Weekend at The Range . . .

. . . or how I woke to find a Budweiser bracelet that smelled of Pinot Grigio on my keyboard.

The day started out quiet as usual, though there was a lot going on this weekend, Gen Con down in Indianapolis, several gun matches and of course. the usual chores to do around the place.

But Dateless On Saturday (like Sleepless In Seattle but with reloading) was not going real well. The Big Game cougar had already bitten my head off before I could even get off shot number 2 (note to gamers, shotgun, NOT .223). Meanwhile, out in the back, G Dog and Barkley were patiently waiting for another stuffed squeaky toy to wander into the yard so they could protect me by killing it.

Still I had plenty to keep me busy. I got drywall dust dusted up on the furniture that is bunched while the walls are redone and painted in the bunkhouse. I'm sleeping on a futon at friends while there are multiple showings of my house. I miss my own bed, I miss my privacy but staying here I know will allow the realtor to really pursue the sale, without myself and my weird hours and the dog around.

The family was gone for the night, so it was just me and the dogs and I was getting hungry.

Let's just say my attempt at making blackened salmon did NOT go well.

So, as the sun started to settle in the sky, I was thinking of Plan B for dinner. I'd heard there was a street fair going on down south in town until about 11 PM but wasn't sure if I wanted to drive in. The decision was made for me as a car pulled in the long drive. Two of my Secret Squirrel buddies rolled in for some of the activities around the state and came by to snag me and take me out. They'd mentioned it last week but I figured they'd forgotten about it. Then M. and N. are at my door! So to the street fair we went!

The little town I live closest to is small. Locals refer to it as a village with a main street of brick and thriving small businesses that can make you forget that generic strip malls are out there somewhere. We arrived in early evening, walking down the main street which was blocked off for the activity.

It seemed that all the local restaurants had things to offer, and not just your mundane burger and hot dog offerings.

I went for the Rib's from a local bistro.

While my friends some of the more exotic offerings.

We sat and we ate and we laughed, telling stories of 44 magnums and the relevance of "pickle, pause, pull" for Flying Squirrels everywhere. It reminded me of evenings as a kid, usually around Fourth of July or Labor day. We'd go to the big city park, with a basket of cold fried chicken and apples and cheese and lemonade and sit and wait for the festivities to begin.

My folks were childhood sweethearts and were planning to marry and start a family as soon as Dad graduated from college, when war got in the way. In ROTC, he went in as a Captain and they made a decision to wait for his return to marry, he not wanting leave my Mom alone and perhaps pregnant when he shipped off. He didn't see her again for four years, riding off from the high ridges of Montana to a galloping cavalry of battle and glory, fulfilling the duty he took as seriously as his devotion to her.

Four years. In the big scheme of their lives, it was only a blink, yet it colored everything about how they lived after that, like the war was a lens that they would forever look through. I look at all the pictures they sent to one another during that time, pictures Dad still treasures. There are photos of fun, the laughter of just being 20-something years old; photos of Mom hamming it up with her friends, and photos of my Dad in his uniform, on a rare afternoon free. But if you can look real close, you can see the worry about their eyes, anxious nights and sleepless waiting, not for days. . or months. . . but for years. . . . . wondering when they would see the the bright clear eyes of the one they loved.

When he did come home, outwardly unharmed, unlike much of his squadron, he had changed. Changed with what he had seen and witnessed, and, like most soldiers, he had developed his own survival ritual, his system of integrity and his concepts of what it meant to be worthy of the uniform he wore. With this, he and Mom married immediately and settled into a comfortable, steady, uneventful life that the youth of today would indeed consider dull. They didn't have a huge mortgage for a house that was too big, multiple cars, or exotic travel or trips. They created a steadiness in their life, mowing the lawn, washing the car every Saturday, dancing in the living room to music from the stereo, a quiet sanctuary of quiet routine and sameness. Then very late in life I came into the picture with "we can't adopt babies now - we're retired!" -and life changed, but not by much. When Mom died of cancer, Dad remarried, a couple of dark years later, the widow of another Veteran, a passionate, funny and giving woman who brought into our lives the same steadiness and love.

