Star Spangled Speed - A Memory

In Memory of Bobby East - December 17, 1984 – July 15, 2022

There are a lot of things I miss about living in Indianapolis.  Hanging out with Tam and Roberta X, walking on the Monon Trail, Greek Tony's Pizza in Carmel.  I even miss all the racing activities especially in July when the Brickyard race was happening.

I remember the last one before I moved. Over in Pittsboro, Jeff Gordon's hometown, there was a huge parade to honor him. I wonder if behind Barkley's first Vet there in that town there's still the giant mural of Dale Ernhardt on the side of this one house - someone that was NOT a Gordon fan. Mr. Gordon, I imagine, smiled and took it in stride and just waved to the hometown fans that love him.

At the grocer's, there were race flags and pretty girls offering samples of hot dogs and tailgate food. and I almost took out Richard Petty with my shopping cart, the six foot something cardboard cutout of him anyway. Even early in the morning, the place was jumping. This was a big weekend in Indianapolis, and out in the Western suburbs, reasonably close to the race, the air was thick with humidity and excitement.

When I was a young woman, I used to go to the stock car race track and get right down where the action was taking place. You know, when you're young and still hot you can put on a tight jumpsuit, a David Clark headset, hold a clipboard, and go about ANYWHERE on the track. I wasn't looking for a date, I just wanted to see the action, up close.  Times have sure changed. I'd need a shoehorn to get into that jumpsuit and security has been beefed up in our country as a whole, our having lost something in 9/11 other than the souls of thousands of good Americans.

But there was just something about being there close to the sights and the sounds. If any of you remember "Spinal Tap" guitarist Nigel Tufnel - he once said of the volume knobs on his amps "These go to eleven". If they go to eleven, a NASCAR track goes to fifteen, with a wild resonance made up of all of the sounds of the earth. There is something about the deep-throated roar of dozens of cars firing up as if something angry was unleashed from the earth, hungry and drawn by the smell of hundreds of barbecue grills.  It was  "Gentlemen, Start your Engines", it was the National Anthem, flags waving, and if you were lucky a military jet flying overhead.

The crowd?  You can't see a variety like this, anywhere. From casual to sexy to "don't drink and dress", it's a slice of humanity as colorful as the cars on the track.  It's not hard to tell who is rooting for who, as fans wear their colors and their favorite car's number with a pride that would put the  "my kid is an honor student at" driver to shame.  Mom might be in a Tony Stewart Shirt and Dad may have on a Dale Earnhard Jr. hat.  But there is harmony in that house because they are both here for the "race" and if you've seen it, with the kids cheering and jumping up and down in their seats, the crowd coming to their feet, you've experienced a little bit of America's history that's about a lot more than speed and the occasional crash.

Alongside my Matchbox Mustang, there  a little Matchbox car around here from some years back,in UPS colors as I was a huge Dale Jarrett fan back in the day. He was always, and remains my favorite NASCAR driver as I remember the time he won a big race only to talk with pride about his daughter and a recent scholastic achievement.  That man is a class act and his racing  retirement video still brings a smile and a tear to my eye.

You don't see that many older drivers and there's a good reason. It takes a degree of strength not evident merely by looking at the build of the driver. Dad, even as much of a sports nut as he was, didn't watch racing, saying it's not as challenging as other sports (this is a man that thinks GOLF is exciting, a sport I find as fast-paced and excitement laden as farming). But I can say this as someone that's thrown around some serious G's in a jet in her time. That would be a big NO.

Indy racing?  Sure it's sleek and super fast, but it' also a flat track, not a track that can have 16 degree banking where you get enough g's to launch you into space, while you do 180 mph inches from someone else doing 180 miles an hour.  You don't see that in open-wheel racing, and having flown formation, I can tell you it's a heck of a lot harder than it looks.  It would be like being in rush hour traffic on the 294 tollway in Chicago doing 180 miles an hour where every single driver is like that idiot in a 180 mph Smart Car that jumps down in front of you, inches from your bumper, like his Smart Phone just notified him he was late for his meeting with Jesus.

That folks, takes more than guts and muscle memory, it takes physical conditioning and MUSCLE and there's something to be said for watching those cars accelerate to speeds that would make some of us pass out, then slow on a caution as if one single living organism rather than dozens of cars.

