2020 Valentine's Day Gift Giving Guide

Valentine's Day is just a couple of weeks away, and though I've already got my gift purchased for my husband and a card for Dad there's some of you that haven't given thought to it yet.

Many men (and women) don't like to buy gifts, thinking of it only when certain occasions arise, like realizing their anniversary was last month. I was in a ground school class for recurrent training on a jet at a simulator training center, my classmates for that particular ground session being a bunch of Marines. The instructor was going over the systems of the aircraft we all flew when one of the admin people brought in a bouquet of colorful spring flowers to the room. For me. It was from my Dad, which was sweet as I didn't have a boyfriend at the time.  It was on February 14th. There was a collective "oh *#%@" whereupon about a dozen strapping young men ran for the break room to get on the phone the call Teleflora.

A stuffie!  Just what I wanted Mom!

Men that I work with occasionally come to me with "what should I get my wife/partner for our anniversary/birthday/etc?"  For Sweetest Day I suggested going to the liquor store for a bottle of Bitters, but other occasions are more complicated.

Some women do like lingerie. But lingerie is a minefield. Buy it too small and she'll think she's fat. Buy it too big, she'll think YOU think she's fat.

Gentlemen, not an area you wish to go, either way.

Avoid flannel. Sure it's warm, and great if the power is out. But it's not romantic unless you live in an igloo. There's a reason the tartan flannels I wear sometimes are known as "Scottish Birth Control".

Fragrance? That's a deeply personal gift.

I wear something called Elixir of Love No. 1, which is from a very old American toiletries company or this complex, yet not expensive, essential oil scent from Ambre Blends in Indy (click on name for link) with which I'm often asked: "what is that scent you are wearing?" Either that or Hoppe's No. 9. Many women want much more sophisticated scents (i.e. very expensive) while some still love to wear the inexpensive fragrances they wore when they were young. Do you remember what fragrance she was wearing when you met her? I guarantee if she really loves you, she remembers. Find out.

Again, don't just grab something because you are at the drugstore and it's cheap, like this one which appears to come with a free cat toy. Last-minute drugstore gifts simply say "hey, I forgot to buy you something".

Partner and I were at a Walgreens getting my Tetnus booster after I'd got a nasty gouge on something metal, when we felt we were being watched.  It was a row of these 3 foot tall, brightly colored furry stuffed hearts with big eyes and creepy smiles and feet, standing on top of one of the aisles.  I had a vision of waking up on Valentine's day with two of those in the hall like the spooky ghost twins in "The Shining".  I didn't have a camera, but I wandered over to get a closer look.  They were all perched on top of the condom section.  That's just a mental picture I didn't want to have. Off to the candy section while we waited.

For chocolate is almost always well received.
It's hard to go wrong with chocolate. But the huge red block of chocolates that's as big as a carry-on bag for $5 may be a great little surprise for a road trip snack or a doorstop but it doesn't say "romantic gift". Quality and elegant presentation is the key here.

Appliances

I am sure if MY Dad had got Mom a vacuum for Valentine's Day she would have reminded him that cleaning gave her a headache.

Stuffed toys.  OK, I do have several plush microbes from Think Geek but if someone ever bought me a giant stuffed sock monkey for Valentine's Day, I'd be riffling the cupboard very quickly for that bottle of cheap hooch or the car keys.

Books can be good, but pick a book that is similar to the type of books she has on her shelf. If she's into romance novels involving pirates and lusty maidens, this probably wouldn't be the book for her
Not just medium ships, or large ships, but HUGE ships. Who knew they were such a menace as you go out and about each day.

Now, remember, avoid tools unless your spouse or lover loves to build things as a hobby. For myself, some great gifts I have received involved tools or gadgets but I am not the norm.

NOT the Stairway to Heaven

Avoid buying anything like these things pictured below. Even the most practical woman does not want an extension cord, duct tape or a paintbrush for Valentine's Day, Christmas or your anniversary.

But, if your woman is the type that likes tools and such, go for it. How do you know? She will give you subtle clues, such as:

(1) constantly "borrowing" your cordless drill to work on craft or remodeling projects
(2) pumping up the kids "Super Soaker" with an industrial air compressor
(3) using a 48-inch pipe wrench to open a stubborn jar of sauerkraut
(4) in family photos, her glee with her Barbie or  a baby cradle is less than apparent

Men also often make the mistake thinking they have to buy a gift that "does something". Blend, dice, chop, (bad) reduce cellulite (really bad). Do not fall for this. Think of something that signals your undying passion. This is NOT a toaster (adding a note, I think you're HOT, doesn't make up for it). If you don't know the hobbies of the woman you are attempting to impress, your safest bet is to buy something that doesn't do anything. If it just lies there in a small box in a coma and sparkles, many women will be happy.

