My meddlesome buddy, BFF actually, (you know the type, the type that actually will get you out of jail when you call at 2 AM?) put it to me several years back that I had to kill a deer with every rifle in my safe, er, safes.
And that, in addition, I couldn't use a rifle twice until I had run through the ranks of all the others. Which has been fun so far, but also worrisome, in that, I have a few rifles I really like, I mean, really really like and would love to use again, but will not because of this wager thing.
There is only one rifle that gets to break out of dogmatic constraints set upon me by whiskey-soaked Irish gunsmiths, and that is my Remington M700ML--the ML is for Muzzle Loader. Obviously i ain't going to buy a new muzzleloader every year for as you may or may not know, they are huge pains in the ass.
The M700ML is a modernization of the timeless European killing machine. It's modeled after the well known, received, and used M700 in its fire controls and safety, but...You still have to pour a measure of powder down the tube, smoosh a patch and ball and/or a sabot and bullet, and/or a minnie ball down the barrel with a ramrod.
A ramrod!
Then, you have to flip the whole thing over and put a percussion cap on the (heh) nipple or, in an attempt by Remington (which yours truly has resisted) to make the rifle even "better" by upgrading their ignition system, a 209 shotgun shell primer in the breech hole.
Now, she's ready to go. And she stays ready even when you're done for the day and stuck with a loaded gun. The easiest way to unload it is to point it at the ground and blast away! But then you have to clean it. The quietest way to disable it is to pick the cap off the (heh) nipple and shut the bolt on an unprimed action.
The caliber is half an inch. Did I mention that? The muzzle velocity is a whopping 1400 feet per second...maybe. The bullet weight is measured in grains, and I shoot a 250 grain Hornady XTP pistol bullet which is about half an ounce! The combination of all these things is lethal and brutal, on both ends of the rifle to mention recoil.
But the one thing you should always take from the muzzleloader experience is that, like all other firearms, it takes a bit of concentration. Seemingly obvious notions and tasks can be forgotten if you let your mind wander, like when you're blabbing away with a friend...or when i'm blabbing away with a friend.
Working on a load a few years back, I had charged the rifle with a pet load while chatting affably with a chum at the range. Well, I fired the gun and was met with the most horrendous punch in the shoulder and face I had ever received. Almost unconscious, I fought back tears as my eyes rolled around in my head struggling to see, and my mind worked as best it could to figure out what I had done wrong.
But yeah, My buddy looked over and said, "What?"
I wiped the blood off my nose where my safety glasses had taken a full-on hit from a Leupold M8 fixed 4X that sat atop the rifle back then, and by then I knew what I'd done.
"I left the ramrod in the barrel!" I said.
I had just shot a 2250 (plus or minus) grain projectile...off my pretty face! And I was shocked I hadn't destroyed my gun (or face) which speaks volumes about Remington, despite any of the bullshit you've seen on anti-gun TV.
Well, like I said, the ol 700ML is the only gun that gets to go with me to Vance County opening weekend time after time. And here in the central deer season area, it gets taken all over in hopes of harvesting deer. And when it gets back in the safe with the others, I can feel their jealous eyes on her.
At some point I'm sure I'll cheat and grab last year's project Swede, or two years ago's father's day gift to myself. But I may not mention that on the web. After all, I have a wager to uphold, and what whiskey-soaked Irishman gunsmithys don't know won't hurt me.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
What's in Your Hand?
What do you hold in your hand everyday?
Something so close, besides your fork,
Or your spoon, that you behold it every day.
That you care for it,
Marvel it, even, sometimes.
What else do you handle that shapes the hand it's in,
While the hand shapes it as well?
Is the top of your steering wheel shiny?
Is your hammer's handle blackened with five stripes?
Your shot shell loader (yeah right) have that oily groove for your thumb?
Can you still read the digits on your phone?
Your remote?
What do you touch with your tips everyday?
Something you carry close, something you need,
But still feel it odd and new?
Does the finger-smudged touch pad on your garage door opener reveal your four digit code to professional economists and amateur mathematicians?
Is the speed dial button for your wife wiped clean by oft ignored then redialed calls?
