Ray.

The week before last, on Monday, the Tribe started blowing up my phone. I got the word that Ray Carter, AKA Gay Cynic (of Northwestern Free Thinker), had been sent home from the hospital for hospice care. He was given about two weeks to live. I called Ray, and told him that I was coming on the weekend. He said that he looked forward to it. He seemed in good spirits. We texted and emailed through Wednesday, but I had to work on Wednesday and Thursday, and was so busy, I wasn't even getting by enough to see my father in a rehab hospital, where he was mending from an infection in his ankle. (And still is.)

I flew up to Seattle on Friday, 27 May. I arrived tired and with a headache, and checked into my room as quickly as I could, and sent Ray texts to let me know when he was ready to receive a visitor. After a few hours, I sent some to his mother, but got no response. Finally I called her, left a message, and was called back: "He's not doing well. He took a turn yesterday, and he's not really able to receive visitors just now." I told her that I didn't want to be a burden, but that I would come over in the morning, after calling ahead.

The next morning, I called, and Ray's mother said that he wasn't doing well, but maybe a visitor would help. I arrived at his house on a lovely street, full of flowers, at about 8:30AM. I was let in, and waited in his room to meet Ray. I met his brother Tim, who was very nice. When Ray came into his room where I waited, he was lethargic from the OxyContin and Oxycodone that he was receiving to ease the pains from end-stage liver failure. But he was there. We talked as he lay in his bed. He swung his feet off the bed and said, "Let's go." He wanted to sit in the living room.

Under an afghan on the couch, Ray fielded all kinds of questions that I had about his early life. I've known this guy for over 7 years, and I really didn't know his origins. He had wanted to be a police officer, but felt that a gay cop at that time (the early '80s) would never receive backup. He had worked as a night security guard at a college, and as a dispatcher. He had been an office worker. He had sold electric cars and bikes. He had worked for the Second Amendment Foundation. Throughout the talk, his mother and brother filled in what Ray couldn't say. Ray fell asleep often, and then grew cold and had to go to bed.

I excused myself, and got lunch, and spent a couple of hours at the Pike's Market. I bought fruit from a stand where the vendors used sharp knives to hand slices of peaches to passers-by. Some years ago, Ray had led my family though the market, and an attractive Asian gent handed each of us slices of peach. He was probably about 21. My then-14 1/2-year-old daughter was grinning and blushing as she accepted the peach, obviously quite taken with the looks of this guy. I then realized that behind her, Ray had a very similar expression as he stood back a bit to appraise the bounty of the fruit stand, before accepting his own complimentary slice. I laughed at the memory of this.

I didn't find the coffee shop where I had gone with Ray down on the Market, some years back. He had to use the restroom, and since I was in line, he handed me a $10 and asked me to order for him what in my family has come to be known as the "Ray Carter Special." It's an accomplishment when an order for a drink can make a downtown Seattle barista's eyes widen, but apparently asking for 8 shots of espresso over ice in a to-go cup will do just that.  I did find a nice coffee shop in the Moore Hotel, and ordered a latte, which came to me with coffee art on it.

I went back to Ray's house a little bit depressed. It is a lonely thing, to go alone to a place where you had enjoyed yourself with family and friends.

Ray looked better. He was awake and sitting up on the couch. A new crocheted afghan was laying across his lap, sent by our friend Bonnie. He liked the flowers that I had brought from the Market. His sister-in-law and niece were there, too. We talked some more. He sat on his recently-delivered hospital bed.. He fell asleep. I talked into the night with his brother and mother, and then went to the motel.  The family wanted to know about Blogorado-- they said that Ray always lit up when he talked about it, and looked forward to it, year 'round. I knew that they weren't of my political bent, but it was important to me that they know that this was a group of people from different walks of life who loved each other as a chosen family.

