Doors Closed - Windows Opened

Folks - I'm going to be offline as far as the blog for at least the next two weeks.  I found out yesterday a dear friend of mine, who is also an author, was diagnosed with cancer the end of August after she came out in her Glamper Camper and stayed with me during a U.P. book signing tour while Partner in Grime was on the road. It was a great visit - we stayed up well in the wee hours talking about her life on her family farm, her children, our writing projects (she's an award-winning travel author) and life in general. She had little appetite at supper but a dram of whiskey was poured and we just talked and talked.

Even though we'd gotten little sleep we were up with the dawn as she had to head out for her book signing up north and the last thing I remember was her jaunty wave with a "Love you!" as she drove off, fearless, into the crazy Chicago traffic towing a Bright Aqua Retro Camper behind an extended cab, long bed farm pickup truck.

Unfortunately, when she got home, further testing has revealed she has just weeks to live. Lyn is a Christian and knows where she is headed and is at peace but one thing was troubling her.

She had a new book in progress (through a traditional publisher) but it is a few chapters shy of being finished and she is unsure if she can at this point as her strength is quickly leaving her.  She asked me to co-author it so I can write the last few chapters and then can take over coordinating the editing and publication with her publisher if she is gone at that time. All the sales are going to an animal rescue in Iowa, where she lives on a farm and payment of the royalties has been set up already.

She has published with this publisher before and they are very supportive of whatever it takes to get it into print.  It's a book about rescue Beagles, intended for young adult to adult readers, a short book with photos.

I am honored she asked me but with a very busy work schedule (federal end of the fiscal year), I probably won't have time for any new blog posts for a couple of weeks.

I'll be on Facebook (it's non-shooty stuff but there are recipes) and will see you all back here in just a few chapters. As always prayers for her are welcome.   LB "Brigid" Johnson

The Grill Next Door

There's more to your grill than meat.  Over the last couple of summers, I've grilled an assortment of veggies as well as peaches and pineapple to serve alongside pork or over ice cream (and if you drizzle a little rum on the pineapple before serving you'll be sure to hear at least one happy "Arghhhh" from your family or guests).

But some items are just staples for grilling.  Corn. Sure you can cook it on the stove, in a cooler or in a microwave but grilling is awesome.  The corn this year is not so good, so I was looking for something to make it both moist and flavorful and saw an idea in Better Home and Gardens (one of the few magazines I enjoy).  It involved basting the corn during grilling with a salad dressing based sauce.

Liking the concept but not being too keen on the whole Miracle Whip on corn thing, I used a mixture of butter, mayo, sour cream, fresh lime, hot sauce, peppers and cilantro.  Now we're talking.

Serves 2-3, double or triple as needed.

3 large ears of corn (cut into halves or thirds)
1 Tablespoon dried cilantro
1 1/2 teaspoons  Penzey's Ancho or Adobo seasoning
1 heaping teaspoon lime zest
1/ 8 teaspoon cayenne
dash or two of hot sauce (my favorite is Scoville Bros. Singing Smoke)
2 Tablespoons melted butter
1 Tablespoon Mayo
1 Tablespoon sour cream
1 Tablespoon fresh lime juice (and that does not come out of little green plastic limes)

Clean corn, removing husks and soak in water for 10 minutes.

In a small bowl mix cilantro, pepper seasonings, and lime zest.  In a BIG bowl whisk butter, hot sauce, mayo, sour cream, and lime juice and set aside. Drain and dry corn and cook on covered grill for 15-20 minutes until done, turning and basting with the butter/cream mixture every five minutes.

Remove corn and toss with remaining butter/cream sauce in the bowl, sprinkle with the chili/zest mixture and serve immediately.  Excellent with chicken or a big piece of grilled Salmon.

But They ARE Family. . . .

I'm home from my Dad's and just chillin' with my husband and our two rescue Labs. Dad's settled into assisted living quite nicely.  The staff there was great, and the maintenance folks refill his suet feeder outside his window so he can watch the birds which he really loves. He's in two units with an open door between.  In time, we'll whittle it down to one as two units are not affordable long term, but we knew that having the bigger space after the transition from his big house would be easier on him.

My husband stayed home as with Lorelei Lab being a new rescue we didn't both want to suddenly leave for a week, especially after he'd been gone two+ weeks overseas for business.

It was a nice week though as much as I missed them all.  I was able to get Dad out for a couple of  "road trips" with a family member or my friend BJ Miller (the other "Brigid" on the gun blogs) to help him in and out of the car (I can't with my meniscus free knee). He loves her company so we were so thankful she could take some time out to visit with us.

So for today, as I catch up with chores and sleep, some funny Tweets from people who think about their dogs like I do.