Do you like the pop of this keyboard's buttons over that?
My hold is my hammer,
The things we've done,
And the heights we've climbed.
I've lost more than I've worn out.
And I've held a hundred,
But I've always kept a chosen few, at least for a while.
Something so close, besides your fork,
Or your spoon, that you behold it every day.
That you care for it,
Marvel it, even, sometimes.
What else do you handle that shapes the hand it's in,
While the hand shapes it as well?
Is the top of your steering wheel shiny?
Is your hammer's handle blackened with five stripes?
Your shot shell loader (yeah right) have that oily groove for your thumb?
Can you still read the digits on your phone?
Your remote?
What do you touch with your tips everyday?
Something you carry close, something you need,
But still feel it odd and new?
Does the finger-smudged touch pad on your garage door opener reveal your four digit code to professional economists and amateur mathematicians?
Is the speed dial button for your wife wiped clean by oft ignored then redialed calls?
Do you like the pop of this keyboard's buttons over that?
My hold is my hammer,
The things we've done,
And the heights we've climbed.
I've lost more than I've worn out.
And I've held a hundred,
But I've always kept a chosen few, at least for a while.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
No I'm Not
You know how I know I'm not the crazy one, how I'm not the one with all the creepy voices and touching rebukes and scathing replies? Because everyone says I am, and everyone I know doesn't tell the truth like it's meant to be told..or even imagined and not told. Some people I know are about to put the gun in their mouth, smiling the whole time, saying how great they are and how the things they have are so awesome and the smiles keep coming sickeningly out of their faces like yellow pus from an ingrown hair they let fester for a week before they stooped down and did the deed.
You know how I know I'm not a liar, though I may not tell the truth all the time. I tell a truth, and you know when my head hurts or my back or if you're lounging too close too long or if I want to vomit in your face, but you also know if I love you or if I want to be around you or if I trust you--even if it's only true for a year, a day, an hour. I can shine a light on you, and bathe you in heat and happiness and heart. Or I can flick on the hose and douse with frigid delight, watch the curling from the cold and pruney tips, red rimmed eyes.
I'm wary of the people who talk about themselves all the time, even if I am one. I'm wary of people who never use the word I, me, we. I too am weary of the people in between. Non-binary folk, mentioned above, fit for scorn, loose in their emotions like over-sized suits, never baring their gums and never rubbing your coat or scratching your ears. Calm classic citizenry that do nothing for anyone except provide a tax base, a voting public who care that much and not much more. The wary-some folds are louder, so we get drawn to and fro.
Anyway, that's how I know, that's how I know I'm not always the shit to put up with, the litter box smell, or the squeaky windshield wipers, that sometimes there's others' shit to be tolerated and dissuaded and disregarded, then put away. Empty the inbox of sour notes and off key tunes. Keeping the crap makes you crazy, cold, and cringing when the light hits you, when the heat's turned up; waiting for the bill to come in the mail instead of rolling naked in a thin sheet, ditching the security blanket.
My feet clunk just as loud as yours, yes it's true, but I notice the differences and count your reaction and gauge my gait accordingly. That's how I know I'm not crazy, cause I tip on my toes, and bite on my tongue, or I stomp sharply, shrieking to be heard, present company withstanding. So I swim in my suit, loose as it is, though I can change the colour consistent for content and comrades.
Yeah, I ain't the only one that doesn't consider the sounds and smells and the salts in the wounds, but I'm the first one to notice when I should, to not laugh nor point, but notice and almost care, as much about you as I do about me.
You know how I know I'm not a liar, though I may not tell the truth all the time. I tell a truth, and you know when my head hurts or my back or if you're lounging too close too long or if I want to vomit in your face, but you also know if I love you or if I want to be around you or if I trust you--even if it's only true for a year, a day, an hour. I can shine a light on you, and bathe you in heat and happiness and heart. Or I can flick on the hose and douse with frigid delight, watch the curling from the cold and pruney tips, red rimmed eyes.