Sometimes though, there is that fatally flawed moment, when motion meets something equally as hard. There is a crash, and the sound of rending metal, a howl of machinery that takes on the character of that very moment, the rage, the pain, and the dismay.   As debris flies, the team responds, waving hands making eddies in the smoke as help is called and the flag is out.  The crowd is on it feet with a hush, listening for those small sounds that survived the debacle, the death knell of a broken motor mount, the tumbling of a piece of wreckage off of a wall. Where ten minutes ago some were cursing this driver because he or she wasn't their favorite, now they are praying for them to climb out of the car with a supportive wave to race another day

The unexpected still of the air, carries on it more than one gathered prayer, a collective heaven-sent message from those that still believe in that power. It is a stillness that is more than quiet, it is a slender hair that holds a sword suspended over the scene. What lays upon the track as the caution comes out, is the wisdom of man rendered helpless by the indifference of physics. We aren't drawn to the sport for the mayhem, but it is ever present, the dangers that pushing the edge of motion carries with it.

NASCAR, It will always have it's naysayers, and even fans will admit it has its flaws, marketing occasionally driving the players as much as skill and behavior on the track that can be more like 3rd grade tantrums, then good old testosterone. Some say as a sport it's a gimmick, so simple only a redneck would watch. I don't agree. There's the thrill of a three car wide jockeying for position on the final lap, the sheer muscle memory and split-second decisions that can make or break not just a car, but bone. I look at them and I remember approaches into airports in mountains, lightning flashing around me, not looking at the airspace in the turbulence, but only the "donut", that small indicator that makes the difference between remaining aloft and being flung into hard stone.  Like a NASCAR crew chief  I'm calculating the fuel remaining in my head, hoping that our numbers are good and I'm not going to have to slow down to conserve fuel, or worse yet, run out.

As we watch the cars race towards that checkered flag we are all brought back to our own moments, where speed and timing and choice moved us towards victory or something that just wasn't going to "buff out".

Love it or hate it, NASCAR has been around a long time, and will continue to be, as long as there are people that feel it represents the values they grew up with. It's not just a "working man's" sport, it's a little slice of a American dream, that every little kid who has raced his or her go-cart down a hill at warp speed can relate to. As we'd get that little wooden wonder up to all of a few miles an hour, without a helmet, because our Mom's back in the day weren't following us with knee pads and a caution sign, we were living the dream, of wheels and motion and freedom.

It's the fabric of my childhood and my teen years, and even if I don't watch it anymore, it's still a part of my life.  I was too young to be interested in anyone landing on the moon but I remember well the first live flag-to-flag coverage of the Daytona 500 broadcast on television in 1979, as my brother and I gathered around the TV.

I also remember a long-ago proficiency check in a simulator for a jet aircraft I was flying at the time. The instructor pointed out a light in the distance at high altitude (the computer-generated visuals on a Level D Simulator are nothing short of amazing). I drew my craft closer to it, to see, at 38,000 feet a brown UPS truck racing across the sky that the simulator engineers had programmed in. I tipped my hat to Dale and dropped a wing to return to formation.

But this weekend- I'll let the noise be in my memory, and smell of a grill only on my deck.  I've had a week of going round and round,even with a coefficient of lift in my office chair that doesn't do much in the way of G forces.  I've seen too much bent metal in my time, and this weekend, I'd rather not see any more. But I will breathe deep the smell of charcoal and asphalt and I will remember those days sitting in the stands, waiting for something much louder and more powerful than a little redheaded teen ever imagined she could be.

Tomorrow, a roar will come, not from the ground but the sky, breaking upon the ordered allocation of my solitude. I will look up, drawn by the sound of a military aircraft flying over the city, as somewhere in the distance people will put their hands over their hearts as the National Anthem is sung.  There will be thanks for God and cold beer and those things that still retain their history.

I'll bring out a little metal race car with UPS on it, closing my hand around it as if it was a symbol of all those little freedoms I learned at that age, and of the dangers that made it so very precious.

Ladies and Gentlemen - Start your Engines.

Not Your Daily Grind

The mill stood, three stories about the rushing creek, the turning waterwheel the only moving constant in a landscape of milling people, modern cars whizzing past a hundred yards away. It is one of very few grist mills that do not lie in ruins and the only one recognized as a historical landmark by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. The Graue Mill and Museum. Inside, a modern day miller is doing a demonstration of the milling process using 150 year old buhrstones. Outside of the cash register for purchasing grain and some souvenirs, the inside of the mill has been authentically restored to look as it did, so many years ago.

