Remembering

Today I made mourning bands. Twenty-seven of them, to be exact, because that’s all the fabric I had. They are as close to WWII Commonwealth regulations as I could get them and it was important to me that I make them on Memorial Day. They will be used next weekend at the Reading Air Show to honor Jezzy. I wasn’t able to make his memorial service, and I won’t be at Reading next weekend, but at least I was able to contribute to his send-off in a small way. From what I understand, colors in the Commonwealth camp will be flown at half-mast in Scott’s honor, and will be raised again on Sunday morning after church parade.

I’ve tried explaining the significance of Memorial Day to Sweet Daughter, telling her how those people she saw in camouflage at our last event keep us safe. How some go far away from home to keep the bad guys from coming here and hurting us. How her daddy used to be a guy in camouflage, as was his daddy, and my daddy, and my mother’s daddy.

I think some of it, at least, sunk in. Tonight at dinner she suggested we say the Pledge of Allegiance instead of Grace. “After all” she said, “it IS Memorial Day!”

Busy day

Saturday was a busy day. We started off with the aborted strawberry picking trip from last week. Sweet Daughter and I drove down to Westmoreland Berry Farm where we could pick our own berries, and patronize their lunch stand, feed the goats and enjoy the scenery. This (new) tradition started last year after SD had seen an episode of “Special Agent Oso” on the Disney Channel where they taught you to pick strawberries in 3 easy steps. Luckily the episode aired when strawberries were still in season, so off we went. Ironically, SD doesn’t think she likes strawberries – she just wants to pick them, and I have no problem with that at all.

We showed up mid-morning while it was still cool and waited for the tractor pulling the cattle car trailers with seating for customers to show up and take us down to the fields. We climbed aboard and rode down to the strawberry fields. “Pick anywhere you like!” we were told.

You know what happens when you leave a pint of strawberries in the back of your fridge and forget about then until they get green, furry beards like some sort of Martian Amish Wolfman and they attack when you reach into the back to get the HP sauce? Well, there were an awful lot of berries were like that still on the plant and it weirded me out just a tad. It’s been a bit wet this spring.

Ten minutes into picking, SD had to use the bathroom. Again. And this wasn’t a case where we could walk down the dirt road a little ways, find a grape arbor to hide behind and take care of business. So we hoofed it quite a ways to where I had seen a porta potty in the middle of all the strawberry/grape/asparagus/ raspberry/blueberry fields. Now, doing living history events I see a lot of porta potties, and this had to be the cleanest porta potty I’ve ever seen. Seriously. It was in better shape than the bathrooms with the flush toilets we’d used 15 minutes earlier. If Nirvana had porta potties, they would have been like this one. AND there was a hand washing station outside with soap and towels. Clearly, I have seen some sub-par porta potties in my life. But, I digress. So back to the strawberry patch we went. And picked. And picked some more.

By the time the tractor made it back with its next load of city folk (Quote from one of the chaperones: “You can’t just turn ‘em lose and tell ‘em to go to it. These are city kids. You gotta show ‘em what they [the strawberries] look like.”) we had about 6 or 7 quarts so we rode back to headquarters where our berries were weighed and we paid. One of the staff asked how I thought the berries tasted. “I don’t know ma’am. I haven’t tried one yet.” What? Hadn’t I sampled some while picking?? “No ma’am. I haven’t paid for them yet – that would be stealing.” Yeah, yeah. I sampled one the year before, and there were obviously really good, or I wouldn’t have returned. But I’m trying to set a good example for my daughter here, all right?

Okay. Berries picked. Next stop – head out to the covered patio for a lunch of hotdogs and some ice cream. Then, turn SD loose on the playground equipment for a while and let her feed the goats.

See that tallish tower-like thing on the left in the backgroud? The goats have a narrow bridge high above the walkway that ends at that tower platform. You can buy a handfull of feed, put it in a cup, run it up to the tower via a pulley system where it tips over and feeds the goat. I always feel a bit like a troll walking under that bridge ...

Then … home to pick over the strawberries! And make 8 half pints of strawberry jam! And then, since I wasn’t paying attention, and crushed too many, make strawberry shortcake with the extra crushed berries.

Now, I was raised to have your strawberries served over homemade shortbread that was basically giant slightly sweetened backing powder biscuit. Shorter Half prefers his over those store-bought rounds that look like diaphragms made out of Twinkies but without the creme filling. (Philistine.) So I went in search of a spongecake recipe that looked like a good compromise. The reviews were … less than stellar (Too eggy! Not sweet! Rather dense!), but with only three ingredients, it sounded perfect for my purposes.