As a kid, small town lived seemed rather boring and I wished that something big would happen. Something exciting. But it didn't. Something big had already happened to them, and not that many years back. Still vivid in their memory were fighter aircraft limping home in pieces only to crash before their eyes; flag draped coffins of family and friends being sent home, losses beyond redemption. And then there was the waiting. There was no instant communication then, no emails or cell phones to keep in touch. Their memories were days of silence and snippets of news, of worry and gas shortages; survival in a nation at war, the fear greeting them each day as they waited, hoping for news of a homecoming. At night they prayed for the one they loved, so far away, speaking the same words themselves, words half heard in the stillness, separated by an ocean of distance and an honor requiring duty.

Maybe after all of that, Dad's goal was simply that nothing big happened again, nothing except safety. That and the warm embrace of the woman he loved around him each night, in a world at peace because of the one big thing that you did.

So it is my thoughts go back to those family celebrations at holidays where we'd sit out, awaiting the night and the start of the fireworks show. At the end of the display, as the rockets rained down, ones that exploded like living thunder, and the small lit ones that draped across the sky like a lei, flowerings of light floating slowly down to our safe little spot I'd glance over at my Dad. As the last one, the showstopper, exploded in a blinding red and white of a thousand suns and a burst of sound that hurt the ears, I saw the tear on his rapt upturned face, his hand over his heart, as he remembered his comrades, and thanked God and those night stars for the beautiful girl he had proudly fought for, for the years he had with her, with the great love he had then and after.

Dad has not forgotten such times, and neither will we, for a nation without history is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern of such timeless acts. So while the light dims on a summer evening in small town U.S.A, history is now, history is America.

So we remember as we watch, those who laugh and love here, men and women, some alone, some hand in hand, children, the elderly, the small flags and small memorials to a small town that thrives as a nation remembers. The light has almost failed out of the sky and soon it would be night again. But there is music and there may be fireworks that spark the night; spots of brightness that illuminate a heart's hesitant suspire, making a little light on earth, even though night is looming.

It is worth waiting for, for the orange and red lights that blaze brighter than firewood, tongues of flame that fall into the folds of darkness, falling to earth, to a field of flowers, until the fire and the flower are one. For tonight, as the sky fills with refracted moon glow and the popping sounds of celebration, I raise my glass, a toast in the windless night that is the hearts heat. A toast to those we love far away, A toast to small towns, safe places, and friends. To the remains of honor and pride of life. To hope. And most importantly, to the men and women who fought and served so that we may have such nights.

It's EASY to register your AARP membership

click to enlarge

Dear AARP:

Yes, my birthday is in less than two weeks. I'm hitting one of those mumble mumble and holding milestones. But I wish to respond to your offer of membership.

(1) You supported the Health Care Bill.

(2) I can STILL benchpress more than the average Democrat and fit into a leather bustier if the occassion would ever arise, thank you very much.

(3) Given the economy, I won't get to retire for another 15+ years.

and

(4) Something seems to have happened to your membership card.

Please remove me from your mailing list.
- Brigid

Observations from Nature:

Nature's Self Defense System

What's Yours?

Happy Birthday Barkley

Forget the candles, I want something that goes "Boom!"

It's Barkley's 7th birthday tomorrow, exactly one month before mine (and if you're curious, in dog years, I'm dead). I think back to one hot day, when he was about seven weeks old and . . .

A small farm in Ohio.

I can't believe he was ever that small. His Mom's owner took me to him and a huge cluster of little black dogs, rounding the corner to greet me and a friends daughter who went with me.

I really didn't need a dog, but I was at a spot in my career where I would be home for a few months without break to train him. Barkley's sire was a National Grand Field Champion and when a coworker got one of the dog's offspring a previous litter, a great little dog, I knew I wanted one of my own. When it came time to select one from the next litter, there were 8 of them, all cute, all cuddly. How to pick? Some of them came frolicking over to me, mindlessly entertained by the smell of new shoes. Barkley just sat and looked at me, as intent as I've seen in a puppy. It was a look of hesitation, not through fear, not physically but in his little doggy spirit, that profoundly sober alertness you see in someone of quiet intelligence as they size you up.

After assessing me carefully he came over and sniffed my hand, then sat at my feet, ignoring the other people there with me, snuffling at my shoelace, while the other pups, losing interest, went off to eat a bug or something. Barkley didn't leave me the rest of the time I was there. Where I went he went. And simply sat and looked at me with satisfaction.

I told myself I wasn't going to get another dog, not going to lose my heart again. Their lifespan is too short, and my heart still ached from losing my last old dog, too soon after another death in the family, the soft release of his spirit in his last breathe against my hand as the doctor slipped the needle into his furry body.