On the second floor, among the many collections of tools, a lovely woman in period costume named Susan demonstrated the art of weaving from flaxen thread to make linen, as well as the meticulous process by which the strands of soft flax emerged from a course stalk.

The third and top floor had several rooms that depicted life of 1850 to 1890 in early Fullersburg, the town in which German immigrant Frederick Graue settled, though his family actually lived in the beautiful house that stood behind, a fine example of Italianate architecture, restored in 2002.

One of the room depictions in the grist house, which included a kitchen and room where the spinning wheels worked, was a little girls room. The furniture was adult furniture, carefully crafted in miniature, the bed, one in which her parents would watch her sleep, praying  that she never knew fear or hunger. On the bed was a doll, a small, clothed artifact of that innocent corridor that is childhood.

Susan had given us a vivid storytellers description of life, not just in this dwelling, in those days, of once a week baths in a shared tub, of clothing made not just by one's own stitches but often ones own fabric, pressed with an iron  that carried with it a burden that was more than weight.  In picking up one of the irons, I  realized that these women, even young girls that did such tasks, would be in physical shape that we all run to gyms to achieve.

On wooden pegs on the wall, hung several female garments.  Much of the material was plain in color and rough in texture, yet there were colorful cottons, formed by as much as six yards of fabric, the material expanding as the body would change in pregnancy.  As I traced one delicate floral design with my fingers, I could picture a  young woman standing in sunlight, the skirt billowing around her, a flash of color, not on a dance floor but among a swirl of chickens as she went to gather eggs.

What dreams did the women that wore these dresses have, there above the looms and irons that engaged them, the children they bore until they often died in doing so? Were they happy or was it a merely a cradle to marriage bed to casket rotation of spent youth and grief, dreams born too late and yet too soon? What stories would they tell had they the time and means to tell them?

Life for the men was no easier. It was a time where if one didn't work, one's family didn't eat.  But it was also a time that even if you did work hard, there was no guarantee you would eat, the grain and its grower subject to the hour and urge of weather, the root bloom of the lands frailty. The tools used for food and life were heavy, sweat and limbs playing a clumsy accompaniment to the music of metal, wood and stone. The work was not only physically hard, it could be dangerous.

I remember the story of my own grandfather, a lumberjack who suffered an accident of tree and ax. There were no emergency rooms, no trauma teams, simply a man brought home to the bed that recently bore his children, bleeding out while his wife could only stand by him with brooding awareness of that pending inscrutable inheritance that is early widowhood.

Yes, the lives of past history are seldom easy, but there would be riches of experience we can not see, the accomplishment of crafting something that would last for generations. There is the pride in your teaching your own family. You teaching, not a school, not a "village", teaching the skills they would need to not just survive, but to prosper beyond the scope of your life. There was also the saving, not perhaps love or riches, but what is left behind in a human spirit when everything else has been taken away.

Need and necessity sometime have ways of obliterating from our conduct various scruples involving compassion and honor. In looking around the mill, I saw a family that had much more than most people did back them.  I saw a family who could have enjoyed it, drank it all in, filled their belly with it, then passed quietly into history, their forms put into the earth and covered as if they had never been.

But they did not.

In the basement, there was something that made me stop and quietly think. A room that at one point was part of the Underground Railroad, a runaway slaves stop on the way to freedom in Canada, by a miller who himself sought freedom in our country, leaving his native Germany long behind him.

How many slaves did Mr. Graue shelter there in the basement of his gristmill? How many people passed through this room, putting their trust in a strangers hands, hesitant perhaps to take hold, as a hand too near the stove remembers pain. How difficult must that have been, trust replacing the whip of whistling air, the blow.

On the walls were pictures of some of the slaves, their eyes all projecting something, not words to be spoken but rather a profound and distracted listening for something they know exists, but do not yet know  its sound. I paused as I looked at the photos, one of those prolonged moments that contains the distance between this place as it was, and what it is now, everything that has been evoked or dared to bring us both to this place.

As I walked up the narrow stairs from that small and once dark place where women and men ran for their freedom, out into the light, an echo spoke which was not mine but rather all of the lost immutable "should haves" which haunt all dwellings, all the enclosed walls of home or heart. It lingers in the air as a hand takes mine to guide me safely away.