Avoid things you see on TV. If it says thighbuster, thighsmasher or thighrehabilitator, RUN, do not walk away from your TV now (see the rule about lingerie). Even if it comes with a free Cap Snaffler. Dad wasn't immune to the TV gift thing. I once got a Car Duster® from him. That might be fine in the city but I lived out in the country.  I promptly took my truck out four-wheeling, got it completely covered with two inches of mud then posed, covered with mud myself, holding the Car Duster® in my hand next to it. He got the point. Still, he bought my Mom an ashtray shaped like Mt. St. Helens where the smoke would come out of the top of the little ceramic volcano. NOT a big hit.

Cupid shoots and misses.

Another female friend got a shovel for her birthday (wonder if they've found the body yet). And there's my friend from college, whose husband of 15 years bought her brake fluid for Christmas.

Another woman had her husband give her two gift-wrapped boxes, each filled with a plastic storage container from Aldi. I can only imagine what she wished to store in each one.

These type of gifts are not going to get you the reaction you expect.

If you search the internet there's even more in the way of "bad gifts".  (bad as in "I named a Madagascar hissing roach after you my love").  Yes, from the Bronx Zoo, a strange and limited Valentine’s Day Offer:

Can’t decide on what to get that special someone for Valentine’s Day? Sometimes the answer is all around us, and right where it’s been for millions of years—like cockroaches!
Naming a Madagascar hissing roach in honor of someone near and dear to your heart shows that you’ve noticed how resilient, resourceful, and loyal that person is. You’re not afraid to say, “Baby, you’re a roach!”  WCS’s Bronx Zoo has 58,000 of these brown, iridescent beauties, and most go humbly by “whatchamacallit.” With a $10 donation, you can name one for your sweetie, and send a truly unique certificate of honor. 

 But wait!
 
Bad gifts aren't just from men. We ladies can be just as deadly in the art of bad gift-giving and here are some real delights that both sexes have bestowed upon their loved ones.

Camouflage Toilet Seat.

Throw in the camo Snuggee and you're guaranteed to get a toilet plunger for Christmas next year.

The Razorba War Hammer.  At last - a gift that sends that message of undying love - "From the back, with your shirt off, you look like a wookie."

The War Hammer is a plastic handle designed to hold a razor so you can shave hard to reach areas. This product comes in various sizes and colors with detailed instructions for use, as well as this safety note: "Wear thick pants, shorts, or a thick towel and eye protection when using this product."

I do NOT want to know why you would need thick pants.

Tired of boring yard gnomes? How about the Zombie of Montclaire Moors, climbing out of your mulch to munch you. This sort of lawn ornament tells your neighbor you're either a really fun person or are under psychiatric care.

The best part? It's portable. Think of the fun you can have with it, take to a playground, a salad bar, your best friend's wedding reception.

Why give a hug when you can give the Hug Me pillow. Shaped like a human arm, complete with hand, and attached to half a chest this looks like something left after a nasty accident with a wood chipper or the Razorba War Hammer.
It's just like sleeping with a strong, loving and caring companion, except it has no head or testicles (which means we'll see The Hug Me Pillow running for public office soon).

The fringe visor. Don't hide in the shadows, every day is a risk when at any given moment, a bobcat may attack your head.

Spa Day - Most guys have no desire to have some woman in an antiseptic smock file their fingernails.  They'd rather bite them off in frustration as they wait in line at Home Depot on Saturday afternoon.

Seriously though, Pay attention to the things your loved one likes to do to relax (and no, that is not house cleaning). Books, crafts, gardening, computers, photography, shooting sports, etc., and surprise them with something that would allow them to do more of that.  But remember, despite the ads, despite the hype, it's not what you give that matters, it's that you took time to think of something to make them smile (especially if you have tools).

Don't fall prey to the ads, and don't feel guilty if your budget doesn't support an expensive jewelry store or a new computer or electronic toy.  It's not what you purchase but what you are the rest of the year. Love is not a lover, it is not a gift or a holiday. It's not what you buy or what you say, it's what you demonstrate every day. What is important is the friends and family around you; the patient, trusting support of a life. It is those who wait quietly in the wings while you flounder and fall, being there to gently pick you up, not with unrealistic expectations, but with unconditional love and support for just being you.