I separated 3 eggs, and beat the whites until really soft, sloppy peaks started to form, then I slowly beat in ½ cup of sugar. Then I added the egg yolks and a splash of vanilla (okay, so that makes four ingredients), and folded in 2/3 of a cup of self-rising flour. I poured/spread it into a prepared 8” square pan and baked it until it was done. The recipe called for 20 minutes at 375 degrees, but I think I was closer to 15 minutes at 350. (My oven is hosed.) Anyhow, the top sprung back, the toothpick came out clean, and we have a new shortcake recipe.

The topping was made by taking the extra 3 cups of crushed berries I had and adding the extra ½ cup of strawberry jam I had left over from canning. The cake wasn’t too sweet, and it didn’t dissolve into a pink goo when the mashed strawberries soaked in. Topped with whipped cream, it was pretty darn good.

Small wonder

I ran to the local grocery store this morning as we were out of a few staples, like milk, eggs and bacon. As I walked in the door, I saw a small display with American flags for sale. Remembering that I could not find one for love or money last Independence Day, I grabbed one. (Our current “indoor” flag has taken up residence in Sweet Daughter’s room now that she has learned the Pledge of Allegiance.)

As soon as I got home, I started to peel off the barcode so I could get rid of the “Made in China” sticker when I saw this.

Especially after seeing all the “Made in China” Gadsden flags in Charlotte, I cheered. I will be returning tomorrow to buy the rest of them. Just out of general principal.

What came first? The gun or the holster?

Or maybe I should clarify. When you CC, what rig/holster/waistband/pocket/purse do you use? And did you pick your carry style to fit the gun, or the gun to match your carry style? And how many false starts did you have before you found what worked for you?

I ask because I’m curious how it compared to my experience. My first pistol was a .38 Special snubbie picked up cheap from a friend when I left an unpredictable relationship and happened to move in next to a guy who heard voices in his head and had a penchant for leaving long, rambling letters in mayonnaise jars on the front porch. He was quite nice to me, but rumor had it he ended up stabbing his brother in the gut. Apparently he was aiming for his mother. But, I digress.

Michael W. came up one weekend with a bunch of holsters and we spent part of the day establishing that due to the way I’m built, nothing that had anything to with carrying on a waistband worked for me. I’m 6’ tall, which you’d think would give me plenty of room, but I’m long of limb, and short of waist. When standing, my elbows rest below my waist - just about on my hip bones. Any holster worn in the vicinity of my waist is going to stick out at an angle and/or sit so high up in relation to my elbows, that the I have to bend in half to grab the grips. Well, that and the grips will be about 4" from my armpit. (Ask me how I know.) That pretty much left me with a shoulder rig as I’ve got plenty of arm length to reach across my front. (Yes, I’m aware of the drawbacks of reaching across to draw my weapon. Rule #3 is your friend.) And please don't suggest an ankle holster, because my pants aren't long enough to cover one. Especially when sitting. I’m a bit of a freak, I know.

Then there was the fact that it took me all of 30 seconds to decide I HATED that pistol (well the trigger anyway. It probably felt a lot like this one) so I decided to pretty much start over with a clean slate.

Luckily, I’m married to Shorter Half (a gun geek to end all gun geeks*) and we started with the hypotheticals. What size pistol? How many rounds vs. how much stopping power? Where am I going to carry this thing and how am I going to conceal it? How heavy does it have to be before I decide it’s not worth carrying? How expensive/available is the ammunition, and how heavy is it? Can I hold/carry/interact with Sweet Daughter while wearing this rig?

Then we went to the closest retail establishment with lots of dead animals hanging from the walls, and I started looking for a new pistol. And looking. Until I found something that purred when I picked it up. Because, if I don’t like the gun, I’m not going to carry it. And it works with a shoulder holster, which sits on the same side that I carry my purse, and tucks in nicely in the hollow of my waist.

I ended up with a Springfield XD in 9mm. With a Galco shoulder rig. And luckily I’m always cold, so a light jacket in the summer is par for the course for me anyway, which makes concealment easier.

So, what do you carry, and how did you chose?


*This is not to say that Shorter Half is the most knowledgeable gunnie out there (although if you count the sheer mass of mostly useless esoteric information he has between his ears, I’ll wager he’s near the top of the list), just the geekiest.

Are you nuts?

So, a coworker returned from business travel in Hawaii, and brought back something for us to try.

Spam Nuts

No, not tiny testicles off of the elusive, yet prolific wild Spam, but macadamia nuts coated in what tastes like Spam. They taste exactly like what you're thinking. There is a good review of them here. I’d add, however, that they are salty. Very salty. So salty, the spot where the nut hit my tongue is still shriveled up and desiccated like a raisin that’s been sitting on the floor of your car all summer with the windows rolled up and no air conditioning. And the Spam-like coating is sort of flesh-colored (if you are of northern european stock) which is a little off-putting. But they are definitely interesting.