In the morning, I bought a cup of coffee from a bikini coffee hut, and went back to Ray's house. I was met at the door by his brother Tim, who told me that Ray had passed away in the morning at about 3:30 AM. I was fine, and entered, and said nothing, and then realized that I had owed Ray a lot of hugs sent by friends, which I hadn't really given him. In our group, no one gets away without a hug, but that's for leaving, or maybe initial greeting. I'd sat in bed with Ray, and held his hand, and gripped his arm, but I hadn't wrapped him up. I started to mention this to his family, and for some reason my voice cracked.

My friend Zercool had sent me an email that he had tried to send to Ray, and had asked me to read it to him when I could. I had failed there, too. So I read him what Zercool had sent me to say to him. I didn't do well. In fact, I blubbered a bit. But I got the words out over Ray's remains.

I hugged his family and left to SEATAC, playing Grateful Dead's "Box Of Rain" on the rental car stereo from my iPhone. I'm not a Grateful Dead fan, but this song spoke to me, as it was written by one of their band members, for his father who was on his deathbed. I played it on repeat, and sniveled a bit as I drove through the softly-falling Seattle rain. And then I came back home to north Texas.

Ray Carter was a good man, who cared more about family and friends than anything. He was a man with eternal optimism, who went by the moniker of "Gay Cynic." We are all --even his political adversaries-- diminished by his passing. I'm glad that I got to see him one last time.

Blogorado... 7? I think???

I went up to Colorado on Thursday, and came back on Monday. I had a great time.


My wife, who did not go, thinks that all we did was talk guns and shoot guns and be manly men, or something.


She doesn't realize that I participate in more hugs in that weekend than I do for the rest of the year.


I ate well. I communed with friends, old and new.


I enjoyed watching my friends' successes, and joked with them about their insubstantial failures.


Yeah, we shot at dynamite, and we shot a bowling ball mortar, and we blew up a car and a kitchen appliance. But mostly, it was about The Exchange.


Farewell, my tribe. Until next we meet.

Blogorado the ?th I've lost track. (6th, I think.)

I didn't have much time this trip, so I raced northwest, visited, and then raced back. There just wasn't enough time. But I was honored to be able to ferry a friend who otherwise wouldn't have been able to make it.
I roomed again with my great friend Ambulance Driver. There are a few people in this world that become one of your best friends the first time you meet them. One for me was my old patrol partner, P. Another is Ambulance Driver.
I didn't get enough time to shoot. And that what I shot wasn't great. I kept getting distracted from what I was going to do. I didn't spend anywhere nearly enough time with my good friend Gay Cynic.


I didn't spend anywhere NEARLY enough time with my gracious hosts, Farm Mom, Farm Dad, and Farm Girl. I got in some good breakfast time with Tam and the Nerds.


I didn't hang out much with my Dad and his wife, because we see each other all the time. PhlegmFatale I got to chat with a fair bit. AEPilot bought me a lovely hat. And he provided a LOT of food. Thanks, man!


Old NFO took Spear and Gunsmith Jason to shoot on Sunday morning, but didn't invite me. He sends me good coffee, but he doesn't invite me for the early morning rifle frivolity. Hm. I made coffee at the range again. Because dammit, I like a little coffee at the range.


DanielS arrived with his lovely wife, who was a maven of the open range, cooking burgers.


And others. We had a good time. We'll do it again, I hope.


Then, there was ChristinaLMT and SciFi and SciFi Wife and... I'm missing people.

Don't make assumptions.

I'm not saying "Get Off My Side!", but I'm damned close to it.

I went to the NRA Annual Meeting in Indianapolis, a week and a half ago. It was a great time. I met lots of friends, old and new, and wished that I had showed up earlier, and could stay later.

While there, I saw some news media types on the sidewalk, and about halfway hoped that they would ask me for a quote. Of course they didn't, and probably wouldn't have even if I had not been wearing media credentials.

What I would have said was, "70 to 80 thousand NRA exhibitors and attendees have come to town. Most of us are armed. And come Monday morning, if you're honest, the lede for your story will be '70k Armed People Invade Indianapolis: Nothing Happened.'"