Going Offline to Visit Dad

I will be offline until next weekend as I go to spend some time with Dad. He's still in good spirits but his health is slowly failing (he's almost 100 years old).

Partner in Grime just got back from over two weeks in SE Asia on business so he's taking some leave to man the Range while he completes the master bath remodel (during which time the only toilet available will be the one in the basement half bath). Hopefully he'll manage house, dogs, and laundry until I return. Cheers.

For Those In Dorian's Path

Prayers this morning for the people of the Bahamas as well as our friends who live on the Southeast Coast of the United States.

Winged Freedom

A chapter from "True Course  - Lessons of a Life Aloft" by Brigid Johnson. Available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Chapter 4 - Winged Freedom

In thinking back to those early days of flight training, I remember getting lost on my first solo cross-country flight, only for about ten minutes but it was still not a good feeling.  The weather was great, and I knew the general area I was in and the terrain, but somehow, I had flown right over the airport at which I was expected to land.  Looking down at a lake I knew was just south of the airport based on my sectional chart; I knew I’d passed it.  Following my instructor's teachings, I had the good sense to check my position every ten or fifteen minutes so by backtracking I was soon back on course, but not before witnessing a flock of geese flying right alongside me, honking as if asking me to join them. I would have missed that had I been on course.

I soon spotted my intended destination and landed.  It wasn’t the best landing.  My flight instructor asked me to have someone sign my logbook to show I had been there.  As soon as I walked in the door, they said, “Ah, student pilot!”  Yes, the landing was that bad.

Sometimes you can find yourself by getting lost, by looking out and down on the world and reinterpreting it as a consequence. Rather than being shaken by my error, I merely laughed in surprising coincidence, as a goose dived from the sky in salutation.

There is a feeling of god-like power in that, viewing your domain beneath, a sense that is almost empowering in its perspective. Do all the birds of the sky feel that power; that freedom, not just the mighty hawk, but the fledgling bird testing his wings for the first time, hungry mouth tasting the autonomy of the sky?
Birds now fill my horizon and surround my home. There's a large forest preserve backing up to where I live, the hills sloping up to trees through which flows a large stream.

Most of the birds I can recognize, being familiar with most of the species common to my area. Birds vary in more ways than species and color.  Watch them carefully and you'll see the different foods they prefer and the different ways they may perch to eat it.  Look at where they sleep.  Is it high up in a tree or snuggled down in low covering, within small tender shrubs, pulled in around them like a blanket? So many ways they protect themselves from the elements, varying the shape, and size of the nest, if there is one, from species to species. They may have a connection to the nearest body of water or a broad patch of the open sky. To some, the nearness is more critical than we realize. Yet in all their differences they all fly on the same winds that fuel their flights.

I am a hunter, and as such, I have taken a life, not for sport but to put food on our table in the lean times of my youth.  But I respect life. I think of my first hunt for a large whitetail buck. It's an event that stands out in my mind, like my first solo flight. Two acts so wholly different, yet in my heart, the same, moments of testing myself and what I could do. It was knowing when to go forth, and when to pull back.

I waited there, in that blind, flanked by two experienced hunters. I was hardly more than a girl, yet I already knew the curse of blood and the wildness of spirit which would only grow stronger as I got older. I tried to act as if it were no big deal, we're going to get a deer— that's it, but it took some effort not to let the trembling show.

When the buck came into view, I hesitated, because he was so beautiful, so free, but the hunter lived in me—and this deer would feed us for many months.  Times were tough in that mill town, and many tables were bare. I'm not sure if I closed one eye, it seemed I closed both, but I drew and fired, one shot through the heart, and watched him leap one last time, his form casting a final shadow on the earth that he was leaving, but did not know it yet.
But it was not to be a “take your shot, pose with your trophy” moment. No, there was work to be done, and I was not going to sit aside and watch the others prep the deer simply because I was a girl. I was handed the knife, to field dress the deer and gather the meat for the table, guided by those wiser than I.

When I first was taking my flight lessons, including some short solo cross-country flights, I remember sitting there; hand on the throttle, looking at my instructor, standing along the edge of the taxiway, being hesitant to move my hand.  He just gave me a little nod, a sign I was ready. That day, in the forest, it was much the same. The oldest of the group, drew a bloody fingertip across my brow, to brush the hair from my eyes, consecrating that moment in which the hunter's skills would be passed on. I drew the knife and spilled the blood, the hot smoking stream in deep gray woods. Yes, blood was spilled, not with shame, but with pride, for I had been deemed ready to do so with the judgment that such acts require. Gone were the days of pursuing rabbits and squirrels. I had taken my first buck, to be discussed before a winter fire someday.