I left the mill with some bags of grain, but even more, with a renewed sense of thankfulness. Not just for my lightweight iron and the luxury of a long, hot, solitary bubble bath, but for something else.  I left with a sense of enduring hope for that which is the human spirit, the recognition of a life lived by ones own hand and choice.

Independence Day

 

May you all have a safe and enjoyable holiday.

Are You a Home on the Range Chef?

On weekends there is always activity in the Range kitchen, experimenting, baking or just laughing with Partner in Grime while we try something new, between tearing our walls and floors.  No one ever taught me to cook, I just learned a bit by watching Mom, and I read cookbooks.  A cookbook is just like an Aircraft Operating Manual.  If you follow the directions and stay pointy end forward you usually have a successful mission.  But over time, I realized my cooking style had sort of evolved, to what friends call HOTR cooking.

 How do you know if you are a HOTR Chef?  Take our simple quiz.

1.  Your apron looks like.

A.

B.

C. 

1

2.  You are served a bowl of vanilla/bacon ice cream.  You:

a.  jump up and shout "Bacon Ice Cream!  It's a crime against nature!" and look for plain yogurt.
b.  mutter nervously, prod it with your spoon and ask "is that BACON?"
c.  wonder if this would make a better ice cream sandwich with Devils Food or molasses cookies.

3.  Last nights dinner came from:

a.  a bio-sustainable farm where the crops are sown according to the phase of the moon and the tofu is slaughtered to the soothing melodies of Yani while being massaged with aromatherapy oils.
b.  a gas station.
c.  the land behind your house.

4.  Which of these foods can blow up?

a.  popcorn
b.  popovers
c.  gravy
d.  ALL OF THE ABOVE

5.  You join Weight Watchers to lose 10 pounds before that special party.  The first food you look up to see how many "points" it has is:

1.  an apple.
2.  a 100 calorie pack of crackers.
3.  bacon wrapped lamb shank with bacon garlic smashed potatoes.

6.  Which root vegetable is not put into mirepoix?
a.  carrot
b.  potato
c.  Slim Jim

7.  What is chipotle?

a.  a popular chain restaurant that makes burritos the size of a raccoon
b.  a cross between a chihuahua and poodle
c.  a smoke dried jalapeno pepper

8.  You have a whisk in your bug out kit.

a.  What's a whisk?
b.  false
c.  true

9. Your spice cabinet is organized in:

a.  newest in the front.
b.  alphabetical.
c.  binary.

10.  You've cooked dinner with:

a.  liquid nitrogen.
b.  an acetylene torch.
c.  a Bunsen burner.
d.  ALL OF THE ABOVE.

11. The way to a man's heart is thru his stomach?

a.  false
b.  true
c.  girlfriend, you need an updated diagram.

Honey - can you whip up some liquid nitrogen?

12.  Frozen Swanson pot pies are good for:

a.  a quick and easy dinner.
b.  door stops.
c.  replacements for bowling pins at the pistol match.

13.  Your cooking style is:

a.  Martha Stewart
b.  Julia Child
c.  Alton Brown meets Red Green

14.  The menu at the Cajun place says "blackened on request".  You respond

a.  I've got an envie for some blackened fish!
b.  Huh?
c.  Heck, I can do THAT at home

15.  You like making popovers because:

a.  They're warm and filling
b.  They impress guests
c.  It's like making your own personal edible steam engine!

16. You wish Pillsbury had a can that popped out an inexpensive "Poppin' Fresh":

a.  donuts
b.  muffin
c.  biscuit
d.  1911

17.  You know the difference between:

a.  a steak and tofu
b.  a bag of flour and a bottle of juice
c.  solid foams, gels, sols, and suspensions

If you answered mostly "c's" and "d's" you are well on your way to being a HOTR cook.  To know for sure, ask yourself this final question. . .

Have you ever made a foot long hot dog with two regular dogs and a long piece of bacon to wrap it with?

Happy Father's Day

True Blued - A Ruger Review

Pistol competitors, and cowboy action shooting folks are fans of the single action,  ideal for slow, deliberate shooting.  I was first exposed to them in the form of single-action revolvers while watching Westerns growing up. As a kid, I'd rather take a bullet than watch the Brady Bunch and the Partridge Family, which were what was "new" on TV when I was little.  So I'd curl up with Loony Tunes and new and rerun classic Westerns, with a few years of Gunsmoke and  Bonanza thrown in the mix.