I skipped the political speeches. I barely even watched them on the live CCTV feed in the media center.

Then I saw some politico talking about ObamaCare at the NRA Annual Meeting, I question what he's doing there.  Is he likely to find a welcome ear to such discussion? Sure! But he was crossing the streams. Why should I be beleaguered if I wasn't on board with that?

"They're winning!" declared a political candidate, declaring that we are, despite our advances in the Supreme Court to recognize the 2nd Amendment as an individual right, despite the advances of more and more states expanding rights to concealed carry or even open carry, are basically losing the battle for our rights to be armed.   (By flying with a pistol to Indianapolis, it had cost me precisely one extra minute, to open my suitcase, open my locked gun case, show unloaded, and pitch in my personal ownership card to the case. One minute.)

Then another political candidate came up and gave his stump speech. And another. And another. Sarah Palin came on, and I heard the occasional odd silly catchphrase from her, but ignored her. I heard some talk about the Democrats and the progressives.

I bumped into Tam, and she showed me the text that she had just gotten from Caleb: "Sarah Palin just said 'waterboarding is how we baptize terrorists' word for word."  Don Gwinn was there with me, and we gave forth the stereophonic sound of simultaneously striking our palms against own foreheads.

What if I don't believe in torturing people?
What if I don't go in for any type of baptism?
What if I don't have anything against progressivism, but do want to advance the cause of the Second Amendment?

I didn't get as much time as I'd like to hang out with a fierce proponent of the 2nd Amendment who is gay. I'm sure that lots of pro-2A people there don't approve of his "lifestyle," but that's a red herring; he's on their team. I didn't get to have a drink with Ken Blanchard, one of "those people"* from Detroit, like I did at the 2012 Annual Meeting in St. Louis. I shook hands with a renown gunwriter who has, tongue in cheek, taken on the nickname of "The Camelback Kid" for cowboy action shooting. I spent some time in the company of person who exhibited phenotypical male characteristics, but preferred the female pronoun.

What if these don't meet with your idea of who ought to be there?

Tough. They're on our side. So stick to the issue at hand.

You may just find that this is a theme of mine: Don't Cubbyhole Me.

I am not a peg; quit trying to make me fit in the shape hole of your choosing.

I don't care about RINOs at the NRA convention. You know why? Because it's not Republican convention.

When you mix your other politics into this issue, we end up with people making assumptions about the lot of us, and making ad hominem attacks on speakers with otherwise really good points about our liberties.

Feel free to talk about your issues elsewhere, but at this convention, you're confusing the issues, and being divisive, by trying to be OVERLY inclusive in too narrow a world view.

My name is Matt G, and I was there to talk about guns. Period.


_______________
*He's not gay; he's black.

Epic weekend.

This past weekend was my three-day weekend off.

On Friday evening, Scott, my best friend of 29 years, called me and said that he and his parents and kids were having dinner and seeing movies nearby. I hopped in the car and met them at the cinema to see Act Of Valor, which I had it on good authority was worth seeing. It was. I found that the reaction to the movie by the packed theatre was almost identical to what Tamara observed: no one moved for 5 - 10 seconds after the lights came up, and what slight voices were heard were very hushed, as about 300 people (?) left. Something about a dead warrior's best friend telling the dead man's son about his father's outlook on life, and quoting Tecumsah to him, that hits you (well, me, anyway) right in the middle.

I won't reprint those strong words here. I suggest that you read them all (just three short paragraphs), because there is iron and tenderness in the admonition there.

Scott and I went with the kids for ice cream afterward, and who doesn't like to watch kids enjoy ice cream? I ask you.

On Saturday, after fire training, I dropped by my shift partner's house to drop something off. He had out cases of quality Belgian, American, and German beers, and entreated me to try a sample, with his old roommate. Never one to insult a gracious host, I had a sample. He pushed another into my fist. I explained that I had to drive home. Nonsense, he argued. His bride would be happy to do so. She smiled and said that she would be glad to do it. I looked at her face, and saw the love of a good woman spouse for her life partner. She really wanted me to stay, because it gave her pleasure to see her husband happy. We ordered pizza a spiced mussels from a local Italian place, and commenced to enjoying great beer, and better stories around the kitchen table.  My shift partner's friend had some great ones about his time in the Navy, and he appreciates good beer like I do. Before long, my partner and I were conducting SFST's on each other, and laughing about the outcome. It was all very silly, I assure you.

