The Wisdom of Dock Dogs

 Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
- T. S. Eliot

 Jump, and you will find out how to unfold your wings as you fall.
- Ray Bradbury

 No need to teach an eagle to fly.
— Greek Proverb

 Time is flying never to return.
- Virgil

 I have not yet learned to keep still.
 Apollonius of Tyana

The backbone of surprise is fusing speed with secrecy. 
Carl von Clausewitz 

  You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.
- Robert Frost

 The knack of flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.
- Douglas Adams

 He who is brave is free.
- Lucius Annaeus Seneca

  Boldness be my friend.
- William Shakespeare

 No man is free who is not master of himself.
- Epictetus

 Courage is fear holding on a minute longer.
- George S. Patton

 Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.
- Voltaire

 The flame that burns Twice as bright burns half as long.
-  Lao Tzu, Te Tao Ching

 My soul is in the sky
— William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

 It is even better to act quickly and err than to hesitate until the time of action is past.
- Carl von Clausewitz

 Courage is knowing what not to fear.
- Plato

A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live. 
― Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

 Life must be lived as play.
- Plato

The House is Quiet

The house is quiet.  Outside, just a block away is a four-lane road, sometimes heavy with traffic.  The sounds of sirens are as common as that of birdsong, here in the city.

I have always enjoyed the "alone" time, yet this night, with Partner in Grime across the country slaying dragons that mind neither man nor their patents, it's too quiet.  Both the dogs are asleep on the cool hardwood floor, temperatures in the mid 90's having as much allure for them as a visit to the Vet. If I called to them, they would come, docile, not to the fear of my hand, but in fidelity to a gentle word and a safe hearth.  But I don't, letting them dream their doggie dreams, of UPS men bearing boxes of treats, and narcoleptic squirrels suddenly strewn upon their dreaming path.

The flowers were watered before the sun got high that morning, small creatures looking at me from perch or den, my form interchangeable to them with the other person that lives here that fills up some shallow bowls with cool water, and scatters seed and nuts on the ground when the land is cold. There is no obligation for these actions, but simply a spartan compromise with the land on which I live, drafted by circumstance and a tender heart into care for which I never officially signed on for.

This house had only had one occupant before us, a woman who was born within its walls and left only in her last days.  Unmarried, her obligation was to her parents as an only child, caring for them until she too was old, and then alone. I wonder how many nights she spent here, the house too quiet; nothing around her but a few pieces of treasured pottery and somewhere, an unfinished wedding dress.  Did her heart know that peace that is a place of safety and warmth or the tedium that the heart and spirit feel when they are no longer needed by those whose needs had become necessary?

I am up again at sunlight, the click-click of toenails on hardwood scratching upon my sleep, the breeze through the window bringing with it a decided chill, given the daytime temperatures.  The quilt on the other half of the bed lies as quiet as a calm sea, my side churned with the twisting of limbs having fought that battle for the covers with no adversary. The light makes its way up the wallpaper in the bedroom,  a pattern likely there longer than I have been alive, colors of another lifetime, waiting as if reserved for something more.

The house is quiet.

Getting to bed early and rising early has become a habit.  All of those hundreds of nights I stayed up to talk to my Dad before his sleep, a call that had to be made at exactly the same time, a call that would render him agitated if it was even 5 minutes late.  I used to grumble at times for that obligation, dinners that grew cold, social plans constantly canceled, choice work assignments passed upon because in doing so I'd miss that window that was one man's tick of time in a clock rapidly winding down.  Now, the phone is silent, too silent.  I didn't tell anyone about the time I called it just days after his death, just to hear his voice telling me he was too busy to come to the phone, only to get the disconnect notification.  It was only then, that the tears I could not shed on the flight home came and I knew what I got out of those calls was much more than I ever gave.  

