apparently the South Beach Formal and Live Bait Shop. In the month of June, the only tux they had available in his size was this one, Sonny Bono apparently forgetting to pick it up.
He told me this tale while sitting tall and looking me straight in the eye. I hired him on the spot, without any further talk. That man had a pair and I wanted them on my team.
But many, like Mr. Twain, say clothes make the man, and I am certainly a sucker for a crisp dress shirt, the cut of a pair of dress trousers and a dapper hat, just as I am the smell of shop in the collar of a faded, much mended shirt that bears on it the marks of taming a piece of shop machinery with sword or wrench.
I have my suits, mostly black and dark blue, the white button down shirts, the "uniform" for when I have to actually put on a couple of titles and play grown up. For I can dress up to draw respect if I have to. Sometimes there are places where you don't want to stand out (street
corners in certain neighborhoods in LA , tree stands or San Salvador, for
example). Sometimes you do.
There was one formal reception, held in some capital somewhere, I wore a green velvet gown. The dress was quite low cut. A colleague I was good pals with said - "Wow. . you have . . (best to shut up now)" and I grinned at him and said "don't worry, there will be plenty of other boobs in the room, no one will notice mine", with a sly grin. I did feel somewhat like the fairy princess there, but it's not a look, or an outing, I'll probably willingly repeat..
My closet at home or in a hotel, is mostly cotton and wool, sweaters and coats and things meant for tramping around the outdoors or places where the temps are low and controlled. The closet at home has its share of camo as well. There are a couple pair of work dress shoes, a pair of tennis shoes and one pair of boots. I don't really need any more footware except there are these boots that Mrs. Borepatch wore to the range one time that are just kick a**.
But what I have is functional, timeless, things I could have worn 10 years ago, and can wear 10 years from now. I hate shopping for anything but tools or toys or things made with wood, so if I find something I like, I buy five of them in slightly different colors. If it is is damaged through long wear, I'll repair it. I may not wear it to work but with a needle and thread I can make it useful to wear in the shop.
But I still have a little black dress and an old fashioned sweater and camisole set I went out and bought to wear with black silk and pearls at a wedding where Partner was playing Bach on violin as people entered the church as his college friends wed. What I wore would have fit in the 40's, though it was new. When I entered the sanctuary, everyone looked up and the young usher stammered and said "bride or groom?" I gave him the full wattage teeth and green eyes, with a "I'm with the band" and a nod towards my smiling friend. For that moment, it was worth braving a "girl store" and a dressing room to buy something timeless and elegant, not for this crowd, but simply for that smile.
But "Fashion", with everything else in the world that affects us, those things that threaten our rights and our way of life, means little to me ."Designers" now are often just talentless Hollywood bimbos who lend little more than their overexposed bodies to the whole creative process, eager only to make a buck. It's nothing more to me than clothes as status, fake padding and spandexed flesh, little more than thrust and parry, rendering what we put on more about proving something than keeping warm and comfortable. Perhaps I'm just odd, but fashion for the most part is just not something I want to spend a lot of money on. That's what Midway and Brownells is for.
Dad, bless his kind heart, it still somewhat clueless on my wardrobe needs. After a day in the field after a promotion, where I was working out how to get the team in to someplace very rugged and remote with a helicopter, and who would have sidearms for the bears, Dad called and asked "so, did you wear a nice dress?". But I do love my Dad, especially for that day long ago, where he put his own feelings and wishes aside to ensure I was happy.
So many years ago, I was humiliated at school by being different. I wanted nothing more at that age to fit in, to be a part of the crowd, to not walk home alone from school. Now, my crowd is simply a small tribe of people who accept me as I am, with no expectations or demands. If I am not in their company, I am perfectly fine being alone with my thoughts and my button downs.
As I went for a walk this evening, the park is empty, everyone off having Thanksgiving dinner somewhere. I walk down the path, waffle stompers on my feet, in jeans and a sweater and a .45 on my hip under my vest. I walk alone, as the shadow of the days retrograde washes over me, splashing down down deep into the darkened bowl of evening, the placid well that is twilight. Now, years later, being different is simply who I am. What is in me, what you see in my eyes, see in my stride, has nothing to do with what adorns my body, but what drives it.
(Yawn) I am SO bored. (but at least I get to lay on Mom)
DRIVING WITH MR. BARKLEY
I am SO bored and Mom's up there.
Barkley has a "dog seat belt" that hooks into his harness, attaching on top ofhis shoulders. It is supposed to keep him from flying forward in the event of a sudden stop and if we do stop hard, it won't hurt his neck. (and no the rope in the picture was not for him but to secure some cargo on a previous trip).
I know he'd rather be up front, but even if secured away from the windshield (and my lap) air bags can be dangerous for children and pets. But he's found that if he sits on the sit with his front legs on the floor, he can rest his head on the console. Mostly so he can sigh and give me that look that says"I am SO bored", even if we stop at friends on the way sometimes and he gets a break to play with them. With the cheapy point and shoot camera kept in the console in the case of fender bender, I recorded his ecstatic reaction to recent car trips.
If I sit on the seat and put my legs on the floor and put my legs behind the big dog bedthat cushions the console, I can lay my head on Mom's raincoat.
I'm STILL bored.
(sigh) I STILL can't reach the Cheez It's. If I had opposable thumbs I'd call the SPCA.