It was 3:00am when his wife dropped me off at my house. I had dropped by their place at about 6:00pm. 

I woke up on Sunday feeling great. Seriously. I haven't had a "choir meeting" like the one on Saturday night in years and years, yet I felt as right as rain.

And I was late. Dad wanted to go see a matinee with me. We picked up my car, and went to luncheon on Mexican food, and went to see Act Of Valor again. I watched for tactical techniques. Word is that a lot of the scenes were shot with live ammo. The operators were for-real operators. Many of the scenes were shot with Canon SLR digital cameras, from first-person perspectives, so that you see what the operator sees. I thought it a shame that the director had the guys in low-light using IR goggles but red-dot lasers, when he could have shown the IR beams that they all had on their M4s, through their goggles. But that was a very small criticism. I almost never see movies twice. This one was worth it.

I thanked my wife and my partner's wife for making Saturday night possible. Understanding spouses make a huge difference.

I'm about to go to work, and I'm looking forward to it. Such is what a good weekend can do for you.

Ear Worm: CURSE YOU, PHLEGMMY!!!

Y'all might not know this, but the esteemed Phlegm Fatale has some vocal training. And you thought that she just studied punning.

The songs that stick in her head get sung, say, around the campfire at a certain southwestern blogmeet, and then, ta-dah!, it's stuck in your head, too.
__________________

This weekend has been work for me, but the good kind of work that I signed up for. I broke a felony case, and performed a LOT of interviews, and got confessions, and recovered stolen goods, and wrote case reports and probable cause affidavits, and catalogued evidence. Today, I was supposed to be off to go to the fair with my family (we went, but later in the day), but I had to drop off evidence at the lab, pick up warrants (the judge complimented me on my PC affidavits), and drop the warrants off with our dispatch department to input into the system.

While not in regular uniform, I was wearing a decent khaki twill shirt and slacks, with decent leather showing, and a badge, J-frame and ID completing the "investigator" outfit, as I ran these official errands. I felt pretty good about finishing up a good weekend's work, and didn't mind that I looked... well, maybe not sharp (no tie, and my creases weren't razor sharp), but pretty respectable, anyway.

So it was that, as I got out of my patrol car with a handful of warrants clutched in my fist at the sheriff's office, I noticed a woman checking me out. I wasn't smug as I noticed her eying me surreptitiously. After all, an attractive young lady such as herself was only human. How could she be expected to resist noticing... what was that sound?

It seemed to be... coming from my own mouth. What...? What could it be? I just kept listening to figure it out, even as I drew closer to the lovely lady standing, now slightly agape, next to the open door of her car in the parking lot.

"...easy 'cuz you're beautiful...." went the falsetto.  What was that? Then to my shock and horror, I heard my voice attempt the whistle, and I realized what had stuck in my head.

Because Phlegmmy had been singing it.

The hottie in the skirt hopped into her sports car and slammed the door.

I heard the door locks click.

I didn't feel as suave as I had exactly 10 seconds before.

I'll get you for this, Phlegmmy.

BR3 - personal contributions.

We had some achievements and contributions this year at Blogorado.

The Nerds LabRat and Stingray brought more beer, and in more varieties than I'd have thought. Their contribution to the event is unquantifiable, but if you wanted to try, you'd start with beer, anime, tech support before and after, trucking equipment and persons in and out, area expertise on things biological, technical, and physical, and couture.