The TV Western reigned supreme in the Fifties and Sixties. Unlike the post-war world in which they flourished, you could tell the good guys from the bad, and none of the guns were fully automatic. My favorites were Rifleman, Wanted Dead or Alive, and of course, Have Gun Will Travel.

Even if the closest I've been to cowboys in the last few years are the ones that might wander over to the range when I make lasagna, I'm very fond of revolvers.  So when I was offered a chance to try out and review Partner in Grime's Ruger Vaquero, stampeding cattle couldn't have stopped me.

I already have a revolver (or maybe two :-) but adding another one, with a price I can justify, when I already HAVE a couple is not something I'm averse to. So here it comes, the Ruger Vaquero, introduced in the early nineties, becoming one of the more popular handguns used in the ever-popular sport of Cowboy Action Shooting.

It's also popular with others like me, who want a reliable and hardworking firearm for the outdoors or home defense. But it's not just any Vaquero, it's the NEW Vaquero.

You see, a few years back, Ruger announced a major redesign of the popular firearm, coming up with the name "New Vaquero".  I'd hoped it was not like "New" Coke, where marketing came up with the concept without actually thinking about the taste of the target audience.  The one reviewed is the .357 version of the new Vaquero, though I understand it also comes in a .45 colt cartridge version, coming in bright stainless or blue case colored and varying barrel lengths from 4 and 5/8th or 5 and 1/2 inches (at least for the .357).

These are serious, hardworking guns, ( picture old cowboy action movie with tanks), feeding heavy loads that would have some firearms crying like a 3rd grader. Ruggedness and durability are keystones of Ruger firearms, an American company with a reputation for producing guns that can withstand heavy use without action parts breaking down like a cheap rental car.

The New Vaquero is built on the same size frame as Ruger’s beloved original .357 Magnum Blackhawk, the frame of which was discontinued with the advent of the new Model Black hawk in 1973 which was built on the same frame of the larger caliber revolvers out there. (Confused yet?). That 1970s version was NOT a small firearm, though it's a truly outstanding piece to own.

The New Vaquero has that small original frame size, making it much lighter and easier to handle than the original Vaquero.  I'd compare it, size-wise, to the Colt Single Action Army revolver and similar replicas found on the field at Cowboy action shoots.  The Smaller size in a six-gun that will likely last forever.  What's not to like?

What first caught my eye was the grip frame.  Not only is it pretty, it's a joy to handle,  making your Glock grip feel like shooting a cast iron frying pan). This is as close to a return to the grip of the original XR3 grip used in the 1851 Colt Navy revolver as I've seen, though it's made of steel, and much better than the new and improved XR3-RED grip that debuted about the same time my folks debuted me (not yesterday).  The grip panels are that familiar checkered pattern, with the iconic Ruger Eagle molded in.

If you put new and old Ruger Vaqueros side by side you might notice a redesigned hammer that has a slightly longer swept back shape, with noticeable serrations, making for easy cocking. The action is flat-out smooth, the trigger pull s as crisp as a Western morning, at just a tad less than 3 and a half pounds out of the box. The trigger, being Ruger, is further forward and wider than other revolvers I've shot to compare it with, such as a Colt SAA in .45 and a Cimarron Mod P., BP frame, in .357

The ejector rod button has also had a little tweak, more of a crescent shape than a round shape. It's easy on the hand and the eye, with the ejector rod housing made out of steel, just like the grip frame.

Sights - There's not a difference this untrained eye can see between the old and new versions, consisting of a squared notch rear and a rounded front sight, unlike the Blackhawk, which has an adjustable sight. I like the fixed sight though, good for intuitive shooting and you learn to shoot well by compensating for your aim.

You can always ruin a good gunfight at the corral with a lawyer.  But there are a number of states requiring firearms to have certain "safety" devices. Ruger has incorporated a key-activated action lock into the new Vaquero. I won't even get started on why I don't think those are necessary for a lot of responsible firearm owners, but at least it's designed so it's fairly discreet and doesn't clunk up the lines or frames of this firearm as many of them do (some of them being the equivalent of installing a cow catcher on a Triumph Spitfire) .