Sorry Barkley,
I do have a fairly long commute at the start and end of the week ( I keep a crash pad in the city near a freeway that gets me to work quickly) But on the weekly drive, even with water and snacks for both of us, Barkley wasn't the only one who was bored. I struggled with getting reliable, strong signals on the radio, knowing I was getting close either way only when I heard Polka Music going North and Bad Bad Leroy Brown going South as I hauled my essentials (including Mr. Barkley) back and forth. So for my birthday a couple of summers ago, Midwest Chick and Mr. B. got me an Ipod Nano which they programmed with all kinds of(7.1 GB worth) my favorite music and leaving plenty of room for me to add other favorites.
Yes, I was probably the only person on the planet who didn't have an Ipod. It's not about being intimidated by technology, it's just "it works so why change it". I don't have a blackberry. My phone is the size of a boat anchor. I have a collection of Victrola records.
Friend: "Wow that's a big phone, what kind of apps does it have?"
Me: "It has the RINGING app."
So when I got the IPod, I was pretty excited. I opened it, started playing with it while Mr. B chuckles and says "quick, call Tam and tell her we dragged Brigid into the 21st Century!"
What's on there now?
AC/DC, Adele, Aerosmith, Alberto Luzzio, Alison Krauss, Alison Moyet, Allman Brothers, Aretha Franklin, The B-52's (Love Shack!), Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Bad Company, Benny Goodman, Billy Joel, Blackmore's Night, Blues Brothers, Bob Seger, Bonnie Raitt, Bonnie Tyler, Burkhard Glaetzner, Charlie Daniels, Cher (just so Midwest Chick and I could sing "Gypsies Tramps and Thieves" really loud while baking something, Chris Wood, CCR, David Bowie, Dire Straights, Don McLean, Donald Fagan, Dobie Brothers, Don Henley, The Doors, Dubravka Tomsic, Duke Ellington, The Eagles, Earth Wind and Fire, Eddi Rabbit, ELO, Emerald Rose, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Enya, Eric Brockington, Eric Clapton, Estelle Parsons, Etta James, Eva Cassidy, Evanescence, Finger Eleven, Foghat, Foreigner, Franz Liszt Chamber Orchestra, Garth Brooks, George Thorogood, Godsmack, Golden Earring, Gordon Lightfoot, Grand Funk Railroad, Guns N' Roses, Heart, Herbert Von Karajan, I Solisti Di Zagreb, Jackson Brown, James Brown, Janis Joplin, Jeff Beck, Jethro Tull, Jim Croce, Joe Cocker, Johann S. Bach, John Lee Hooker, Johnny Cash, Josef Bulva, Led Zeppelin, Los Lobos, Lyle Lovett, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Meat Loaf, Metallica, Michele Campanella, The Moody Blues, Motley Crue, Nicolaus Esterhazy, Patsy Cline, Pink Floyd, Poison, Queen, Ray Charles, REO Speedwagon, Roberta Flack, Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Roger Miller, The Rolling Stones, Santana, Sarah McLachlan, Smokey Robinson, Stan Getz, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Stevie Wonder, Supertramp, The Temptations, Thin Lizzy, Three Dog Night, Vivaldi, The Who, Willie Nelson, Yo Yo Ma, Yuri A. Rozum, Z.Z. Top.
There's a couple of artists I wouldn't have expected. Luther Vandross? OK. Barry White? Mr. B. laughed from the other room and said (in this very deep voice) "Come on it's Barry White,everyone needs some seduction music". I guess that explained things. I was using Zamfir and the Magic Pan Flute. Which started Midwest Chick and I in on "Music NOT to Get Lucky By" which also included William Shatner singing Greensleeves and The Chipmunks Rock the House.
I had to get a little dual instruction on it but soon I was playing the Ipod set up the Ipod through the stereo and Midwest Chick and I were dancing around the living room to the Gopher Dance from Caddy Shack. Woot! (at this point Mr. B. smiled and retreated to the safety of the barbecue grill)
I can't tell you two how much this has made a long drive bearable. Thank you both for one of the best gifts ever!
No Barkley, everything is unloaded and it's time to go inside. Besides, we've already listened to "Givin the Dog a Bone" five times!"
As I pause for a moment, among the trees, I'm reinforced in the smallness of my form next to their trunks, smiling as the branches separate me from the chatter of the world that echoes outside the woods. There is comfort in these trees, old and strong, even if scarred, for I am stricken by the thought of tremendous roots threading their way under the ground beneath me, weaving themselves into the soil, becoming one with it, taking nourishment from it, in a way we poor ground dwellers rarely will. Such gravity of purpose.
As I turn to head back to home the words of Benjamin Franklin come to me.
Yes, I was probably the only person on the planet who didn't have an Ipod. It's not about being intimidated by technology, it's just "it works so why change it". I don't have a blackberry. My phone is the size of a boat anchor. I have a collection of Victrola records.
There's a couple of artists I wouldn't have expected. Luther Vandross? OK. Barry White? Mr. B. laughed from the other room and said (in this very deep voice) "Come on it's Barry White, everyone needs some seduction music". I guess that explained things. I was using Zamfir and the Magic Pan Flute. Which started Midwest Chick and I in on "Music NOT to Get Lucky By" which also included William Shatner singing Greensleeves and The Chipmunks Rock the House.