Look at the photos of those you hold dear in your home. Look to your friends. Whether you have a significant other or not, love is all around you.  It's in the past, in the present, in the future, images of people from which you were born, those you choose to call home, those who you will someday know, there in a book, on a mantle, in a Bible, in the depths of an old mirror. You are surrounded by them, even as you stand alone in a muted, empty room and believe in it, bewitched beneath the broad gravity of man's incredible and abiding hope.

Savor it, even with your Mt. St. Helen's ashtray.

Cold Landscapes

This was the first draft of the first chapter of my second book Saving Grace a Story of Adoption.  I posted it today for the daughter of an author friend who is dealing with some challenges right now. Saving Grace got few reviews but it actually sold more copies than The Book of Barkley, which as of Jan of this year was still a best seller in the UK, almost 6 years after printing.  Saving Grace was a deeply personal book, and probably not for everyone but it speaks to anyone that's had to give up on something dearly loved in order to save a life.
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She would not have noticed the town that first time, but for the speed trap.  It was a two-lane shortcut to the interstate heading north, a sign that says 50 mph and then almost immediately after, one that says 35 mph, as the first building just seems to pop up from the flat landscape like a diorama.  It's not a route normally driven, but with an accident backing up the freeway around the city, this made for a good detour.

There were only a few buildings, a church, a small fire station, a half dozen very old homes, a couple kept in pristine condition, the rest having given up on curb appeal.  There's not much in the way of business, though at some point this was a tiny little hub of activity in this land that was more farm than subdivisions.  There ks a pizza store and two antique/craft kinds of places, colorful wares on display in the hopes that someone will make a stop.  Normally she would enjoy such places, enjoying the work of things made with one's own hands, the patina that is polished wood.  But one of those is now closed, replaced by a store that sells decorative yard things, all cheap and likely made in China, the other with a closed sign that only draws in the dust. Given the severe cold this winter, what little business they had has likely stayed indoors.

Today was no different. The air is cold. Clear. Sharp. Cutting as a knife to the landscape, flayed and laid bare to the eye under the surgical light of a winter morning. It's hard to believe that just 5 miles south is a bustling community of subdivisions and quickly constructed strip malls.  On this road, in the hesitation that is the slow passage through this community, it could easily be 75 years ago, the structures unchanged, only more weathered. Behind are fields that clutch onto the skeletons of crops that long ago died, miles of bare, windswept trees, and clusters of burrs that stick to everything with a tiny pinprick of pain. It's a once pretty place that is sticking to the landscape as hard as it can, soon to be pulled free with that final stab of cold hurt.

At 10 below windchill and an obligation to keep,  it's another day she does not stop.  It's not lost on her that it's yet another nail in the coffin of what is left of those businesses.
The cold restricts movement, as it propels it, pushing us towards something that will warm us.  The cold, like life, only accentuating that which we can not sustain. You move forward or you will die.

Given the amount of traffic on this road and the widening of it further on, it's not hard to imagine that soon this town will be gone, the majority of the few buildings so close to the road, but for the church a couple homes with a large yard between house that road, that widening the road to four lanes will be their inevitable end. The for-sale signs on the remaining well kept houses is a sign too obvious, the town not having a failure, but a mutiny. The few other houses look as if they are just waiting for someone to show up with a check and a bulldozer, if not abandoned already, sidewalks raised and broken, trash gathering in the cracks like autumn leaves, an old Ford with no engine, guarding the front lawn against postmen and tax collectors.

As she passes that last for-sale sign, she can't imagine selling her home, knowing that it will be razed. Even harder is having to walk away from one, simply to save your life.

She had married too young into a Southern Family, who considered themselves as such, even though they lived in what the rest of the country called the Midwest.  I guess it depends on which direction you looked at things, she reckoned, our individual horizons incised in whetted contrast to the circumference of this flat, harsh landscape.
The weather wasn't the only thing that was new to her, coming here from California. But it is what she learned, and quickly.  She learned what was safe to stay out in, and what was not, learning early we are just serfs of the elements, severe weather usually arriving in the late-night like a broken king, rushing in, ready to do battle with the sleeping.