The lock itself is hidden beneath the grip panels with the key having a built-in screwdriver to remove said right grip panel. Once the panel is off, the key is used, well,  like a key.  (If you need instructions on using a key you are probably one of the folks the lawyers think own firearms). Insert, rotate to lock. Use it or ignore it, as necessary.  The keys that come with it look like handcuff keys, though a handcuff key won't work in it (not that I tried that or anything).

Ruger has instructions for drilling a small hole in the right-hand grip panel to access the lock without removing the grip panel, going as far as casting a little dimple on the inside surface or that panel so you know where to drill. I cringe at the thought of drilling into any piece, but unless Lorelei the Lab grows opposable thumbs I'm not too worried about it. 

Wait!  I forgot to adjust for windage!

One actual useful safety feature is that the New Vaquero still has Ruger's transfer bar safety that allows the gun to be safely carried with a full half dozen rounds in the cylinder. This makes a very nice personal defense weapon for that campsite or shop or workbench if you are ready to pony up and replace that 9 mm water gun for one shot stopping.

Ammo - You need to look for .357 Magnum .357 Mag and .38 SPL.  If you reload, you might wish to avoid those directions that say "Ruger Only" in the handloading manual. The cylinder walls of the New Vaquero are a bit thinner than those on the Original Vaquero's and .45 Blackhawks (though they are tougher than those on the Colt SAA) and a heavy load like the +P .45 Colt loads might be a bit much. (they are fine with loads to SAAMI specs). If in doubt, check with the maker of the ammunition in regarding suitability for the New Vaquero (I'd recommend calling Ruger, but not all manufacturers have a tech rep available, you're more likely going to get someone that will read the manual to you, and I can do that). If  I've got a gun like this with me for self-defense (shop, woods, etc) my loads are GDHP .38 spl. +P with 19 158 gr. 357 Hydra-Shok as a backup.

I'm not sure if it's part of the overall redesign of the chambers, but they seem to align better with the loading gate for easy loading and unloading of the cylinder (come on, you've all had that six-gun that when you rotate it till it clicks it's actually gone too far and have to rotate the thing completely around again to align the chamber with the reloading gate, all while the bad guy targets are snickering at you). With a cylinder index button that's spring-loaded and a retracting cylinder hand, the New Vaquero chambers are like the old pre '73 Rugers.

Bonus Points for Pointability.  Accuracy is excellent, not all owing to this shooter, but a combination of weight, grip, and chamber throats that allow the bullets to seat easily but snugly. With the longer barrel, it balances well, and to me, is steadier to aim, than the shorter barrels.  Recoil is minimal, even if you don't consider the .357 loads. With varying loads, you are still going to get a good point of aim grouping at 25 yards all day long unless you are using really lightly loaded bullets, which aren't going to do that well in any revolver anyway.  With a good load, your bullets are going to bitch slap one another for the same target hole even if you're not an expert shooter.

I love the Blackhawk, the big tough boy that it is and I  found the original Vaquero a pleasure to fire.  But if you want a slightly smaller, lighter, and easily affordable revolver for fast and accurate cowboy action shooting, or simply taking with you to the garage late one night for a cowboy action Lucas Wiring project, this New Vaquero is for you.

That's A Spicy Meatball

Any of you over the age of 60 will remember that old commercial.  But how about a spicy meatball that won't sit like lead in your stomach.  The secret is using an air fryer instead of frying the meat first in oil.

Two 28-ounce cans peeled Italian tomatoes, crushed

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Salt and freshly ground pepper

4 slices of white sandwich bread  (I used an Italian sandwich bread from a local bakery)

4 large eggs, beaten 

3 garlic cloves, minced

1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 teaspoon minced marjoram

½ tsp. ground allspice

2 pounds ground beef 

1/2 cup dried currants (yes that’s right)

1/4 cup pine nuts

1/4 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

1/4 cup plain dry bread crumbs

Additional Cheese for Melting on top (I used a blend of Mozzarella and Fontina) if desired

Directions

Pour the tomatoes into a large enameled cast-iron casserole and crush them. Add the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a bowl, soak the bread in a bit of water until saturated. Squeeze out the water and transfer the bread to a large bowl. Mash the bread to a paste and stir in the eggs, garlic, parsley, marjoram, allspice, 1 teaspoon salt (I used reduced sodium Himalayan pink salt), and 1/2 teaspoon of pepper. Mash until smooth. Add the chuck, currants, pine nuts, and  Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and mix until combined. Add the bread crumbs, 1 tablespoon at a time, and knead JUST until the mixture is firm enough to form. Shape the mixture into 16 meatballs, tucking in the currants and pine nuts.