That day, the pups too young to be separated from their Mom, I raced that 50 miles back home down country roads in an old BMW, my heart joyful for the first time in years. In a couple of more weeks I was able to fetch him, and that night as I slept, a little black lab puppy lay on my chest, soothed by the sound of my heart, still reluctant to get far from me.

I've owned several dogs in my life. All large hunting/retriever dogs or huskies. Barkley was my first dog after several years without one, living in a small citified condo while I saved for a large place of my own.
He faithfully waits for me each day that I'm out working. When I'm gone for lengthy periods, one of my two good friends either stays with him or has him over on a sleep over. All are his "pack", be they blond, brunette or redhead, male or female. When I come back, he's either out in the yard playing with kids and dogs, or sitting right by my window, alerted to the sound of the big black 4 x 4 coming up the drive.

He's pretty patient. I don't usually take him out to play as soon as I get home, needing time to unwind myself, especially if it's been a long day or one that's high stress. He'll just sit and look at me and wait, knowing that like the regular phases of the moon, I will soon put a Bass Ale or a Guinness in the fridge to cool for later or brew some tea if I'm on call. Then it's time for running with him around out back and throwing his two favorite toys, a plush bone on a string that I can throw far, or any kind of ball that he can haul around in his mouth.

Yes, as many people might say, he's just a dog. He'll never win any awards as a rocket scientist. He still sits patiently by the spot next to the counter where once a roast chicken fell on the floor, as if there's a secret poultry shrine there and if he waits long enough, another will reappear on its alter. He'll sniff anything he comes across, chase the same ball for an hour, convinced he's on some major breakthrough in retrieval tactics. And he's consumed an entire pizza, a sock, a plastic sandwich bag, a jalapeno pepper and a dead worm, all with the same gusto.

But our pets are family to many of us, and are much more than animals. They teach us about unbridled living in the moment and following your heart. They teach us to appreciate the simple things, the glint of sun off a pond, a walk in the woods, one last look at the night sky as the stars finally fade. As Barkley goes into full point on a plastic deer in someones yard, I think how he has also pointed me to the things that matter in life. Loyalty, devotion and love without strings attached.

He's seen me through good times and bad, as I him. Once while I was away, he badly injured a leg. No one is sure what happened, one minute he was playing in the back yard, jumping high for a toy and the next he was hobbling with pain. My friends were beyond concerned and hoped it was just a sprain. When I got home, he'd quit eating, then drinking and my concern turned to panic. I called Tam and she came over, helping me make a little stretcher out of a rug to get him into the truck and off to the doggie hospital in the city for x-rays. It was a soft tissue injury and they kept him overnight for some hydration, some pain relief, and anti-inflammatories and he was better. But I was like a parent there, in the waiting room, the male vet tech trying to sooth me as I fought tears. He said "are you by yourself" and I sniffed," no a friend is with me" He said, I'll go find them, what do they look like "I said, look for the 6 foot, beautiful blond in the Blackwater hat pacing the lobby looking worried."

We brought him home and he was fine in a few days, but in that moment I got a portent of what it will be like to lose him someday, as I know I will. For now, he's here, the life of the party and a big part of our hearts. Yet, though dogs come and go in the course of our lifetime, yet they always stay with us. I have good memories of duck hunting with my first lab, of romps in mountain snow with my two huskies. Three dog nights, in the big old bed, a mountain storm wrapping itself around a cabin like a dark blanket.

I probably get too attached. But Barkley is family to me. Not a substitute for a relationship with another human being, but an outlet for the warmth I harbor in my soul, seeking a place for the waters of love to go when all else is damned up. He's my confidant, he's my fashion critic (jeans and black t-shirt again? Well if you insist Barkley), he's the soft coated Kleenex when I cry.

He's given me renewed hope in the capacity of a heart, as his ability to love is boundless. He'll stay on alert, face aching with a grimacing growl, keeping that squirrel at bay while I'm at work. He's been the soft nuzzle of concern on my neck after a coughing fit when I'm sick, always there, even if no one else is. I know that even when he's old, muzzle flecked with grey, woken by my movement into the family room where he snoozes in front of the fire, he'll move to my side as swift as strong as ever. Looking at me with brown eyes more humorous and honest than many humans, above the blunt black nose, content simply to be by my side because I'm there.