I'm wary of the people who talk about themselves all the time, even if I am one. I'm wary of people who never use the word I, me, we. I too am weary of the people in between. Non-binary folk, mentioned above, fit for scorn, loose in their emotions like over-sized suits, never baring their gums and never rubbing your coat or scratching your ears. Calm classic citizenry that do nothing for anyone except provide a tax base, a voting public who care that much and not much more. The wary-some folds are louder, so we get drawn to and fro.
Anyway, that's how I know, that's how I know I'm not always the shit to put up with, the litter box smell, or the squeaky windshield wipers, that sometimes there's others' shit to be tolerated and dissuaded and disregarded, then put away. Empty the inbox of sour notes and off key tunes. Keeping the crap makes you crazy, cold, and cringing when the light hits you, when the heat's turned up; waiting for the bill to come in the mail instead of rolling naked in a thin sheet, ditching the security blanket.
My feet clunk just as loud as yours, yes it's true, but I notice the differences and count your reaction and gauge my gait accordingly. That's how I know I'm not crazy, cause I tip on my toes, and bite on my tongue, or I stomp sharply, shrieking to be heard, present company withstanding. So I swim in my suit, loose as it is, though I can change the colour consistent for content and comrades.
Yeah, I ain't the only one that doesn't consider the sounds and smells and the salts in the wounds, but I'm the first one to notice when I should, to not laugh nor point, but notice and almost care, as much about you as I do about me.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Work
Sometimes I look down at my feet and it's a beautiful thing to see; them perched on the slope of an inch and a half wide rafter, thin ankles, footy socks, tanned, everything connected just so, balanced in the air on hardly anything. I was built perfectly for what I do. No real fear, just in the air, to work.
I talk to men, grown men, who speak of their fear of heights, of their inability to carry on in the air and later, on the same day, talk of how tough and kick ass they are. A study in bravado, of bullshit it was.
I've seen these tough guys get woozy at the sight of their own blood. I've seen them have to sit in the shade on a hot day. I've seen them whine about blisters. I've seen them drag their feet around a job sight until ten to quitting where the pace doubles as tools are gathered before going home.
Of course, those days were over one rainy day when I flagged down a car with a couple of los gentes.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Facing The Prospect of Playing Paintball With Teens
I Like guns. I like blowing stuff up with them. I like knocking stuff over with them. I like holding finely crafted steel that was made years before I was even a glint in my daddy's eyes and making these weapons go bang!
But do I really want to be shot at by a bunch of young-uns with paintball guns? Do I really want to chase them around on two bad knees and shoot at them? Well, maybe.
I have the opportunity to take my teenage son out to the field of battle, but I'm having second thoughts.
For one thing, I like for my son to practice good gun safety, which really never involves the pointing of a gun at me: DAD! Now we're going to have to practice doing just that, and then shoot each other. And I've not shot somebody since high school when me and Marty Pope would take the BB guns into the woods, complete with swimming goggles for eye protection, and shoot each other.
The second thing is, I know for a fact they, paintballs, HURT! I drunkenly let my good friend Brain Casey take careful aim at me in his shop one day, and, even AFTER I had stuck three and half inches foam rubber under my tee-shirt, the impact of the "soft" projectile brought me to my knees and a tear to my eye. I won't mention the purple third nipple I had for a week...at least it was dead center.
The third, and maybe most important thing is, if I get shot in the neck (or some other soft part), and start crying, I'll immediately go berserk and wade through the sea of teen faces shooting them in a wild release of rage. Which is not a big deal I guess, except that all the dads'll be there to witness the foul humour. Indeed, some are actual customers of ours, and some may be at some point.
It is odd to want to shoot your fellow man, and I have actually shied away from this game, but I'm a firm believer in trying something once--even golf. And I have shot Marty Pope up a bunch of times so I think I can still get past that cultural check and balance.
I just hope that the teens can take a hit, and that they lay off my pretty face.
But do I really want to be shot at by a bunch of young-uns with paintball guns? Do I really want to chase them around on two bad knees and shoot at them? Well, maybe.
I have the opportunity to take my teenage son out to the field of battle, but I'm having second thoughts.
For one thing, I like for my son to practice good gun safety, which really never involves the pointing of a gun at me: DAD! Now we're going to have to practice doing just that, and then shoot each other. And I've not shot somebody since high school when me and Marty Pope would take the BB guns into the woods, complete with swimming goggles for eye protection, and shoot each other.
