My parents are of an uncomfortable age where their friends keep disappearing. Today they lost three.
One lady of song-like voice whose husband was among a circle of my mom’s beaus before she choose Dad, and who loaned Mom her wedding dress so that Mom would have something to wear at her own wedding: “Something borrowed…”
Another man was an old Southern Pacific railroad guy, who I met on a trip south down the Coast, and who sent us care-packages long ago while in India as a kid.
UPDATE: News to me: Bob in the Army: since being a Southern Pacific railroad-guy (how??) the Army sent him up with trains from India up into Burma, to fight the Japanese. When(ever) they took fire/made contact with the Japs, all the Indians and locals bailed out, and he had to “activate” the “U.S. Civilian Advisors” to run the machine… That group from Grace Baptist sent us care packages that I still remember because the boxes were hand-stitched all-around with a sheet, and covered in sealing-wax emblems, in order that they not be broken and stolen buy the Indian P.O. So that’s how I got my Christmas Gi-Joe from Grandpa.
Third was an old friend from Seminary days, with whom my Folks stayed-with at their house in Hawaii.
One day, all gone. The Greatest Generation is fast disappearing…
I would give Mom a hug, but I’m up here now. Also they had many-many more friends than I have, so my prospects look bleak even if you take the long-view. *sigh*
Quick UPDATE: The good thing is that minor guilt off this kind works, or call it sympathy – so I called Mom & Dad to give a virtual hug, and all they wanted to do was talk a mile-a-minute about other things. They are so full of positive mental energy and spirit I can’t even keep up. So fine.
SAD Update: My parent dead friends outnumber my live ones. I better get to work!
The 6″ 1970 Model 19-3 is a sweet chunk of shootin’ iron.
There’s a bit of muzzle wear from the old clam-shell holster (too bad it didn’t come with it), so I even have a holster already to add s’more, an older (naturally) but good condition Bianchi 5BH.
Now I’m looking for ammo, which is plentiful.
UPDATE: Plentiful but plenty expensive. Found some 158gr Hydrashoks and a bunch of JSP’s – looking for heqavy-weight bullets not 110gr. flyweights that go high – I want the gun to shoot to point-of-aim and not have to re-regulate it for flyswatter loads. I want Practice to be spent on trigger-work and cylinder manupulations, not chasing a zero…
Meanwhile it’s 98° outside, and to stave off potential Malaria I am back inside experimenting with Hendrick’s gin and some $pecialty “Premium India Tonic Water.” Love the quinine…
The ranch is a bit noisy at night – and during the day. Taking a nap in the afternoon one can be awoken by various cracks and groans – but the groan is usually a HVAC precursor. Then vroom-woosh as the cold air floats down. I’m thinking the previous owner, during his upgrades and contractor-work might have kept things wrapped a bit too tight. The charming wood floors, beautiful distressed hickory planks that go from one end of the house to the other, might be lacking a bit of float, and as evening arrives and the temperatures cool they release tension accompanied by various snaps and pops. Sometimes the noise sounds like it’s right next to you, sometimes its up in the ceiling. Maybe a bit of work on the attic furnace was a cross-brace that was pounded-in and lagged-down real tight that finally relaxes in the cool with a cracking sound.
Anyhow I have a list of to-do’s based on the Inspection Report and one involves going up into the attic-crawlspace and doing a bit of flooring so that the furnace has a 20-inch work/inspection-space to stand upon. But for now it’s not happening because when it’s 100-degrees outside the attic is close to 160-degreees – but only feels like 1,000.
Sometimes I awake with a start because it’s loud and nearby – but nobody is there. Anyhow, it also reminds me of the Japanese castle that we visited on our way going-overseas as a kid. Nijo Castle in Kyoto was erected in 1603 by Tokugawa Ieyasu, and it has “Nightingale floors.” The wood planks are purposely built to chirp when walked-upon. It did back then and they still do it today. A whole long hallway full of silent Ninjas would have sounded like a loud flock of birds. There was/is absolutely no way to pass along it silently, and intruders would meet their fate. For medieval gothic castles that’s pretty cool.
So I feel confident that there’s nobody else here, and I get up in the night and hear only my own footsteps as re creaking and chirping I walk out to the open-space living room-kitchen in the dark. If someone else were here you could hear them breathing anyhow, since the shiny wood floorboards reflect sound well. The big downside is you can also see each and every dust-bunny quite clearly too, so the Miele vac get’s a workout. I don’t even bother to put it in the closet.
I tried to relax with a beer and watch the Washougal National, and succeeded. The mud reminded me of racing enduros, the speed reminded me of not-me. But it looked like fun and that was a relief and set a bunch of positive-thoughts in action. With the temps set to soar into the mid 100’s all next week, the wet and damp looked very foreign and European.
The fire on 50 up at Kyburz? Evacuations lifted, 30-percent contained with only 200-acres burnt, and the road is back open – metered at Sly Park Road and escorted through the fire area. Thank God.
And an old friend and wife are going to make their escape from the South-BayAryans and get up here to CCW-land and Free-California. They made an offer on a small house that was accepted, at a price they could afford – twenty minutes up the back-road. We used to ride together and crash our brains out, on street and dirt, and point and laugh. His injuries have caught up with him and he’s not riding anymore: bum rotator-cuff, multiple surgeries, maybe another. It will be good to have a buddy nearby and they are happy to escape the toxic environment. Maybe I can trick him into taking the Mighty KTM for a lap around the prairielands..