And so, after a call that is not made, I make my way to bed, understanding, even more, those connections we have that are so fragile, wherein loneliness, having taken on almost the familiarity of an old garment, is lifted from us. I understand that grieving will eventually fade even as the tear ducts remember how to weep. I understand the faith that was my father's, looking back at times where I cried for answers for prayers I never prayed, thinking I was alone, when all along God had given me instructions as to where he kept the key to His house, and it wasn't under the mat. Dad had that faith, and I found myself donning it even as those who wore its mantle have left me with nothing but their goodbyes and future unsaid prayers.

The house is quiet.

There are the final sounds of dogs settling into sleep, Abby on the futon in my office from which she can peer down the hall to my bed, and Lorelei, in a crate she refuses to abandon at night for the comfort of a sofa, her first years knowing only such confinement.  Those days for her have been obliterated as if they never had been, but for that need for that safe space in the darkness.

Outside, the traffic quiets.  On certain nights the faint music from a local Irish Pub can be heard as I crawl into bed, but this night there is just the occasional sound of a car door. I displace little air, I give off no betraying sound that can mark me as either being worthy of pity or prey. I simply lay in the darkness, waiting for some insulated spark to quiet within so I can sleep.

Someone just told me that they felt I was handling things so well because I was so well "grounded".  But I'm not.  The ground simply exists, it does not dream of the leaves that will caress its surface after a brief blaze of glory, nor does it covet the song of the birds or the rush of small feet upon it.  The earth can be walls that are safe, but they can also be a barren, cold convent.  No, I'm not "grounded", I will always be one on the wind, looking down from above, simply praying that God will take notice when this sparrow falls to earth.

With those thoughts, I prepare for sleep, the whisper of my husband's voice in my ear as he called tonight to say "goodnight", the echo of my Dad's words as he too, said goodnight, each night. He understood, though we never spoke of it, of worlds that can change in small acts that can bear the force of fire and smoke, of pride and hope and slightly maimed honor as we cut the cord of duties bound. He understood what goodbyes were, and when he told me goodby that last time, as I held his hand laying upon his quilt, he was salvaging that one last thing from the indicted dust that is a life long-lived, a sense of peace within the quiet, even as from afar, a light began to shine, a brightness through the smokey glass.

His house is quiet as he leaves us.

The last thing I see before I drift off to sleep is the form of a small vase that belonged to the woman born in this house. Sturdy, and not something anyone would call beautiful, it was found at a neighborhood yard sale not long after the house was purchased.  The neighbors said it had been Blanche's and gave it over to our care.  It was only fitting that it came home to rest among the only walls it had known. She may no longer know this object's weight within her hand, even as she no longer feels its lack, but I hope she is at peace, reunited with her loved ones, safe in her Father's house.

With a smile on my face, I succumb to sleep, only memories of happier times beckoning as my dreams steal wingward into the night.

The house is quiet.

Barkley Memories - ROAD TRIP!

Winter 2013. It was time for the weekly commute to work, a several hour drive in the usual heavy truck traffic. I left early, to get here before dark, but with what was left of an accident closing all but one lane, it took over four hours.

I'd driven this route for a couple years already while dating my now husband, no accidents and no tickets.  The secret is -

(1) drive a vehicle with an engine that sucks fuel like a CF700 turbofan  engine
(2) don't break any traffic laws
(3) or don't break them as bad as anyone driving around you.

#3 is easy.  Find the worst possible driver in the world (which is not hard to do on I-65) and when you spot him or her, stay back at their 8 or 4 o'clock position, whichever keeps them between the Highway Patrol on the median and you.

Or simply draft behind the trucks sharing the road responsibly until that smile and glazed look (brains!) in the eyes of the Dart Guy on the back of the truck creeps you out and you have to pass.

Barkley would always travel with me, with a harness that assured in a sudden stop he couldn't turn into one of the Wallenda's.  It did, however, allow him JUST enough room to sit with his rear end on the seat and his front paws on the floor. 

You think I'm kidding, that was how he sat at home when he wasn't napping.

When we finally got to the crash pad,  he would be all excited, RUNNING to the back door in the garage.  Then he realized, this was the small place, with no "Dad", with less toys per square foot, no squirrels to bark at and his pretty friend who took him to the dog park when I worked wouldn't be here until the morning.