The second thing is, I know for a fact they, paintballs, HURT! I drunkenly let my good friend Brain Casey take careful aim at me in his shop one day, and, even AFTER I had stuck three and half inches foam rubber under my tee-shirt, the impact of the "soft" projectile brought me to my knees and a tear to my eye. I won't mention the purple third nipple I had for a week...at least it was dead center.
The third, and maybe most important thing is, if I get shot in the neck (or some other soft part), and start crying, I'll immediately go berserk and wade through the sea of teen faces shooting them in a wild release of rage. Which is not a big deal I guess, except that all the dads'll be there to witness the foul humour. Indeed, some are actual customers of ours, and some may be at some point.
It is odd to want to shoot your fellow man, and I have actually shied away from this game, but I'm a firm believer in trying something once--even golf. And I have shot Marty Pope up a bunch of times so I think I can still get past that cultural check and balance.
I just hope that the teens can take a hit, and that they lay off my pretty face.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Texas Radio and the Big Beat
I want to tell you 'bout shot gun sports,
I want to tell you 'bout how what you see
Is what you shoot.
I want you to know,
When you sweat on the wood
With your cheek;
You watch the clay.
You watch it break.
I want you to know,
If you shut the fuck up,
You'll know what to do.
It's all in yourself,
It's all what you see.
I want you to know,
From shotgun to pistol,
It's all just the same;
You raise it eye high,
And you'll shoot what you see.
I want you to know,
The crisp acrid pop,
And the thrust to your hand,
Hot brass over shoulder;
What you see has gone down.
I want you to know,
We practice on clay,
On steel,
On paper,
And on deer,
And pray for no day.
I want you to know,
Some days are never
Meant to become,
And shots are never,
Meant to be done.
But there are things,
I hold close to my heart.
I want to tell you 'bout
How I have made ready,
For days not to come,
And clays not yet thrown.
For I will not blink,
For we shoot
What we see.
I want to tell you 'bout how what you see
Is what you shoot.
I want you to know,
When you sweat on the wood
With your cheek;
You watch the clay.
You watch it break.
I want you to know,
If you shut the fuck up,
You'll know what to do.
It's all in yourself,
It's all what you see.
I want you to know,
From shotgun to pistol,
It's all just the same;
You raise it eye high,
And you'll shoot what you see.
I want you to know,
The crisp acrid pop,
And the thrust to your hand,
Hot brass over shoulder;
What you see has gone down.
I want you to know,
We practice on clay,
On steel,
On paper,
And on deer,
And pray for no day.
I want you to know,
Some days are never
Meant to become,
And shots are never,
Meant to be done.
But there are things,
I hold close to my heart.
I want to tell you 'bout
How I have made ready,
For days not to come,
And clays not yet thrown.
For I will not blink,
For we shoot
What we see.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Two Points of View
I've seen some things, I have.
I've seen things that shock and surprise and befuddle and make me shake my head even though I should know better and shouldn't be phased by the happiness (as a jealous prick) or maliciousness (as an innocent bystander) of others.
I try to just bumble along my way.
I was eating lunch with a friend the other day, in a chicken place, and watched as two, very youngish patrons rose from their seats, gathered with their clique, and sauntered outside to the parking lot where they all walked away slowly while the two young men held hands.
As a child of the eighties I couldn't help but stare. Watching two young men enjoying the freedom of expression that in my day would have got them beat and ridiculed really just made me think how far we had come as a society...did I mention we were in Yanceyville, NC? Yanceyville!
Yes I stared...and smiled. I remembered a picture someone had posted on facebook of a bright red tee-shirt proclaiming, "Some people are gay, Get over it!" on a grinning Sir Ian McKellan. Yes I stared: here was freedom in a tiny hick town...
I was inordinately happy about the whole scene, like I am when I can order in a taqueria without any help, surrounded by black hair and brown skin...
Then I bumble on my way.
Now there are two horses I've seen that need someone's help. And of course, I've convinced myself that I can; that I can figure out a double-win for all involved.