Old NFO brought a Yukon full of aePilot, cans full of ammo, highly accurate and well-scoped rifles (My fave this year was the SCAR-17 with the ACOG), AEP's Barrett .50 BMG, and both of their densely-packed bags-o'-anecdotes, knowledge, and experience. When I grow up, I want to be Old NFO. Maybe in the meantime, I could be AEP. AEP also brought with him a disturbingly specific disdain for personal boundaries. (Ouch!) They did the major range set-up and planning, along with...

LawDog. He had just presented his ladyfriend Phlegmmy a new CircuitJudge, and wanted to have a safe place for her to shoot it. I will have to say that a great deal of planning goes on, when there are several type-A personalities, all with strong wills and valid points, planning a safe range, with the added bonus of a fall-out zone for a .50 BMG, on a drought-hardened, flat landscape. (LawDog, like me, is a TCLEOSE-certified firearms instructor. Neither one of us did much (if any) instructing, but we were all on board with regards to keeping it safe.*)

As mentioned, PhlegmFatale arrived with LawDog (or did he arrive with her?). She brought her new play-pretty. She brought her abilities as a social coordinator. (As FarmGirl is the Founder of the Blogorado social event, Phlegmmy is the event's de facto Social Secretary.) Phlegmmy also contributed a gift of a cute little wookie doll to...

Tamara. Tam had been invited for years, but the distance combined with her disdain for flying made it a bit problematic. She finally met us half-way, literally. She drove down to my house, and I drove her the rest of the way to Blogorado, after an overnight at Chez Phlegmmy's. Every time we started a trip, the wookie doll (firmly affixed to Tam's turse**) would be given a quick squeeze, and we would begin rolling with the echoing of a small Chewbaca roar. As God as my witness, Chewie was my co-pilot. Tamara also brought lots of pistol ammo, and some very neat pistols that she shot and shot and shot, very well. The rest of us shot and shot and shot her ammo, too. Tam left an M&P on her hip the entire time that she was there, unless she was sleeping, bathing, or shooting the thing. I never thought that I'd see the day...

Me. I like to think that my main contribution was wheedling Tam into coming. I brought a few guns, and some ammo, but mostly I got the 5'12" redhead gunnut BroadRiparrian to make the event. (Not that I could have gotten her to do anything that she didn't want to do, but hey, having your friends hassle you until you can't put them off has caused more than one fun get-together to occur.) I also brought some fine single-malt scotch sent by Accountant Bill.

ChristinaLMT arrived with Sci-Fi and his wife (Dang it, I know her name, but not her online moniker). Christina brought a massage chair, table, and lots of ability as a licensed massage therapist to the event. Sci-Fi and B. brought Christina and their charm. They came from Massachusetts, which means that they had the furthest to come, and had the biggest culture shock of anyone there, I think.

Evyl Robot and his lovely wife Jennifer arrived with kids in tow. The kids got to shoot a lot. E.R. brought some great holsters of his own making, some for practical purposes, and some for serious show. They also had some great Performance Center Smiths, a Winchester .22 that I'd really like to steal, and Jennifer's FN pistol. I didn't shoot the FN. It was getting rave reviews, but was giant. I was afraid that I'd fall in love with it, and then have to buy one, and a new holster, and then change my carry style, and...

Ambulance Driver brought me my bithday present, made partially by his ex-wife, and partially by his own hands: a kilt. (I thought that it paired nicely with my pith helmet and a Webley Mk IV.) Seriously, it is well-made. Ambo Driver also helped me enormously, by carting my half-a-butchered FarmFam steer home in the back of his pickup. Do I have to mention that AD brought his own Bag-O-Anecdotes, honed and rendered with Old World Craftmanship?

Salamander brought his gentle self and his kneebeards to the table. He wielded a small crossbow.

My Dad JPG brought his bride Holly with him, for the first time. He also offered to tote some of my gear home with him. (My car's small, okay?)

Spear brought a dadgummed handcannon, crafted by his own hands. It was purely awesome to shoot. He also brought some other guns that he's been tinkering with at gunsmithing school. He also brought a very nice bowler hat and a very nice bit of facial hair. He also brought another gunsmith (I promised him that I'd try to remember his name, and look at me fail).