Preheat air fryer to 400°F.

Place meatballs in a single layer in the air fryer. Turn air fryer down to 380°F.

Cook meatballs for 10-12 minutes or until lightly browned and the center of the meatball reaches 165°F. Add to the sauce, simmer for at least 15 minutes and add additional cheese and parsley on top if desired to serve. 

Note: Air Fryers can vary slightly, check your meatballs a couple of minutes early to ensure they don't overcook. The meatballs should be 165°F in the center.

You can also pan-fry in olive oil until done, but this was much healthier.

Lessons on Loss

This story appeared in the 2020 Anthology:  Writer's Shed Stories - Love and Sacrifice compiled and edited by Award-Winning Author David W. Berner. My only brother was a Vietnam War Veteran who died of a sudden, aggressive cancer when he was in his 50s.

Lessons on Loss.  

Five years ago on this date, he left me without saying goodbye.

I had just been out to visit him.  My brother Roger Allen had moved in with our elderly Dad some months ago.  The doctors told my brother he was in remission from his cancer last fall, he said, for how long, we did not know. He had lost his job and with money being tight he rented his home to one of his children and moved in with our father. It was a good move though, for Dad, relieving us of the expense of a part-time home health provider, as Dad couldn't live on his own at age 94, even as he still refused to live with a family that would welcome him.  He's outlived two children and two wives and said he would only leave his home when he ceased to breathe.

I visited their home out in Washington State as often as I could, flying out from Chicago, using both vacation and sick time, there to provide for their care. There was always a lot to do, meals to prepare and freeze, cleaning, flowerbeds and gutters, and the stocking of supplies. We made no trips but for short drives, his planning such overnight outings with the grandkids for when I was away, but it was OK, those dinners with just he and my brother and I. Roger and I could do things he needed to be done, and he seemed to like just having the time with just the two of us, sharing the memories of that home when Mom was still there. Between us we got Dad's bills paid, the budget drawn up, and taxes completed, even if we ended up finishing it over the phone.

And we talked, late into the nights, sipping a finger of whiskey, the sound of the wind chimes he crafted as a hobby tinkling from outside.  We did not talk of his days under the ocean as a Submariner or my days aloft as an airline pilot.  He talked about how much he missed our Mom and how he hoped Dad would live to be 100. He talked until his eyes closed, only his labored breath letting me know he was still with me, watching the rise and fall of his chest as if he were trying to push up from the waters of the sea, unfathomed flesh still so buoyant if only in spirit as the cold water of fate lapped against him.  But in his silence, there were things he failed to tell me.

My brother had concealed a secret. His cancer had returned and was at stage 4.  It was a death sentence he didn't wish to burden us with as there was no cure, just perhaps, a delay of the inevitable for a few weeks with a second round of chemo. He chose to let the disease run its course, staying silent in his suffering, living his last days on his own terms in the family home, not in a hospital bed.

I understand now, in retrospect, knowing him as I do, yet, I do wish he'd been able to share his burden with me.

But had I been able to talk to him one last time, I wouldn't have asked him about doctors or insurance care, where Dad's banking info was, what Dad did with the phone and cable bills, or even where the spare keys were. I would have simply told him I loved him, and how much he meant to me, one more time.  But we never knew our last words would be just that. Our last words are often not said, our lives always coming up short for those measured statements which through all of our brief utterances were our lone and enduring hope. There is never enough time for those last words, of love, of faith, of fear or regret.

The words not said hung in the air the days after he suddenly collapsed, dying before I could get a flight out from Chicago, no time to say goodbye. They were days that seemed like a lifetime, and yet seemed like only moments, perhaps because I don't know if I ever really slept in that time, or if, for a moment, time itself shifted, holding me down at the moment, as G-forces did long ago in my days as a jet pilot in an aircraft in a steeply banked turn.  Time held still for me, but for my brother, it had overtaken him and moved ahead. All of his things, placed into Dad's house, now to be moved again, to charity, to our homes, to our hearts, Navy medals and coins, and books and I probably don't want to know why he had a loaded flare gun hidden in a drawer in a nightstand. There were laughter and tears, there were so many pictures, of early days, and the freckled face of fatigue, memories of a strong, reliable man, and the simple kind of man that is the cornerstone of great reputation, even if the world at large would not observe his passing with tears or trumpets.