For hunters gather—as pilots gather. Sometimes in a dark room, long after the day is done, with a cold beer and a roaring fire. Other times in odd moments and at various times, with no prior planning, simply showing up to sit and trade stories, waiting for the sun to come up. There is a yearning in us that loves the wild, be it forest or sky, blooming as you discover longing already within you. Like any other passion, it is often accompanied by a partiality for that which surrounds its form, which even in its absence still speaks fondly of it, in reverent tones and lively stories.

That day in which I took my first deer stands out, not so much for the action but for what was passed on. What they taught me that day was more than the taking of game. They taught me when to shoot and when not to. What game was worthy, and what should be left alone. They taught me when the woods were a haven, and with a rumble of thunder, when the woods were a place to leave. Just as I learned to fly in the pitch dark of a hangar as I listened to my instructor as we put our plane to rest, I learned the rules of the hunt in the dark, heavy dew of early morning, while we squatted, knees crying, underneath a tree. I learned without speaking. I learned just by watching. I learned not only when to act, but when to walk away and let it go. I learned that with freedom, comes responsibility, with wrong decisions, comes death, if not in the flesh, then of the spirit.

Tonight, I'm going up for just a short flight, hunting season is a long way off, and the thrill of TV holds no luster for me. The last time I went, I took a friend with me; this time I will go alone. There are a few cumuli to the north but other than some light turbulence; the short flight should be uneventful. But the clouds continued to build and as I circled a large cornfield, the wind picked up, and off to my right, I saw a hawk dive down for the safety of the trees. He was ignoring the small birds that were his prey moments ago, as the sky briefly grew dark and the wind picked up further. The birds had better sense than some, taking no chances when dealing with a shortage of stable air. As the birds of the air knew, death can wait in a gust of fate, in the unexpected whimsy of a cold front. In the sky, everything is mortal.

Yet, it is worth the risk, and the prices we pay for just a moment to hold that freedom of winged creatures in our hands. The throttle is at full power as the little engine chugs against the decrease in air density on this warm summer day. Still pushing on upwards where the air is clearer, and purer still, out of the haze of summer, the smog, the noise; clouds at every turn, their dark reflections playing across my wings like shadow puppets. I have no schedule, no phone, no chatter, and no demands other than the demanding gods of pitch, power, altitude, and airspeed. Like the birds I am free, a carefree vagabond, endowed with the grace of the wing, knowing no bounds in this open spot of sky far away from the city and any regular air traffic routes.

I pivot and turn to gain a little room as the clouds disperse and the wind calms.  It's hard to resist the urge to continue higher, upwards in search of some absolute perfection, some crystal moment of divine knowledge, far away and remote from human memory, worry, and obligations. Up towards the sun, now shining brightly, like a diamond in the sand, pure and priceless, a rare bright gem of light that would provide both wealth and freedom. But like Icarus's flight into the sun, continuing upwards can have dire consequences. The decrease in performance speaks as loudly as any caution light. My airplane is at the limit of what it can do, as am I right now. And so, as his father Daedalus did after Icarus's plummet to earth, I'll leave my feathered friends, and hang up my wings for the day, knowing that soon I too can return.

I check for traffic and slide on back down, performing some turns and rolls on the way, laughing as the earth comes up in greeting. The familiar landscape is in my window, and my thoughts are simple. It is simply the push of the wind, and the fuel remaining; things done from training and habit, requiring little thought. Leaving room for those obvious thoughts, there suspended above the green of hard-edged cornfields, lost in the improbability of being up here at all. The sky is clouding up, and I remain silent, reading the signs of the sky, a poem composed of cursive contrails and feather-like exclamation points of white and amber light. It's time to head home, as the visibility is dropping and the clouds seemed to be starting their own little rumble.
I hate for this evening to end, but it's time to go home to roost.

Blog Meet Memories

On the 8th anniversary of our first official "date" a post for my husband, Partner in Grime, who I have been friends with for 11 years (where did the time go?). This will bring a smile as the "Sheep" thing comes up every so often as we drive together (I'm NOT the best passenger). So many good memories with the people in this post. You're taking me, aren't you? - Barkley

It was a great weekend with friends, both far and near, gathering. Saturday was my first day out of the house in three weeks, other than short hops for physical therapy following my knee surgery to remove the torn meniscus, a couple carpools into the office and a stop at a store on the way back from the Doctor's in another little town. I couldn't drive, can't do any sort of travel for a while, but boy, did it feel good to get out for a day.

Lunch Saturday was meeting up with friends at one of the best Thai restaurants in the big city, a little strip mall gem you might miss, and you don't want too. When I make my monthly trek to the city and Trader Joe's I always stop there for lunch., the drunken noodles being the best in town.