Farmgirl arrived. She brought her new (to her) Winchester levergun in .22 WMRF. Despite the perfectly-correct-for-the-model horrible open rear sight, we all found it to be a very accurate rifle, and easy to shoot well. FarmGirl, you will recall, was the impetus for this whole wonderful gathering.

While we're on the subject of those responsible for the whole get-together, I need to mention FarmMom and FarmDad. When I arrived, FarmMom gave me a big hug (Note: hugs are actually kind of contagious at Blogorado.), and FarmDad gave me a firm handshake and told me "Welcome home." And I believe he meant it. Their contributions were everything. A safe and empty place to shoot, enormous amounts of good food for supper and lunch, a happy place for evening conversation each night, prepping the range, dragging out a DADGUMMED CAR to shoot at from about a quarter mile.... it goes on and on. They made special efforts specifically on my own behalf, too. Farm Mamaw was feeling under the weather, some, but she provided the gathering spot locale, and participated in the conversation, too. Farm Mom got me and Phlegmmy a cake, and it was lovely, and tasted good. We washed it down with coffee.

What a fine birthday weekend trip for me.

While the decompression was palpable, my PBD set in pretty firmly by noon, yesterday. This was about the time that our little caravan broke up, and Tam and Ambulance Driver simultaneously drove away from my house.
___________________
*We ended up using a basic radial pattern of shooting stations for trap, handgun, short-range rifle, and long-range rifle, with a car park and rest area in the middle.
**Tactical purse. You should see what comes out of that thing.

House Party XLIV

I turned in a request for 24 hours off this weekend, to burn some of the 400 hours of vacation and 80 hours worth of holiday time. I feel bad about having another guy work for me, but it's use it or lose it, y'know? Then too, there's the issue of where I went, and why.

Phlegmmy threw a bit of a shindig at her house for our beloved LawDog.

The food was rich and very plentiful. There was a case of Nerd Beer for LawDog (written on the side: "LawDog's! No Fraudulatin'!") And a case of Nerd Beer for the rest of us rabble.("Fraudulate all you want.")

The stories were thick and well-told. The weather, on Saturday evening, was shirt-sleeve-worthy. Christina, Vine, Old NFO, FarmGirl, Jennifer and EvylRobot, me and my wife, Phlegmmy, LawDog, Ambulance Driver, my dad and his bride, and others all chatted freely.

Old NFO (whom I cannot believe was not linked here. What the heck?!? My shame is boundless. I had him on my Favorites that I would click directly to him on my browser. Fixed.) handed me a couple of interesting pistols. There were grins when I double-checked each pistol before handling it. Apparently, this was something of a theme of the evening: EVERYONE multichecked each gun before handling. If only it were understood how common that action is among responsible gunfolk. I don't mean to say that it's absent-minded. I just mean to say that, when handed a firearm, I have the sudden urge to check the status of that gun that is as strong as the urge to pee after having a triple-iced-tea lunch.

Old NFO handed me a like-new S&W 637 that he's been talking about just flat giving me. I could not possibly accept such a generous gift without recompensing him with something, yet I couldn't afford to give him what it was worth. He kindly accepted a promise of a mere pittance from me. I later found out that Dad and Holly covered half of that! My heavens, but the generosity of the friends and family around me is amazing. Thank y'all. More on that gun in a later post.

EvylRobot brought his home-roasted coffee, which I incorrectly declared to be too darkly roasted, but which LawDog used his fancier French press to produce utterly superb coffee from. I restrained myself to only about 25 cups of that coffee. We reloaded the french press approximately 20 times during the weekend. Note to self: trust EvylRobot.

Ambulance Driver had called me earlier and asked if I wanted to go in with him on a nifty gift to LawDog: a signed first edition of Elmer Keith's hardcover book "Hell, I Was There!" I kicked in along with others (I'm sorry; I've forgotten), but this was all AD's idea.