The family had a few hardscrabble acres on which rocks were the preferred crop, as well as a growing herd of cattle. It was a small farm, one which wouldn't have sustained them had she not held other jobs. Friends would tell her how lucky she was to have the land and the freedom and and she was.  But she realized that in actuality, it's like having two full-time jobs, 7 days a week. Add to that family, dogs, cats, an old horse named Elmer and a husband on a medical discharge from the military battling his demons, she couldn't remember a day from that time where she just wasn't tired.

As 30 years in the future, the radio announcer comes on with a "remember this classic from the '80s?" She turns the dial up on the sound, to listen. And she doesn't. Remember. Those years to her were sweat and work, the smell of cow manure, weekend JP4, propane, and the salt of tears; moments of roses and moment of thorns being of equal duration, passing too quickly in recollection.  Looking in the mirror she sees the small lines that indicate her age but she doesn't feel it, it's as if that whole 10 years happened to someone else, endless, alternating days and nights like a vacuum in which no air would come.
Given the choice, would she have taken that time back? Perhaps not, she thinks. We do not cease from the experiences, in the end of the experience we arrive back where we started, seeing them as if for the first time, but at a nice safe distance, with wisdom otherwise not gained. It was a time to grow, to learn, to build. She learned how to fix a furnace, and pull a calf from her mother, how to make supper out of almost nothing, the household money squandered on chasing something no one could provide even as she pulled down her shirtsleeves to hide the bruises. She learned how to hold her head up high in a small town buzzing over the gossip that came with that. And she learned when to walk away when the demons finally won.

She recalls one of the last nights there, the Carhart coat and boots she wears today, no different than the ones she looked for that night as the glare of the headlights illuminated the room, It was a cattle truck coming at night so as to reach the stockyards in the morning. She had woken alone to the rattle coming up the road, trying to get a little nap before they arrive, springing like a bow from her bed, aware of her responsibilities. As she donned work clothes and boots, the orange running lights and diesel growl outside of the window reminded her of Martians landing searching the house for signs of human life and the first smile in a long time passed her lips.

All they would find is a lone woman, with boots, a shotgun she knew how to use, and a kitchen that once smelled of cinnamon.
The driver backs around, turning the trailer with a gentle sigh of air brakes, up to the wooden chute there at the barn. Within came the muffled grunt of the cattle that were being sold. Outside of the lumbering truck and its driver and the cattle, they were alone. No cars, no help, the earth hanging suspending in space, cooling, wearing only a thin veil of woodsmoke. The wind cut her face, a blade that only stroked the skin, not cutting it, her hands aching as she stroked her thighs with them, trying to stir warmth back into dormant skin.

Oh, how she longed to just go back to bed, the rustle of cotton, the panting whisper of breath, the predation of the night assuming a hundred avatars of dreams. No cows, no work, simply the house, still and quiet, as if marooned in space by the dwindling of day. The truck long gone, the sounds outside fallen to a low fragmentary pitch. A coyote's howl at the indignation of clouds that cover the moon, no other sound made; prey has gone into hiding, insects dead with cold, everything else assuming their own mantle of hibernation or predation.
But there was work to be done.

Hooves rattled in the trailer as it rocked and swayed, cattle moving with the chaos of their own confusion. All that was left was one lone cow, a young one who would go to a neighbor's farm for breeding stock. She stood forlorn in the fog of her own shadow, form turning as insubstantial as mist. She gazed at her as if she knew what was happening, looking at me with that ample, benign abstruseness of cattle or of gods, before turning and vanishing into space.

It's hard to decide which ones to keep and which to let go. Love, life and longing, a helix viewed by eyes that see with hesitant, hungry fire. Decisions. We took from the land that which we needed to survive, giving something back, yet there is still in me that sense of loss, even as she knew it was inevitable, as are so many inevitable things.

The door on the cattle truck closes with a profound finality, isolating them, isolating her, as she watched it drive off. All that is left is to go back into an empty house to curl up in the guest room, the neatly made bed in the master bedroom a paradox within four walls redolent of long-abandoned warmth.
The land went to his family, their little farmhouse to be sold, tools replaced by others which would draw their own blood as she learned to live again, amidst hard work, but work that was her calling.  She couldn't bear to watch as it was cleaned and made ready for sale, sun shining in on polished floors as undisturbed as frigid pools, underneath the overhanging branches of shrouded furniture. When she left, she took just one thing with her, to carry in her vehicle as a reminder.