And the sulk began.

No one can sulk like a lab.

At least he didn't have to go on call at midnight like some people.

Design Proven by History

We were the good guys. We had a plan.  It was a complicated plan, one that needed to be followed exactly.  You know how on CSI type shows they'll be out in the field where they can come up with a way to match DNA with a can of Aquanet and a long tube? (Wait, that's a potato gun.)  Real life is not like that. Coming up with a way to conduct a complicated experiment involving materials technology with what's on hand is usually a bit more detailed. In this case, the plan would come to fruition with the implementation of a design, one that was thought out and laid on paper, to the last microscopic detail. Of course that means someone usually decides to "improve on it".

So in this mission, essentially that happened and the original design was "tweaked",  without consultation, which meant it wouldn't work, at all.  The plan had to be re-written, not only to solve the problem, which was growing uglier as one waited, but  to also the fix the new problem that the freelance "improvement" to the design made.

The Second Design came with it a Mil Spec no one else would recognize.

MIL-TFD-1111

There were a few eyebrows raised. Finally someone had to ask.  "What does that mean?".

"Make It Like the Friggin Design Four Ones." (for once)

A design proven by history.

There are many 1911 style weapons out there, from “plain vanilla” straight 1911s to full adjustable sights, underlug accessory-rail equipped weapons designed for special ops, both military and civilian LEO type.  Many of you have one somewhere in that range, in your home or in your holster and for many a good reason.

This is a firearm  that is essentially unchanged in 100 years.

Some things you just can't improve on. Like a firearm that's proven itself over a century. The gun that sits on my table, that rides on my hip, is, but for the smallest accommodations in a few external parts, a few cosmetic updates (and likely better steel), is the same fundamental firearm John Moses Browning developed and Colt produced a little over 100 years ago. 

The first 1911 was born in the Colt Factory the year Roy Rogers was born.  If you are now saying "who is  Roy Rogers?" please go play a video game and come back later with a note from your Mom. It was the same year that Ginger Rogers was born, when John Rigby designed his .416 caliber rifle on original Mauser action for African big game and the same year the Ottawa Senators won the Stanley Cup. (Go Sens!)

When Gavrilo Pincip shot the Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Austria in 1914 with a  32 caliber FN Model 1910, much of the world realized that war was imminent and firearms would play a part in it. There were numerous firearms manufactured at that time, but it was John Moses Browning's .45 that was provided to the soldiers, with some two and a half million or more of  them manufactured to fight the war. To get that many firearms in service, contracts went out to other manufacturers besides Colt and Springfield Armory to make them, including a couple companies up in our neighbor to the North, Canada.

Twenty-One MILLION people died in that war, soldier and civilian alike. The losses continued through WWII, Korea and onward.   I am sure many lives were defended because of that firearm.  Something else that has not changed over time.

I'd toyed with the idea  of getting one, I already have more than one .45 to shoot, but I've heard so much about the 1911, all positive.  So it was no surprise that when I picked this one up, a Loaded 1911-A1, for the first time, I said.  "Oh, Yes."

"Loaded" 1911 does not mean it has a round in the magazine or chamber.  Consider it loaded, like your sub sandwich  or burger would be.  It has ALL the goodies, full length guide rod, polished feed ramp, enlarged ejection port, extended ambidextrous safety selectors, custom trigger and beavertail grip safety.

Concealed Carry - For carry, there are a variety of holsters.  I'm a big fan of  Dennis at Dragon Leatherworks holsters and his Talon  holster fits this firearm well and distributes the weight evenly.  But holsters notwithstanding, there are three basic ways to carry this firearm concealed.

Door #1 - The hammer is down and the chamber is empty.  This means you have to manually cycle the slide before you fire it.  Then, to return the firearm to its previous carry position you have to drop the magazine, empty the chamber, drop the hammer, and reload and reinsert the magazine, all without doing something stupid that's going to put a hole in anyone, including you.  You might as well carry a two and a half  pound hammer as a self defense tool.  It's likely quicker.  Carrying for quick self defense with an empty chamber poses more of a hazard to you than the criminal who is coming right at you.