My own meager contribution was a fair bit of good loose tea for LawDog, and some muslin bags to make teabags with on the run, and a couple of bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon for the the house, to belatedly celebrate Phlegmmy's housewarming.

As the air chilled and the hour got late, several of us retired to a very nice inn that was just two blocks away from Phlegmmy's house, and found our underpriced quarters to be very pleasant. We planned on going shooting in the morning after breakfast.

Come morning, a front had moved in. Shooting just didn't sound that fun. We broke our fast at a joint with heavy smoke coming from the barbecue pit. Note: ALWAYS choose the smoked meats at such a place. We camped at our tables until lunchtime, then moved back to the house, where we hung out into the Sunday evening. Phlegmmy fed us yet again with a very rich dish, of which I was only able to get two or three bowls* down.

I was glad to introduce my own wife to some people she had not met before, part of the tribe that I've become part of. She, ever the introvert, said little. She said she liked it.

LawDog, an introvert his ownself, was at home. He was among people that had come a fair distance to see him because they love him. He was at his home, with a lovely lady who admires and revels in him. I've seen the 'Dog stressed, and I've seen him happy. I don't think I'm speaking out of turn to suggest that he was happy, this weekend.

I hope my own 44th birthday is as good and filled with good cheer.

Happy birthday, friend.





_______________________
*Large bowls.

Blogorado II

Dad and I rolled up on Thursday evening, and joined the Farm Fam for a very pleasant round table discussion. I was suffering heavily from sleep deprivation and a bad (BAD) bout of hay fever, and fell asleep on the couch during discussions; I'm afraid I didn't contribute much.

Friday evening, however, the Roundtable Discussions On The Lawn were epic. Get a group of story-tellers together, lubricate with easy-drinking, hard-kicking Nerd Beer, and stand back!

Old NFO would have a great tale for us, and Ambulance Driver would try to top it. And Peter would give his take on a topic. The Atomic Nerds would speak up. LawDog and Phlegmmy and Gay Cynic and AE Pilot would all throw out great accounts, and all the while Oleg Volk was circling, circling, his lens lingering on one person and then another. FarmDad always had a good one to toss in, in that easy-going way that may be country, but sure ain't slow-witted.

Later came Sal and TD and the lovely Vine, and new friend Joe, all of whom fit in splendidly to the Round Table chats. We tended to group around the beer, and the discussions would sometimes form into breakout groups, with members moving easily back and forth as it pleased them, eating good food, drinking good drink, and enjoying each others' company. I know-- we all showed up to talk about guns and shoot them, and such. And we did. We shot at targets near and far, and sometimes even shot far targets with guns associated with nearer targets.

Here's JPG, for example, popping 3 gallon water jugs at ranges of 100 to 175 yards, with a 4" Colt Trooper:

(Click to embiggen. Target is the white dot at the left of the screen.)

And I rambled about some miles open country, plinking with Joe and Ambulance Driver, with the sun setting behind the only promontory for dozens of miles:
(Click to embiggen this picture, which by the way I took with my frickin' camera phone.)


We set up targets of opportunity:


And we shot at a half-sized silhouette steel target that Old NFO turned into an Easter-egg hunt, out against a rolling hillside with scattered brush.

But it was the exchange that I enjoyed the most. This is why our breakfasts always convened at 8:00AM and didn't break up until 11:00AM, and why the evening chats always went into the wee hours of the morning.

What a pleasant group of people to exchange ideas with. We missed some of you who didn't come, and invoked your names fondly and often.

I cannot express enough my appreciation for the generosity of time and resources that the Farm Family presented all of us.

When I die.

I went to a funeral.
Lord, it made me happy,
Seein' all those people
That I ain't seen
Since the last time
Somebody died.

Lyle Lovett
Joshua Judges Ruth

___________

I was driving around the local cemetery, as I do sometimes at night on patrol. I saw the graves of some strangers, some friends, some heroes, and some well-met persons that I'll never get to meet. I don't patrol the cemetery to commiserate with the dead, but to prevent that same sickening feeling I felt when, a few years back, I found the damage wrought by vandals in a cemetery, on my shift. I'd like to have a little chat with such people.