She still works too often out in the cold, and there are still many nights where she only gets only a few hours of sleep before going back on duty, watching the world come into a caffeine-induced clarity that does not bode well for the sandman. Nights, where she's not woken by the sound of cattle trucks, but by a phone, a voice on the other end speaking with an impersonal dry cadence she knows is more protection than uncaring, and she must quickly pull herself from bed, gathering a black bag and some gear, limbs wooden with the regret of lost slumber.

Sometimes she comes home and simply drops her clothes at the door, too exhausted to put them in the laundry, pouring a finger of whiskey in a glass and flinging it back with a gesture that puts behind her all the suffering she had seen, tossing it back and away, leaving only the taste of smoke on her tongue, a scent that clings to her even after she sheds her clothes.

It's not always an easy life, but it's a good life, she thinks, as that dwindling town fades from her rear-view mirror, her vehicle moving towards tenacious clusters of farms strung along a lonely river, old barns, listing and tumbling down, gone the way of the ancestors who built them long ago, going West, to dust. The clouds move so quickly she can't catch them with a fast car, grass laid flat in submission. Even the wind turbines seem to lean forward, waving their arms as if losing balance before a fall. A cold front has passed, the wind is howling, isobars dancing cheek to cheek as they move across the map to the northeast. Despite the cold, she glances at her reflection in the mirror and sees a smile.  Endings are always beginnings, even as the wind blows.

She is glad she came here to this place, so different from that first ramshackle country home and the large showpiece she bought later, after years of hardship, as if by adding things to your life, you can somehow make up for what was taken away. She'd sold that place at a loss and given away most of her possessions, understanding after the years alone, what made her happy, and it wasn't things, nor the type of people to which that mattered.

 

Before she gets to the freeway, she crosses what was once an old wagon trail, families heading from out East to further West to more open land and bigger homesteads. There's not much to mark those passages, but for perhaps a historical sign somewhere.  But underneath the soil, are the remains of all that did not finish the journey.   To lighten the load to get through the hills further West, the plains are dotted with the slumbering bones of cherished belongings, offloaded despite the tears of a woman, to ensure they would make their destination. Furniture crafted by sweat and time, an upright piano, left on a low rise by the trail, hopefully to be picked up by someone, before it was forever silent.

Elsewhere, there are the graves, a young woman who didn't survive childbirth on the trail, the very old or the very young, felled by a simple virus or bacteria that prey on those who go hungry too often.  Some of those graves are marked with only a cross, perhaps a young woman's name, a lock of her hair and her wedding dress, the only thing that will see the Western sunset up close, the red sky curling up like shavings of wood that formed her grave marker.

There are dozens of graves like this on the wagon trails, in deep grass and in low open spaces of land. Nothing left but some stones, or for a few, a wooden cross, the gloss of light on its surface, and shapes of long-forgotten shadows on its bark. And with them, those solitary crosses, those remains of household goods, bulky memories too big or too cumbersome to take the rest of the journey. Some pieces, like the piano, ended up in a museum, didn't look as battered as you expect, as others came and collected them. They appeared almost as if they knew their scheme in things and their place was just where they ended up, their destiny meant to be left to wait patiently in the tracks of the wagon until someone recognized their worth and laid claim to them.

On the way back from work that night, she stopped in that little town but the businesses are all closed, the places silent. From a tree comes the sound of a single mourning dove, the note falling like liquid, taking shape as it descends through the frigid air, only to shatter as it hits the unyielding ground. As she walked back to her vehicle in the frozen silence, she had a feeling that come Spring, she would drive here to find the road closed, machinery already tearing up the earth, disturbing the burial site of many a memory. She hoped those that lived away from the road, could adjust to the noise, those that live where the road would  lie, find a new path.

Sometimes you make the decision, some times it's made for you.  How you respond lies in what you need and the compromises with which you can live. You take what remains that brings you joy and you move forward, she thinks as she pulls her coat closer around her. The winds still blow from west on the prairies, wailing a hymn of our mortality. Our remoteness stands guard over a vulnerability heightened by solitude. Yet in this season between the hope of rain and hard winter, comes peace, even as outside, the air stills, windless cold that only heightens her heart's heat.

As she turned back onto the two-lane highway, she noticed that the trees are singed with ice so that each branch was delineated, each individually beautiful, alone. When people first settled this part of the country their homes were built from these old trees and what precious nails they had, doing what they could with what they had, to survive.  And when they found themselves cold and hungry, they moved on, but only after they burned down their homes to get their nails back.

She drove away, a darkened and weathered nail hanging by a slender cord from the radio dial.