Door #2 - The chamber hs loaded with a round but you must you cock the hammer with your thumb prior to firing.  If you've fired a single action revolver with a large hammer whose purpose IS be cocked by your thumb, you're familiar with the concept and it doesn't feel odd.  Still, this requires that you pull the trigger carefully and lower the hammer over a loaded chamber prior to re-holstering the firearm. Again, that's an extra step between the bad guy and the defense of your life. Personal choice here.

Door #3 - The one that makes liberals, old ladies and poodle dogs shudder in their shadow and that, my friends,  is cocked and locked.  This means the hammer is cocked, the chamber is loaded with a live round and the thumb safely is ON.  This means that the weapon is ready to fire NOW. All you have to do is click the safety down, pull the trigger while maintaining your grip and click it back up after the threat has the prerequisite hole in it. That's something that Barkley could even manage had he opposable thumbs.

But remember, when  the gun is cocked and locked, the sear is blocked from releasing the hammer. Further, unless a firing grip is on the pistol, the thumb safety swept off, and the trigger is pulled, the gun will not go off.  In my opinion, that's safer than the carry condition of some firearms.

Again, it's a personal choice, but I prefer Door #3.  Instant readiness.  If that door opens and a bad guy rushes in, intent on harming or killing, you can react in an instant.  That is why I carry a .45 for self defense in this manner.  Not to to be considered cool in the tactical sense, nor to balance my somewhat forward center of gravity, but to get the firearm in action when my life may depend on it, NOW, with the fewest opportunities for mistakes.

Some armchair gun enthusiasts like to say that you shouldn't carry a 1911 cocked and locked "because it requires more training than other guns".  I humbly disagree, at least for this particular model.

I'm no expert.  The gun manufacturer's don't pay me or give me freebies to write reviews and I doubt any of them will read them. I'm a better shot than much of the population, I'm a worse shot than a lot of my readership, I'm sure.  I simply know the basics.  I keep practicing the basics.  As such, I can say that I found the operation of this particular 1911 cocked and locked IS instinctual and functional. And I SO did NOT miss that very long and dreaded trigger pull on some double action autos that is like waiting at the doctors for that "you'll just feel a little pinch".

Again, my opinion, and as I tell anyone that reads here, for any new firearm, find a friend that's actively owned and shot one for years to offer guidance.  Even better, for a new firearm OR new to shooting, get an experienced NRA instructor like my friends Lynne F.,  Keads and Bill at Eastern Iowa Firearms Training  and get some "dual" on it as  we pilots would say.

Size and Weight - the barrel is 5 inches. That's a nice long sight radius for you to peer down for accuracy. Stainless steel, the height is  5.5 " and the weight 40 ounces (with empty magazine). This is a heavy firearm and for some folks, size and weight tend to go against the grain for the concealed concept, as they want light and small.  There are many folks that can and do carry "duty" size pistols and with the right holster and clothing, they conceal them well.  Weight, for me is not an issue as I'm not going to be carrying it all day long, nor size, as I'm 5 foot 8 in bare feet and curvy.  I also like it for recoil. Go fire a tiny lightweight gun with a largish round and then fire the 1911. You'll notice a huge difference in both recoil and comfort. I'd as soon be tied to chair and forced to watch "The Bachelor" than fire 100 rounds through my Kahr 40. The 1911, I can easily shoot for a morning at the Range and although my grouping gets a little looser as I get tired, it's still quite manageable.

First day with the 1911 target.

Trigger - Not just Roy Rogers trusty stead any more.  The 1911 A-1 trigger is nice.  It seemed like my finger just traveled about one nano-millimeter before it encountered resistance, and then just traveled another short distance until releasing with no discernible over travel.  It breaks as crisp and easy as that piece of Grandma's china after someone had too much eggnog.

With that, let's go to the thumb safety on the 1911.  If you've ever operated the bass-ackwards thumb safeties on some double actions, you will fall in love with the simple up/safe down/fire function of the 1911.