There was such much to do, to organize, to communicate, so many people stopping at the house to pay their respects.  There were school friends, my brother’s best friend, who came to the service even though he lost his mother the day prior, high school friends, Submariner friends, and several of the men he had worked with after retiring from the Navy. Then, before I knew it, a service, a eulogy I remember writing, but could not utter, the minister reading it instead of his own message, there as the flowers on the alter drooped towards him, as if listening.  There were words, of remembrance, words that will give us a sense of what meaning can be gained from pain and suffering, death and eternal life. Things some of us ignored for years, then, in a moment of self-awareness, truly hit home.

It hit home for me when I looked out the window of the little memorial structure where he would receive his military honors before internment and saw the military uniforms outside, just before raising their guns to the skies.  I heard the guns before they were ever fired, not as sound, but as a tremor that passed over my body the way you will see a flag unfurl, before even the wind that moves it is felt.

We often go through life with our eyes half shut, brain functioning well at idle, senses dormant, getting through our days on autopilot.  For many, this sort of life is comforting, welcoming.  Then for some, not the incalculable majority, but many of us, there is a moment, a flash, when in a moment we truly know all that we've had, held there in the moment of its loss.

All that week it had rained, never really ceasing only diminishing to a gentle mist now and again.  Yet as we arrived at that place, where guns would be raised, and taps would be played, the clouds moved aside as if paying their own respects.  The rain stopped as we pulled into the gates, and when we gathered, the sun came out.  As the officers stood at salute, all was silent, no rain, no wind, only stillness, the sunlight on the pooled water, now sleeping.

The guns fired their salute; taps were played, as the Chaplain said one final prayer.  Then one by one, hands were placed on a stone urn, one final goodbye that we could not bear to end, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter isolation of this hilltop in which valor is laid to rest.

The moment I drew away, warm hand from cold stone, walking outside and the skies opened up again with heavy rain.  It was as if the heavens themselves wept, the rain enfolding us all the way home, mingling with our own tears. My hands clutched the three empty rounds that had been placed there, holding them so tight my nails dug into my flesh, not wanting to ever let them go.

Since that day, I have returned many a time to that hill, to the comfort of his ground, where the final stone is placed, to remember, the memorial being but the echo to his sound.

All around, I see the dead; in the small memorial at the spot in my hometown where two trains once collided, in a sign erected in the memory of a local killed in a long-ago war. There's the little cross by the side of the road on my way home from work where another young soul left us. How important are these undistinguished little memorials. Every death is a memory that ends here, yet continues on, life flowing on, sustained by love and hope. Such is our lesson on loss.

How thankful we are for these memorials, for the spirit smoke of memory that stays with us after the candle has been extinguished.  As I heard the taps, I realized that they signified distance, heard there in that first echo. The dead were far away but they would not become silent in our minds. When the final taps were played, I no longer heard the echo, but I will always remember it, for the memory helps us hold on. After a while, even that echo is enough.

On Strategy

Partner in Grime had a business trip to South Africa and came back with this chessboard which is really cool.  So for today, just some photos and quotes as the last couple of work days were long and busy.

"Firmness cannot show itself, of course, if a man keeps changing his mind."  It demands sticking to one's convictions. - Clauswitz , On War

"Time . . . is less likely to bring favor to the victor than to the vanquished. . . An offensive war requires above all a quick, irresistible decision. . . .  Any kind of interruption, pause, or suspension of activity is inconsistent with the nature of offensive war." - Clauswitz, On War

“Rouse him, and learn the principle of his activity or inactivity. Force him to reveal himself, so as to find out his vulnerable spots.”  - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”  - Napoleon

Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other and greater ones invariably slink in after it.”  - Baltasar Gracian, The Art of Worldly Wisdom

“I need you to be clever, Bean. I need you to think of solutions to problems we haven't seen yet. I want you to try things that no one has ever tried because they're absolutely stupid.”  - Orson Scott Card, Enders Game

“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”  - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

“In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”  - Dwight D. Eisenhower