He's taught me that money doesn't matter, he's as happy with a beat up old toy as anything I could give him; satisfied with a sleeping bag in a tent with me more than a luxurious pillow top mattress. Life is simple, someone to love and something cold to drink, a well loved toy to play with and water.Life has changed for us, by choice. It's no longer the plush life of an upscale suburb, but a quiet existence, with less bills and more values. Life out here has taught us both a lot, myself to be more self reliant

But I love nothing more than sitting in the bed of the truck, Barkley by my side, as the night envelopes us. Some folks say they don't like the silence, needing either people or a TV around and on all the time. Barkley and I love the silence, nothing but our breathing in these open spaces. A tromp out into the corn fields with the old Belgium Browning, maybe a pheasant for dinner if we're lucky. This is all we really need, not a fancy house or 3 cars or designer clothing. We have food, family and something in the distance to chase. . .

. . .a bird or perhaps a dream.

That's all he and I need for now.

It took him a moment to size me up before he selected me, but that first night together, his little doggie heart beating against mine and his tongue licking my cheek, I was the one tasting the finiteness of life, and the inestimable chance we have to connect and love again.

Some things are just too precious to pass up even as we know we can't hold them forever.

OK, it's your birthday, you can have your own can of Tactical Bacon.

Chukar Country

It was chukar season in the rimrock of Montana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One If By Land, Two If By Sea

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

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

.38 Things I Learned From Shooting

(1) Don't buy a new type of gun until you've had a chance to fire one of them.

 (2) Never try to keep more than 200 separate thoughts in your head during that first shot.

 (3) The less skilled the shooter, the more likely he is to come up to you at the range and criticize your grip.
 (4) No matter how bad that first target is, it's possible to be worse.

(5) The inevitable result of reading about how to improve your shooting is the instantaneous annihilation of that one critical unconscious movement that actually made you hit the paper in the first place.

(6) A steel plate shoot is a test of your skill against everyone else's luck.

 (7) Nonchalant shots count the same as chalant shots.

 (8) The shortest distance between you and that 12 point buck is the straight line that passes directly through the center of a big tree.

 (9) It's been said that bad shots come in groups of three. That fourth shot however, will be the beginning of that next group of three.

 (10) The first time you make a bulls eye you must subsequently make two shots not even close to the target in order to avoid altering the fabric of the universe.

.

(11) If you wish to shoot like a pro, it'll happen when no one is looking.

 (12) There is one important thing you can learn by stopping your shot before the trigger is pulled and checking the position of your hands on the grip. How many hands you have.

 (13) It's easier to get up at 6 am to go to the range, then it is to clean your gutters.

 (14) The most skilled shooter at the range is usually not the talkative person with the fancy gear, $200 range bag and tactical clothing. It's that quiet guy or gal in the T-shirt with the ammo cans. Watch them and learn.

(15) In hunting shots - trees attract, animals repel.

 (16) If you think it's hard to meet new people, try picking up someone else's brass.

 (17) If there's a storm rolling in, you're at the outdoor range.

(18) Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a .45 will kill you.

 (19) Shooting is not life or death. But one day it may be.

 (20) Ammo is like eggs. Unless you're a farmer with chickens that reload. It comes in small boxes and you need to buy fresh boxes each week.

(21) A shooter who hates to vacuum, dust or pick up their clothes will spend an hour carefully cleaning, oiling and packing their weapon.

(22) It takes more years to buy all the guns you want than it takes to be a doctor. But then again, try warding off a home invasion with a stethoscope and some Zyrtec and see how well you come out.

 (23) Just as a $30,000 bike and 300 miles doesn't make you a biker, a $1200 firearm and camo pants doesn't make you a shooter.

 (24) That new gun at the incredibly low price will come with the only magazine of its kind in existence.

 (25) Quail often wear little Kevlar vests under their feathers.

(26) Criminals obey gun laws as much as politicians obey their oaths of office.

 (27) Anyone who is mistaken for a bull moose and shot, probably shouldn't be in the woods anyway

 (28) Bullets don't multiply but they do migrate. (How did this stripper clip end up in my sock drawer).

 (29) Fast won't help you if you can't hit center mass.

 (30) If your gun collection includes a pair of nice .38's, refrain from discussing them in earshot of your minister.

 (31) I can say "Stop" in five languages. My .357 says it without a word.

 (32) Range cleavage attracts more hot projectile brass than male attention.

 (33) Paper is fun but metal makes that resounding plink of freedom.

 (34) Don't ever put your gun down to give a Grizzly a hug.