But remember, the primary safety is between your ears. Never rely on a gun’s “safety” to protect you from unsafe gun handling. A safety is only a mechanical device, not a substitute for using some common sense.

Grip - I can't count the number of  people I've talked to that try out a new handgun and immediately compare the grip to that of their 1911.  For that "new" firearm they're trying, it's like being the second wife after the first wife died after winning Miss Universe, curing cancer, and waking you up every morning with. . . bacon.  You will ALWAYS be compared to that first, impossible to replace love.  The 1911 is like that for some people.

The feel of the grip is unique, but not in a "she has a unique personality" way, but comfortable, like something you've felt before.  It just fits like it was built for YOUR hand.  The grips, as well, are beautiful.  Sure you could replace with a set of Crimson Trace laser grips, but would you want to? Springfield Armory, as well, seems to have somehow tweaked the original grip safety (an ornery afterthought designed by a committee who have never handled a weapon while under fire) so it works well even when gripping the firearm riding the thumb safety high, for use at any moment. I'm not sure as to what was done, or if it was just my perception, but it did perform well and it's infinitely better than some modern firearms that are lawyered up with a wealth of safeties that only a six year old could operate under duress. 

Accenting the grip area is a nicely cross set of wood panels that contain the double-diamond pattern, along with the Springfield Armory logo. It's not just nice looking, the texture of the surface provides for a positive hold.

The magazine release button  is easy to push in with either the thumb of the right hand, or the middle finger of the left hand (the "how am I driving" finger).  The magazines slide in well, and drop freely when you push the release button. The magazine is 7 + 1, and the firearm typically comes with two when purchased.

Accuracy - You don't necessarily need the "FBI crouch" of old movies and you most certainly do NOT want the "gangsta style" stance unless you want to make  sure the threat gets a chance to get a round off at you first.  Shooting "from the hip" works if you are being attacked by a hippopotamus on Ambien, but in most cases it's going to result in your getting your ass kicked, probably with your own weapon that is grabbed out of your hand.

Learn to use your sights.  Unsighted fire may work at powder burn range, but sights weren't put on a firearm so you could hit a zombie woodchuck in the eye at 200 yards. Sights were made so you can hit a target that's coming at you when you are not going to get a second shot. Using your sights takes practice and concentration.  I don't have a single handgun with laser anything though I have AR15s equipped with holographic technology and some night toys.  Iron sights are my friend and the ones on the 1911 here were very easy to adapt to, even in quick draw.

Stripping and Cleaning- Stripping and cleaning is pretty much standard for any of the 1911's.  http://how-i-did-it.org/detail-1911/field_strip.html for some guided instructions.

Much easier than the take down of the Ruger Mark III. (below)

Would I recommend the "Loaded" 1911 A-1?  Absolutely.  It's got a grip you will always feel comfortable with.  It's manufactured with the best in American Made quality, to one of the highest standards there is.  It's not an inexpensive firearm, but it's one you will own for a lifetime, and then likely pass on to your child or a niece, a nephew.  It's one you'll let your best friend shoot. This is a firearm that will retain its history, over time.

Springfield Armory has nailed the exemplary character of a distinguished sidearm and I'm proud to have one in the home and by my side.

 - Brigid

 “The darker the night, the brighter the stars,

The deeper the grief, the closer is God!”

 ― Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

Happy 101st Birthday Dad

 

Travel Buddies

I got Partner in Grime and I a couple of things for our travel bags now that our employers are thinking about air travel again.  Agent Perry Platypus for myself, one of the Minions for my engineer/inventor husband.

Partner in Grime:  TSA is going to take yours away.

Me:  Why?

Partner:  Large-capacity magazine

Me:  Well then, yours is certainly going to be confiscated!

Partner: ??

Me:  Well it's full Otto!

On that note - I will be traveling all next week so I'll say hello on my return.  Partner in Grime and the Lab Patrol will be tending to the Range in my absence.  