The meals start with a Spring Roll and a bowl of Gang Jead Woon Sen which I am going to go buy a gallon of the next time I have a cold (they do take out at http://www.sawasdeeindy.com/)


The dinner entrees are served family-style and are often big enough to serve two, so our selections of Pud Priew Waan (a hot and sweet and sour stir fry with lots of fresh vegetables and chicken) and Pud Kra Prow (beef with several types of fresh peppers, onion, and fresh Thai basil - yum!) with rice, were more than enough to go around. It's a family business, with subtle but very attentive service, spotlessly clean surroundings and colorful decor (but I smiled at the TV towards the back, for the guys to watch football in the middle of a Thai restaurant - Go Colts!)


I always wonder why when you have a table of people of Scandahoovian, German or Celt descent, with ice blue or light green eyes, and you order Thai Hot, they ALWAYS say "are you sure??"

Yes, I'm sure.


After that, a wave goodbye and EJ and I headed West to drive through the country so I could take some photos. He had to explain to me that I needed to be careful regarding my shouted road warnings, as having driven much on business in the UK, when his seatmate yelled "SHEEP!!!" it meant immediate road hazard, not oh, let's slow down so I can take a picture of the little bastards.

Roger. :-)

Duly trained, we stopped and took photos of a couple of barns (which were guarded by legions of burrs), a cow or two and just to be polite, homemade ice cream from the cows home, at the Traderspoint Creamery (another excellent spot for lunch in the IND area). Caramel and Blackberry were the choices today. I'm glad we only ordered "one scoop" or we'd not be able to finish them.


As we sat in their beautifully restored restaurant in a barn I had the most overwhelming urge for cheese. Most odd.


Then, with a jug of their french style Yogurt for the fridge and some cheese to take home, we were off to Marsh grocers to pick up stuff to cook for supper. I had to use the electric cart, too sore from the photo walking to go far. I have to say, after having been to three business establishments and using their carts as I recovered, I would rate them as follows:

WalMart - Best on speed. Quite decent on maneuverability. They have enough forward motion you can do a donut in produce. The greeters were also very helpful in getting it unhooked from the charger and no one called the cops after that incident with the Billy Bass and the crutch.

Marsh Grocery on 86th: Second fastest on speed, but the store is NOT laid out to be friendly to anyone using one with tight displays everywhere (lookout its GATORADE!)

Target in Plainfield - for starters, when there are two greeters in a very unbusy store and there is a lady 20 feet away with a cane and a knee brace the size and shape of Chili on her leg, and it's obvious the electric cart she is trying to use is not starting, quit talking about snowboarding and ask if you can help before she hobbles painfully away. That being said, Secretariat AFTER he died is faster than a Target mobile cart.


Then it was home to store some ammo supplies and a couple of Zombie targets and get dinner started. (which was posted earlier today for those interested in Range Recipes)

SUNDAY. TIME FOR THE BLOG MEET!

Sunday dawned clear and cold, breakfast was half a crumpet with a new jar of Lingonberry jam (after the feast of yesterday and Barkley was taken out for a long, much-awaited walk while I did my flamingo impression in the shower. Not being up to the gun show, I got a ride to the Blog Meet, an impromptu one after the gun show activities were winding down. Roberta has obviously heard about my activities on the store electric carts


It was a good turn out for being on short notice.
From left at 8 o'clock and around clockwise - Mr. Engineering Johnson, my empty seat as I was taking the photos, Roberta X, Old Grouch, The Jack, Shermlock Shomes , Tam K., Don's wife and Don - official lurker #2 and a welcome visitor at our last blog meet.

The conversation was as lively and varied as the group. Guns and gaming, food and fairs, wookies and weaponry. Why if Tam can't win a giant stuffed llama at the fair, the shooting game is obviously rigged and why it's never a good idea to run up a large white bra up the mast on a U.S. military ship when the Captain is awake somewhere.


Food was plentiful and varied. As usual, the Scotch Eggs disappeared fast. I think the Wookie ate them.
Tam, the Wookie's companion, pleads the Fifth.


As always there were brewpub favorites like their IPA and Lawnmower Pale Ale, a selection of pub food, including fish and chips . .


. . . and hot pretzels, and a daily special, one of which was Turkey Manhattan (for non Hoosiers, that's an open-faced turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes under (or more authentically, between, the plated slices of bread) all covered with homemade gravy.



Three of the group had driven in quite a ways, so soon it was time to say goodbye. We departed, full, smiling, and looking forward to another one. Thanks, everyone, as always it was a lot of fun.