When I see them on a half acre lot, with no shelter, just a parked stock trailer, I know that something isn't right. Driving by, I can see there's no grass left higher than a registered stubble because they've grazed it all off. I see they have hay, but it's the kind that's rolled up, for cattle, and it's dumped in the mud and left laying out for weeks.
I just don't get it. The horses are gaunt, ribs showing, hip bones jaunty, and I can't wrap my fucking brain around how this guy, whom I've met before, can just drive by them everyday, see them sucking wind like that, and not do more. So I will.
In a perfect world I could just walk up to the guy and ask if he needs some help. I bet I could get truckloads of people willing to lend a hand--whatever it would take to make the horses healthy, but crap like this never plays out like that. Instead, I'll be the asshole, the motherfucker who can't mind his own business.
We'll see.
So I bumble along trying get some happy and I see something that makes me smile and say the cliche, "We've come a long way, baby." then go to bed, wake up the next day and see how far we've yet to go.
Of course we can bumble along all day checking out the good and the bad (and the ugly I suppose)--Greensboro, NC getting MILLIONS of dollars for a Greenway (whatever the fuck that is) while food shelters beg on the same newscast for food donations because, if you'll remember, we're in the worst state of depression and unemployment since before, what, WWII, and their shelves are bare.
But I'm gonna stick to my TMZ, my thirty mile zone. I going to enjoy my view of freedom and young hand-holding "love." And I'm gonna save my starfish that're washed up and exposed at low tide and flick as many as I can back into the water before the sun kills 'em.
I've seen things that shock and surprise and befuddle and make me shake my head even though I should know better and shouldn't be phased by the happiness (as a jealous prick) or maliciousness (as an innocent bystander) of others.
I try to just bumble along my way.
I was eating lunch with a friend the other day, in a chicken place, and watched as two, very youngish patrons rose from their seats, gathered with their clique, and sauntered outside to the parking lot where they all walked away slowly while the two young men held hands.
As a child of the eighties I couldn't help but stare. Watching two young men enjoying the freedom of expression that in my day would have got them beat and ridiculed really just made me think how far we had come as a society...did I mention we were in Yanceyville, NC? Yanceyville!
Yes I stared...and smiled. I remembered a picture someone had posted on facebook of a bright red tee-shirt proclaiming, "Some people are gay, Get over it!" on a grinning Sir Ian McKellan. Yes I stared: here was freedom in a tiny hick town...
I was inordinately happy about the whole scene, like I am when I can order in a taqueria without any help, surrounded by black hair and brown skin...
Then I bumble on my way.
Now there are two horses I've seen that need someone's help. And of course, I've convinced myself that I can; that I can figure out a double-win for all involved.
When I see them on a half acre lot, with no shelter, just a parked stock trailer, I know that something isn't right. Driving by, I can see there's no grass left higher than a registered stubble because they've grazed it all off. I see they have hay, but it's the kind that's rolled up, for cattle, and it's dumped in the mud and left laying out for weeks.
I just don't get it. The horses are gaunt, ribs showing, hip bones jaunty, and I can't wrap my fucking brain around how this guy, whom I've met before, can just drive by them everyday, see them sucking wind like that, and not do more. So I will.
In a perfect world I could just walk up to the guy and ask if he needs some help. I bet I could get truckloads of people willing to lend a hand--whatever it would take to make the horses healthy, but crap like this never plays out like that. Instead, I'll be the asshole, the motherfucker who can't mind his own business.
We'll see.
So I bumble along trying get some happy and I see something that makes me smile and say the cliche, "We've come a long way, baby." then go to bed, wake up the next day and see how far we've yet to go.
Of course we can bumble along all day checking out the good and the bad (and the ugly I suppose)--Greensboro, NC getting MILLIONS of dollars for a Greenway (whatever the fuck that is) while food shelters beg on the same newscast for food donations because, if you'll remember, we're in the worst state of depression and unemployment since before, what, WWII, and their shelves are bare.
But I'm gonna stick to my TMZ, my thirty mile zone. I going to enjoy my view of freedom and young hand-holding "love." And I'm gonna save my starfish that're washed up and exposed at low tide and flick as many as I can back into the water before the sun kills 'em.
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