Snow Days - When Redheads Get Bored

 . .

Macaroni and Cheese With Bacon and Jalapeno
1 Jalapeno
6 Tbsp. butter or margarine
½ of a 1 lb. box elbow macaroni (2 cups uncooked) or 1 pound lightly steamed and chopped cauliflower if you are doing KETO or low carb
5 Tbsp. flour
3 cups of milk
Pepper to taste
16 oz. Win Schuler's Sharp or Original Cheese Spread
 ½ cup cooked and crumbled bacon

Sautee the jalapeno in a little butter until softened, then set aside. Preheat oven to 350°. Put a 2-quart baking dish with 1 Tbsp. of the butter in the oven to melt. (I used an 8 x 8 pan then another small casserole to have another dish to freeze for later). Remove and set aside. Cook the macaroni per package instructions and drain. Melt the remaining 5 Tbsp. butter in a large saucepan. Add the flour, stirring until blended. Using a whisk, add the milk until it becomes a little thick, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Add pepper and Win Schuler's Cheese Spread and stir. Add the macaroni and pepper to the cheese mixture and stir until blended. Pour into the 2-quart dish. Sprinkle bacon evenly over the macaroni mixture and bake till heated through (20-25 minutes)

Tools that Bind, Tools that Free

I remember the day well.  I was cleaning out a storage unit that I had rented when I sold my last house, with the last of the lightweight gear loaded in the truck, tied together and down by strands of paracord. Like baling twine to a farmer, it's the thread of life for someone bent on surviving. Shelter building, gear repair, snares, and traps, securing gear either to yourself or your ruck so if you and thick brush do the tango it doesn't come loose. The inside strands can make a fishing net. Hanging food out of reach of animals, makeshift clothesline, a sling, multiple uses for something that coils quietly like a snake in the dark of my pack.

550 cord has its name due to its strength capacity. Each of the 7 strands is rated at 50-foot lbs. It's good to know that info if you need to use the individual strands. Knowing the strength of the individual is as important as knowing the strength of the group and it might save your life sometimes.


Each strand, 50 pounds. With the empty sheath rated at 200 pounds. I think you could flatten that out and use it to temporarily replace a fan belt if you had to (though you might need an overhand knot every so often to keep it from slipping).

It's hard to describe the sort of predicament that paracord could get you out of, but if you've ever ridden into one, you will know.

Yet, it's a common item that gives outdoor survival some substance, a reminder of doing with what you have, what you need to do to survive. Holding it in your hand, it becomes second nature, what hands and fingers are for, the dexterity of your fingers, the willful outcome of your intentions, formed into something useful. Something that can hold life together.


I'm not any sort of expert in anything outdoors. I'm never going to have my own reality show (and note to those that do, please actually HAVE some fishing and shooting acumen before you try and pass yourself off as someone that does). But in addition to basic camping and hiking, I've been survival trained by a couple of employers and if it hasn't given me definitive skills, it's taught me how to THINK about surviving.

It was supposed to be a day hike, though I had a lightweight sleeping bag (OK, it's only rated at 30 degrees, but at 3 pounds and it being summer, always worth toting along). Plus I had a tarp for a tent just in case I got running behind. Friends knew I'd be back no later than the next morning and if I failed to appear, where to come looking for me, my route laid out ahead of time. The weather was forecast to be good, I was in good health. Then, like something out of a Stooges movie, I stumbled in some loose rock putting a big gouge in my knee. It was deep enough to hurt, not to hobble, but it slowed me down. Enough to know as I headed back I was unlikely to make my truck before dark. Pushing it in the near dark was only going to get me lost.

I figured I best set up for the night near the trail. I had food, water, a way to build a small fire, stuff for a makeshift tent. As I set up my camp for the night, a sound crashed out of the brush, rising up and away, a parabolic curve of sound as a large deer sped away. I could only watch, my head turned to pace his invisible flight, in the wan light, watching the shadow flee into the spellbound woods beyond. And it dawned on me. I'm not the only one out here. This is bear country, not grizzly, but bears nonetheless, though frankly, in all the times I'd hiked up here I'd never seen one. Still, they are here. I needed to sleep upwind of my food, and where I prepared it. And I needed my food up off the ground. The trees were tall, I climb about as well as a carp. What to use?