A teaching moment

I was taking Sweet Daughter to daycare yesterday morning when I passed one our local boys in blue trying to catch speeders in a residential area. Well, boys in brown, actually. From the Sheriff’s office. I passed him, he swung around, lit me up, and SD said “Uh OH!!” (Apparently, she’s seen one too many episode of COPS as is evidenced by the time we drove past a shirtless, mullet-sporting guy in an older pick-up and she randomly asked “Mama – is that man going to jail?” We haven’t watched COPS since that day. But I digress.)

I said “Honey – it’s okay. He’s just pulling me over to tell me my headlight is out. Remember we noticed that coming home on Saturday?” I figured it was a really good teaching moment to reinforce that the police are (generally) good guys and they help people in trouble. I got the usual questions (license, registration, where are you going). I complied with paperwork and answered “To drop my daughter at daycare, and then go to work.” Apparently everything checked out – I was dressed for the office, SD had her backpack, and stuffed animal, and even with my NRA sticker and this on the back of the car

I was not deemed to be a threat to society and I was sent on my way with a “Make sure you get that fixed so you don’t hit a deer and get hurt!” Yay, no paperwork!

“See honey? He just wanted us to make sure we knew our headlight was out! He wanted us to be safe.” Teaching moment complete. Or so I thought.

When I got to the office I glanced in the back of the truck. I hadn’t finished unloading it after “Pirate Fest” on Saturday. Luckily, this is what the officer saw.

That's some sort of leather belt thing, a red jacket, some paper bags, a pair of buckle shoes, a decorative stick of some sort and some tie downs, right?

This is what he might have seen had the cruel finger of fate decided to flip me off and stuff wasn't covered.

Oh look! Brown paper bags, a pair of buckle shoes, a coat with a decidedly miltary feel to it, a fairly long sword and boarding axe???

Not that there is anything wrong with this … I’m sure it just would have made the morning more interesting than I really wanted it to be. And  I learned to look in the back of my car before I leave the house.

QOTD

While picking up my car from the shop today, I found out that my mechanic used to go hunting woodchucks with this guy. shared a few memories, including the time Bob came to pick up his truck while in uniform “with a Chesty Puller starter kit on his chest”.

I LOLed.

Pirate Fest (LOTS of pictures of the kid)

Held at Darnall's Chance in Upper Marlboro, MD, this was a fun thing to do with a 4 1/2-year-old. First she put her costume together, The only thing she wore today that she wears at events were her shoes. Ratty old shift? Check. Imported Indian calico headrag? Check. Ragged skirt AND fancy skirt? Check. Sword, hook, compass, spyglass and plenty of necklaces? Check, check, check, check and check. The most rightous piratical stockings ever? Aye, Matey!

She walked the plank, she swung in a hammock. She climbed up ...

over, and down the rigging.

She dug for burried treasure. She rolled a barrel through a fenced-in path, remembering to push on the right side to go left, and the left side to go right.

She earned coins for each task, and then traded them in for a key to break the secret code on the directions to find the secret treasure. We headed north for 25 paces. We turned west. We found more clues, we went hither and yon until she found the secret doorway and got her official pirate papers.

She was in a parade.

She fenced -- oddly enough, she is very left-hand dominant when it comes to writing and eating. But she bats and fences (and shoots) right handed.
 

This would be her Scots blood showing and she handles this thing like a broadsword.

She got to see the parrots and other birds.

Note: I do not like things that flutter. At all. I avoid butterflies, even. When the bird flew off her head TOWARDS ME, I'm sure I looked startled, to say the least. But I did NOT jump, or scream, DFO, snatch my darling child to my bosum and flee, or any of the other things that flew (hahahahah) through my mind. Yay me.

She checked out the pillory. And looked like she was plotting.

She got a drink. Because that's all there was. That and snowcones and popcorn. The food vendor decided not to show. Good thing she was too busy to realize she was hungy.

And, she entered the costume contest. They were interviewed, demonstrated their pirate walk, and were then ranked by applause. Well, she made the final 5, but one parent can only whoop and holler so loud, and when other contestes have more family in the audience ...she didn't make the final three.

Here she is during the interview. The MC asked her what happened to her hand. She was quick to explain that nothing was wrong with her hand -- it was just a costume. Really. She was fine. Please don't worry. It's okay. Costume, see?

I tried to remind her how we'd talked about the fun part was putting the costume together, but she wasn't buying it. She KNEW her costume was better than the rest. I chalked it up to a good lesson in "Life's not fair, so suck it up, Cupcake" and started to procede along those lines, when a couple of the judges came over looking sheepish. They knew that the results didn't reflect the best costume, just the loudest supporters. So, the MC donated a copy of a children's book he'd written (Broadside Ben and the Big Brass Cannon by Cliff Long), and was kind enough to autograph it. (BTW, the book is a hoot. The Dutch ships are flying pennants with tulips on them, for starters.)