Meh. The camel is not moving today. The perpetual motion machine grinds to a halt.
The brief pause in fix-it activity was a blessing. There is a reason to keep one day Holy and absent of work, so that the suffering is not prolonged unalterably. But we needed to get the closet finished and the door-stops done – and we did. The DeWalt screw-gun is a blessing, and so is the hammer-torque driver. And so is the battery-operated skill-saw.
Meanwhile I received a letter from my Old Friend and mentor who hired me for the first Real Job that I had, one with some responsibility and one that proved I could do it. He taught me to drink single-malt Scotch neat, and always had hair-raising stories – like when he was Stage Manager for the Rolling Stones “Sticky-Fingers” West-Coast Tour and had to provide Security for the mis-managed event at some Arizona University arena full of College Kids who were clueless… He had a stroke several years back and went from lopsided shuffling, to walking with a cane, to full wheel-chair invalidity. While I was between-jobs (on one of those many occasions), I acted as his butler – or something. He is a man with a precise and photographic memory, and the stroke had no effect on that or his speech, but the physical debilitation has had an un-happy cascading effect. On my calendar was a birthday reminder, and so I sent him a belated Birthday card/thank-you for taking a chance on me, the weird-kid all those years ago. He and his wife were close friends through my Theater years, and my girlfriend/now-wife attended many annual summertime Croquet-Tournaments/drinking-party that they hosted with other friends from that Theater Tribe. In later years and following a different career trajectory, and after his illness we were not as frequent visitors. But it was good to hear from them, very good, and they were both pleased to hear from me/us.
That’s it for now, partly. I picked up some nice actual-wood wooden screen doors that I will fit, they will allow for a cross-breeze and keep bugs-out on days when it’s not too hot and the A/C isn’t cranking. Oh-and the “lawn” -the one that’s decorative – not the wide expanse of Prairie – on the other side of the Ranch, needs mowing. And weeding.
I surfed via Instapundit to Sonny Bunch’s blog Everything’s a Problem to be inundated by a heretofore unbelievable level of SJW Twitter smug, trigger-warnings, and noxious toxicity. It’s beyond snark. And it amazes me to the core of my soul that there is such a primitive level of college-homestay Political Correctness and Thoughtcrime Code-Enforcement going on out there in the ether.
It’s hysterical in the sense that hysteria is a mental disorder. But sheesh.
On display for all to see un-ironically are The SJW Culture-Warrior Gestapo, knee-jerking as they goose-step to the big field decorated with the rainbow banners of Joylessness, and gather in Nürnberg-cyberspace to enjoy a little Three-Minute Hate.
No wonder I don’t Facebook.
So… After yesterday plunking a chunk down on the ’70 Smith Model-19 and buying some WallyWorld .357 loads (and a plastic Plano “can” of its own), I awoke and went on-line, and saw on the Gun-Club Calendar that there was a “Tea Party Shoot!” 9:00AM – 12:00PM – and FINALLY got my sh*t together.
Being a revolver-happy guy at the moment, I packed the ammo for the two big revolvers – each in its own can of .45 Colt, and .44-40 WCF – and drove out to the range. Just eight minutes and four miles from garage-to-gate. Seriously I’ve never had it this good.
The folks were very pleasant and the atmosphere casual and firm but not overbearing. As long as you exhibit proper procedure and protocol, and ESPECIALLY MUZZLE DISCIPLINE, everything is smooth – BUT people with too much attitude and too-casual regard for safety get moved on real quick.
I shot the Colt M1909 for familiarity first. Not knowing what to expect of the Ruger .44-40 I wanted a baseline. And so I shot low and to the left and a couple flyers off the black – Doh! Another cylinder rectified that, then the Colt and its ammo went away, and .44-40 came out — and after shooting .45Colt loads (and not Cowboy loads) it was like shooting a slightly hot .38 Special. What a fun gun! Except for unloading. The SAA ejector rod that pushes-out cases is uncomfortable close to the muzzle and that was just weird. Also the loading process feels a bit stilted and formal – but I suppose that’s a good thing. So I went trading back and forth every couple cylinders – only one caliber at a time on-station – and had some fun. The SAA is a trip, but thumbing back the hammer with the support hand is very fast. Woot!
From OldNFO’s site: There is a We the People petition now online HERE to get rid of the stupid directive put in place by Bill Clinton in 1992 that prevents the military from protecting themselves…
When she’s right, she’s right: The eight ball says… buy! It’s not a Colt but a Model 19-3 Smith. My copy of the Standard Catalog of Smith and Wesson indicates the SN# dates to/from 1970, when the first owner entered the Police Academy. It’s got a 6″ barrel with some holster-wear (from a clam-shell holster, look it up) and it’s a recoil soak with the right loads. I like N-frames for that reason. .357 Mag in a K-frame is like playing first-base bare-handed. No thanks.
Interesting article in a recent Gunzmag about heavy-for-caliber but slow bullets doing the job on bear-skulls better than out-and-out high-velocity. Proposed theory being that the speed robs the bullet of its strength, so it tends to shatter on impact instead of driving through. So we’ll try some heavy and slow bullets in this for home-defense use. Now I need a holster and some speed-loaders.