 (35) Coyote and fox instinctively know the absolute range of your firearm and will stand 6 inches past it.

 (36) The only equal rights amendment I need is the Second one. (37) Take all the time in the world to shoot, as long as you shoot first.

 AND THE 38th THING I LEARNED FROM SHOOTING?

 (38) The zombies won't just shoot themselves you know.

A little bend in the road

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

I had a day off after working last weekend, so after doing on some chores around my house, I noticed the AC was pumping out warm air. Not good. I'll call someone but I just didn't feel good. I felt like, in precise medical terminology. . . . Cat Poop. I stopped by to drop something off at one of the IND blog folks house to hear "Wow you're really hot" But not in a good way. I was burning up with fever and it showed.  I got some aspirin and went off home to see about getting some sleep, afraid I was getting a cold and not wishing to hang out til I gave it to someone.

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

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

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

Doc S. (sigh). What method of birth control are you using?
Me - Nudity and back to back episodes of Sex and the City seem to work.

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

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

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

However, the AC is still out and won't be fixed for a couple of days. So I'll be a hotel for a bit while Barkley stays with friends who I don't want to infect, but welcome an extra dog around the house to play with the kids.
A hotel for a few days is not ideal. I'd as soon have a cabana boy bringing me a 7-up and fluffing my, er. . pillows, but I need to take it easy and not cough on anyone.My friends are checking on me and I will be just fine. My best friend even offered to come over in a nurse's outfit with the eye patch (as in Kill Bill). I can still laugh, that's a good sign. A couple weeks of horse pills, rest and fluid and I might even make it out to the range to try out my new Zombie Targets.
She sort of looks like I feel. Zombie Targets are from Bill's Guns up in MSP.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

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

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

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

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

Brigid

A Day in Pictures (Calorie count not included, it's for your own good, folks).

You know the drill, click photos to enlarge.
Have napkin handy.

I passed on going to day two of the gun show, but invited several of my friends over for lunch after. I kept busy until they arrived cleaning and puttering around the homestead.
Time to tidy up the family room and get out a couple extra TV trays so we can eat out here. I"m staying with friends while the house shows, helping with home renovationsa and children, in exchange for a futon in the family room, and a place for Barkley while the Realtor does her thing. They'll be here soon. Time to put on some tunes.
Mr. B. and Midwest Chick showed up first, bearing all kinds of goodies, including a 10 year old cheddar (what do you mean there's none left for a photo?) and some incredible homemade brownie cookies that were nibbled on as we perused through the latest in toys in the house. (Yes, those ARE all primers). Barkley got pats as usual.

Og and his buddy M. and M's little brother Rich were able to make it. Check out Rich's great new blog, Rich's Garage , a must for classic car buffs.

We added some adult beverages (Yingling, you shouldn't have!) for those not driving and gathered round to catch up. Conversations ranged from cars to practical jokes we've played to Monty Python. It IS true, if you get a room full of geeks and even if they are all different sorts, gun geeks, sci fi geeks, car geeks, computer geeks, or gaming geeks, someone is eventually going to say, with the best of British accents, "Ni!". At that point, as Og pointed out, someone will begin to prance around on an imaginary horse, a couple of folks will be doing the Parrot sketch and I, without being able to control it, will be yelling "bring out your dead". It's inevitable.

Today wasn't much different.The conversation was great, but I'm afraid that since I enlightened Midwest Chick on the merits of finely honed Samurai Swords as zombie back up she is going to be wanting one.

The meal was simple, and with the bread (and dessert) being baked yesterday when it was cooler, I was able to fix it without heating the house up too much.

The appetizer (where did it go???) was flatbread drizzled with some olive oil, mushrooms and fresh Parmesan and then baked. It didn't last long enough for a photo, but hey, we still had those great cookies!

For the main course. Homemade Sourdough Rosemary Bread
And Gun Show Meat Sauce (of course it has BACON). With venison, red wine, not so secret herbs and spices, wild honey, tomatoes, caramelized onion, roasted garlic, spicy pork sausage and BACON, how can you go wrong.
Did anyone save room for Chocolate Guinness Cake
Soon, there was nothing left but a gathering of good friends and empty dishes. (And one little red dog hoping for leftovers).
It was good to finally have a weekend back in IND. It was great to be with some people that are as close to family as I will have in these parts. I am too full to move, so I will just sit a spell, listen to Mr. Cash and watch the sun go down. There are some days you just don't want to end.