Paracord. I only had a little, Lesson learned, you can NEVER have too much duct tape or paracord. But I did have enough if I separated it out into strands. So I cut off a good piece., leaving enough for other uses. Normally, I'd burn the ends with a lighter so the individual strands didn't come out (be careful on this, Dante's Inferno has nothing on melted 550 cord that drips on bare skin). But this time I needed those strands. Tying each one to each other with a simple square knot and I was able to lift up my gear. Food, breath mints (bears like the smell of some minty toiletries and it wasn't like I was going to meet Mr. Right out here), the shirt and shorts I prepared my food in. All well out of Mr. Bear's reach, about twelve feet off the ground and four feet away from the truck. It wasn't a lot of weight for just a day hike but it was up and safe as I would be for the night, with just a little planning ahead.

I thought about it that day when I was putting away the last load from the truck.  I think about it as I hang up the coat I wear outdoors to the range, I find a single round. A live round, not tarnished or touched, the primer embedded firmly into its form. Not much longer than a match, it's large enough to contain a life. Someday it might have to.

Tools are all around us, simple things, necessary things. Learn how to use them. You can sit home, enveloping yourself in the smoke of useless and perpetual passivity, that you can almost smell on a person. Or you can learn. Learn to recognize fear, often as lost on the very young as love and passion.


Then one day, when you stand still with the taste of brass there in a mouth gone dry, a knot in your stomach, you know it's time to use those tools you have to survive. You feel it, in blood, bone, skin, awareness rising out of the experience. Be it a city street, the protracted shade of undying woods, or simply face to face with someone who wishes to steal something within you are not ready to give, you reach into your pocket, into yourself and unleash those threads that bind you to passivity.

There's strength in even the small things that are causes for wonder.

Bookend Dogs

Move the antique coffee table to vacuum, leave the room for 2 minutes and. . . .

Line Up

How many of you use a clothesline?  The crash pad I had after I sold my house but before I got married had a washer/dryer built into a little closet but at home, a line is used, in the winter, set up across the laundry area. Yes, the clothes are a little stiffer and they often need the touch up of an iron, but it's surprising how much energy that drier uses.

I lived in a subdivision once and clotheslines weren't allowed, as only hooligans and hillbillies use them, you know. You couldn't even hang a beach towel off of your porch or paint your front door the color you wanted. I quickly moved away from the Stepford Subdivision, never to return.

A washer is a must.  Even as much as I love old machinery I have no desire to run my clothes through a wringer like Grandma Gullikson.  But to pull in a big batch of sheets from the line, kissed by the sun with the warm scent of summer on them, there is no fabric softener scent that can match that. There's something quietly satisfying about taking things that are dirty, the clothing of the people you love, and rendering them clean, a ritual of care that feminists would probably vilify me for actually liking. But holding the clothing of someone you love, something that bears their scent, their labors, and then carefully getting it ready for them to wear again, has an intimacy of its own.

Growing up, we always had a dryer, the avocado green Maytag one. But in the spring and summer, Mom always hung the clothes outside  I have vivid memories of those days. I would help gather the clothes in, that being one of my set chores. For we had assigned chores as children, daily ones that had to be done without fussing if we hoped to get an allowance to buy us a bit of candy on Saturday. No chores, no allowance, that became obvious early. We were given things to do that were in the scope of our abilities and some that were beyond, with supervision only when necessary, so that we would learn, painfully if we didn't listen, but learn nonetheless.

The clothes would hang, with the linens, dresses and dress shirts, the modest nightwear, the men's briefs and big "Granny panties" that we wore, ones that did not peak out of low slung jeans but only the Sears Catalog. There was our Sunday best, to be appropriately scratchy for young ones in the pew to squirm around as Father Erickson talked of Genesis and Exodus and fathers therein who dared talk face to face with God.

On laundry day when the clothes were off the line inside and sorted, Mom would set up the ironing board in front of the TV.  There she would watch As the World Turns, The Secret Storm or Guiding Light while she ironed and I put together the puzzles that fascinated me, Big bro, off at school. Dad still has, to this day, a jigsaw puzzle of bears on the coffee table that was purchased for Big Bro, not that it stopped me from putting it together time and time again until the edges were worn.

While I played, Mom would iron everything, including the sheets, from the hand-embroidered ones of the '50s to the harvest gold striped ones from the late '60s and '70s. She'd use a wine bottle that had a cap that allowed for water to be sprinkled out in lieu of a steam iron as if subtly blessing the sheets. Mom was battling cancer yet, she found some sense of peace in doing these chores.  There was almost a zen-like ritual to it, much as I feel when I reload, a series of defined movements, done in proper order with the right amount of physical force and the elements that comprise the process.