As I drove through the cemetery, I thought yet again that it's an eerie trend that has arisen lately in rural graveyards, to put solar-powered LED lamps around the grave. As you drive by, you see little lights twinkling among the stones. The twinkle is caused by the occlusion of their view, by nearer stones as I move past. I've hit my brakes more than a few times when driving by.

Don't do that to me, when I die. Just don't.
Come to think of it, I've got a little list of things that I want when I die.

--Harvest any organs that they'll take. If they want 'em, let 'em have 'em. I don't care if they want to bleach my skull to make a paper weight for the dean's office; let me be of use.

--Because I know that they won't let my body be ground up and spread over croplands like in Burgess' The Wanting Seed, I want what remains that they didn't harvest burnt. While the Viking funeral appeals, let's just simplify things and agree to throw my mortal coils into a kiln, turn the thing on High, and y'all can step out for a tall beer or four. But I insist that I be burned, and no marker be placed. I'll be damned if I'm going to be so arrogant as to take up a 4' X 7' X 6' portion of this planet, with a marker that has to be mowed around, even after my death.

--Ashes? Well, I've got places that I like, and they're known to those that know and love me. The Big Bend. Guadalupe Ntl. Park. Kit Carson Ntl. Forest. Chuck 'em out there. All at once or in piecemeal; I don't care. But they better be gone, completely, within 6 months. No hoarding remains-- that's just creepy.

--I demand a wake. I would like my favorite restaurant rented out a week after my passing, with adequate notice given to all that gave a damn about me. I want the food pre-paid, catered well, and good, with lots of flavor. If you want bland, bring your own. I want the waitstaff''s tips taken care of in advance, and lavishly. I want cases of good wine and beer present. I want bottles of good scotch and bourbon present. I want those bottles sent home with loved ones the same way bouquets sometimes go home with them from weddings and funerals. I expect that happy stories be told among my friends, and I expect that there be some laughter. While it may be turned down for the occasional toast, I expect music to be playing during my wake. Hell, dance if you want-- I'd rather you did. Have a good time, because that's what I want. Do NOT sit around all long-faced. But if you have to do so, then the bourbon and scotch are in the corner. My remains are NOT to attend my wake.

--If there is to be a funeral, I would like a decent piper to play. If you can't find a decent one, don't bother. Few things are worse than suffering through "Scotland The Brave" or "Amazing Grace," when squeaked out by a beginner with a borrowed skirt and a new set of war pipes or GHB pipes. Ugh.

--I do NOT want some blowhard cleric type to perform a eulogy at my funeral. Come to think of it, pastors, ministers, evangelicals, rabis, witch doctors, and other such "spiritual leaders" are forbidden from speaking at my funeral, except as friends, if they were such. I'm serious about this one.

--As I will be cremated, my family is forbidden from purchasing a casket for me. A sack or a cardboard box will transport my body into the furnace quite nicely.

--I don't want people sugar-coating it. I've been a bastard at times, and we all know it. Pretending I haven't dishonors the good memories, as well.
_ _ _

I've got no plans to kick it any time soon, friends. But when I do, remind my family of this blog, would you? There's a pal. :)

Upon reflection, it makes so much more sense to me.

Why would one, in this day and age of superlight pocket pistols, carry a medium-small pistol that was extremely heavy? I've long said that weight is one of the biggest considerations to picking a carry pistol.

(Well, you know, besides the fact that they might be reliable and accurate and serve perfectly well.)

A very good answer to this question might well be: Because you are a very small person yourself, and the good honest steel helps attenuate the recoil of a little bitty gun in an intermediate caliber.

Being the biggest guy in the room with the smallest and lightest pistols on him, I joked about my online pal FarmGirl's guns being so heavy. Then she showed me her hands.

Damn, but she's tiny. And I'm, uh, not petite.


Photo stolen shamelessly from Old NFO.