On Freedom

Not long ago I read that noted anti-U.S. literary Margaret Drabble was upset because some American warplanes have "grinning cartoon faces painted on their noses ... with big sharp teeth". This is the British author that said "I loathe America and what it has done to the rest of the world." My Dad left his widowed Mother and Fiance and spent four years in Norwich, England supporting the safety of Ms. Drabbles home country, along with so many brave people of her nation, all who put their lives on the line for that great fight. There he watched, more than once, friends and crew mates die horribly in front of his eyes, with said airplanes,  trying to land  fatally wounded Liberators after a day of protecting her country from further attack,  I think he would probably disagree.

I think instead, that of the words of the ever ungrateful  Ms. Drabble, we best remember the words of John Stuart Mill "War is an ugly thing but not the ugliest of things; the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feelings which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. A man who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."

Being Free.

Every soul yearns to be free and each day we are free to choose the life we live. Freedom is about having a choice. It is not not taxed, not levied, nor given to us at the end of a very sharp pointed stick, while our own sharp pointy sticks are taken away from us.

please click to enlarge the photo

So here we are, a nation often at war, with others, with ourselves, for many things, but always for freedom. For that of our people, for that of other nations. Concentration camp survivor Viktor Frankl said, "There are two ways to go to the gas chamber: free or not free." The only way to win our freedom back is to face our situation honestly and—no matter how terrible things may be—continue to act on the heart's calm guidance.

I've learned a lot about what's important volunteering at a shelter for battered women.  The reason that I volunteer there is one that is personal, but it is important to me.  These women and their children have seen the absolute worst of what life has to offer. Yet they still have hope, in themselves and their capabilities, in their future. There are some that will cling in  bitterness to what has robbed them, as people tend to do, but, with help, many go forth stronger from the whole wretched experience.  The children, especially, seem to see through it all, and still retain a few elements of their childhood where they know what's really of value.

In the weeks after the Twin Towers fell and the Pentagon was hit I was on duty pretty much 24 and 7.  It was some time before I could go to the shelter. One little boy there was watching the continually replaying collapse of towers on TV. I looked at it, as stunned and horrified as I was when I first saw it, and said.. . "isn't that awful". . And he replied "yup". All those people gone. "What do you think we should do?" I said. It wasn't a rhetorical question. I was hoping perhaps for some childlike perspective, looking through new eyes at something in which I'd already spent my own powers of comprehension. And he said, "I not gonna be afraid again."  I don't think he was talking about 9-11 but I totally understood.  I didn't want to be afraid again either.

Our country has been hit, the values of everything so many of us have given years of our life for, disparaged. Our Constitution is treated as outdated, needed to be "modernized", as liberal politicians and  rich dowagers spit on the very flag that have kept their countries free. But I won't give up on her. I've seen fire and rain and still remember a time, not all that long ago, when I was so devastated by the sudden loss of something that I was hardly able to get out of bed in the morning. But I kept breathing, and kept praying, and I knew I would not be vanquished.

That is what our forefathers held fast to, that's what our soldiers fight for for, cling to.  Freedom.  Not guns, not religion in the defined sense of a particular church, not bitterness, but a faith in the God of our Fathers and a love of our country and every principal on which she was founded. We may not agree with every conflict we have engaged in, nor every decision made by our country, our love for her is honest but it is not blind. But we still we hold her flag up high, in iron and unwavering symbolism for that which she has always stood for.

The ground outside is wet from an evening sprinkle of  gentle rain, clouds gone, the sky breaking out in light blue patches. Outside all is quiet, the sunlight laying like scraps of cloth over the town.  In the distance, there is the siren that blares each day at the same time, unless the weather is forecast severe, the siren that tests the warning system for tornados.  Upon the still air it sounds, then another cry in the next little town  over, the next, all taking up the alarm, as if signaling one another.  In the clearing sky, it's hard to think of the dangers that are outside us, but we are always ready.  We have to be ready.

So for today, I just ask that you put politics aside, and cherish those gifts, those sacrifices,  made for each one of us to keep us free, rather than take them for granted. We need to remember so that we can make the right choices for our coming days, for the sake of our past, and the possibilities of the future.