Then she would get the after school snack out and dinner prepped, giving her just enough time to freshen up and make a martini to greet my Dad at the door when he got home. Lest you think my Mom a demure Mrs. Cleaver type, prior to adopting us, when she wasn't doing laundry she was the County Sheriff.  College-educated when most women didn't get past high school, Mom could kick keester and take names, help pluck out a drowning victim from the river and deal with the trauma that was rape, domestic violence and abuse. 

I'm sure she missed the challenges, but after 18 years as an LEO, she found greater satisfaction in maintaining order in a house of redheads and occasionally fishing someone's toy out of the toilet. Everything she did, she did with care and attention to detail, even after she got so sick, her days filled with weariness and, I suspect, pain.

I still remember the days when Mom washed my stuffed animals and carefully hung them up by the ears on the clothesline, giving each one a little kiss and a pat while I watched to make sure they were OK. One of them had no eyes, and little fur, he being loved so hard, but she very carefully hung him up by the ears with a special kiss.  I thought he had disappeared, but when she was in her last days, and I was leaping into adulthood, she put him away where I'd find him again when I was grown, and remember those days.

I remember her as well, dealing with Big Bro's and Dad's filthy and smelly fishing garb, simply smiling a patient smile and handling them as delicately as vestments.  She worked away, a patient smile on her face, the birds on the lines and in the trees,  singing a hymn of praise as she labored for love.

While the clothes fluttered on the summer line like the last valiant leaves of the year, we'd run and play.  If we fell down, we got up, if we skinned a knee, we washed it off with the hose, running in and out of the hanging sheets, bright red heads flashing in and through them like birds. We did so with a zest for breathing that is wrung out of most people by the time they're 40, playing as if we were eternal and in that moment, we were, there in the open clean air, away from the walls of dust and shadow and sickness.

We played hide and seek and cowboy and Indians. We stalked squirrels and each other with nothing more than a plastic weapon and iron courage.  Our games had elements of make-believe, of magic and superpowers, soldier, secret agents, and spies. But we weren't so sheltered from the world that we were unaware that to be careless with the tools and talents we were given, was to meet up with a beast that, though lightly slumbering, sleeps with breath tainted with blood. As we grew, we watched as deer fell in the woods under our guns, a firearm is more than a toy to play cops and robbers with, but the means of putting food on the table, a means to protect, one that came with heavy responsibility.

We understood early one, that some things do NOT wash out.

The clothesline eventually came down. I don't recall when actually. It was about the time Big Bro went off to the Navy, to submarine school.  I wanted to go with him, we did everything together, but I had a  few years of school left. All I could do was stand there as a line that no longer held his shirts stood like a barren flag pole and the vehicle in which we'd had so many adventures, drove off towards his future.  I watched as long and as hard as I could, thinking that old blue panel van would turn around.  But the red tail lights just got further away and closer and closer together until my last memory was a small single spot of red that made my eyes weep as if I had dared to stare into the sun.

Things change, processes evolve, how we live and where we live. But some things, the good things, can continue and I don't care if they are considered "tacky" or "old fashioned", they are a ritual of love that goes beyond blood and care that goes beyond the obligation.  Like my clothesline. The clothes are different, there's more t-shirts than dresses, a lot of khaki and navy and black. Some of the shirts have pictures, some just have big letters on them. There's the plaid flannel nighty for when it's really cold but most of the underthings, if made of paper, not fabric, wouldn't be big enough to start a fire with. Styles change, but some rituals don't.

As I hang up a button-down dress shirt, I think back to those days of my childhood, as my Mom did the same things for those she loved. As I work, I talk face to face with God as He helps me with the biggest puzzles of all.  As the wind flutters through the fabric, around me come the sound of birds, perched on lines of their own, rejoicing without fail, their ceaseless, silver voices singing as if they are eternal, and for this moment may very well be.

 - Brigid

Monday Night Zombie

What? You were thinking of Monday night football? Not at Home on the Range.


Mr. M and P 9, meet the zombies. 35 feet away and hungry.


I'm afraid the lawyer looking dude got a couple of holes in him. Well, if the Zombies get you, trust your friends to put you down first.





"Columbus: In those moments where you're not quite sure if the undead are really dead, dead, don't get all stingy with your bullets. I mean, one more clean shot to the head, and this lady could have avoided becoming a human Happy Meal."
- Zombieland