All in all an excellent if exhausting day. I think we'll go back next year.

"Mama - This bird isn't going potty on my head, is he?"

Belay the strawberry pickin’!

Plans for tomorrow included going to a pick-you-own-strawberries place with Sweet Daughter. That was until my boss told me that he’ll be at a historic site tomorrow where they’re having “Pirate Day” for the kids. He’s teaching fencing, and there will be face painting and a treasure hunt, birds to sit on your shoulder and a costume contest, vendors, food, etc. I asked SW which she’d like to do, and her face lit up as she decided the strawberries could wait another week.

We spent the evening trying to put costumes together for tomorrow. We started with our 18th century event clothes, and added and subtracted from there. SD was given a set of pirate accessories from Michael W., so we dug out the plastic hook, spyglass, compass and sword. She’s got bling, she’s got purple and green striped stockings, she’s READY.

I had no idea what to put together for myself, because the Renn-Faire Pyrate Wench thing is so NOT happening at a kid’s event. However, while mulling ideas over with my boss, I apparently said “Hey! I’ve got a BOARDING AXE!” with the same inflection that an 8-year-old girl would use to say “Santa brought ME a PONY!"

Chalk another one up to “I’m not like other moms …”

Foster care

Look what followed Shorter Half home. He says we can't keep it, but we can foster it for a couple of weeks. I'll get more pictues later -- maybe I can take it out for some "exercise" ...

Different?

Sweet Daughter wanted a handgun for her 4th birthday. While a-typical for most 4-year-olds, that’s old news around this house. But from time to time I’m reminded I’m a little … different.

First, there was the t-shirt incident. I was wearing my stamp act t-shirt.

I asked Sweet Daughter if the picture bothered her. She said it did, a little bit.

“But why? It’s just a picture of the skull Daddy uses at events.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” And she was fine.

Part of the Detached Hospital's Dental Display

Then there’s Sweet Daughter’s first grown-up party at the Gunnie Prom in Charlotte last Saturday. She was told what to expect, and what was expected of her, and I brought a kid-friendly-yet-appropriate activity for her so she wouldn’t find um, annoying ways to entertain herself. (Well, other than when she decided she needed to deliver something to Breda at the end of the row of tables, and decided the quickest way to accomplish this was to run the gauntlet under the row of tables. It was like she dissapeared into thin air. Good problem solving skills at least.) And when we got to the restaurant and she started holding her hands over her ears because it was too loud, I managed to find some earplugs in my purse for her. All moms carry those, right?

Special thanks to Breda for assistance with the artwork!

But yesterday morning she woke up and told me she’d had the worst bad dream of her life. Worse that the big, bad wolf, even. She said that she’d gone to the “NRA Gun Convention” (we’ll work on the redundancy issue when she’s older) and she’d taken her own purple pellet pistol to the indoor range because they’d asked to see it, but then they wouldn’t give it back. “They said it was too cute and they wanted to keep it. They played a trick on us!” she said. “It was really those ketchup people that want to take our guns away!”

I guess she remembered our conversation in the grocery store earlier in the week when I explained that we didn’t buy a certain ketchup because the family that owned the company didn’t want us to have guns.

I’m starting to think I’m not like other moms.

Three things

First, a picture of my Blogfather taken by Sweet Daughter.


Second, I’d like to dispel the rumor that I’m 7’ tall. You're off by 12". You can guess which direction.

Third, here is a close-up of the H-S booth guys. I didn’t get the face of the guy on the left (he was looking away anyhow), but look as his body language. *grin*

Charlotte: NRA 2010

I'll let the other cool kids tell you about what's going on, but here's how my day has gone so far.

This is right before Sweet Daughter knocked over the 10' sign. Everyone was really very nice about it. She was squirreling around because she wanted to go here:

I can not say enough nice things about the people running the range sponsored by Pyramyd Air. And Sweet Daughter got to shoot a rifle. Then we stood in line to see ...

What a nice, nice (and photogenic) gentleman. I got up there and realized I had nothing whatsoever to say to him other than "Hey! I like blowing stuff up, too!" How original. When I told him that SD had asked for a handgun for her 4th birthday, he said "I can't give you a gun, but I can give you this." And he handed her a challenge coin.  Whatever sum of money Glock is paying him, he is earning every penny. And, speaking of Glock, they did a very, very good job of handling security around R. Lee AND making it seem like they were simply there as hosts. Providing extra hospitality. Yeah, that's it.

And last, but not least, the H-S Precision Booth.

Shorter Half did not take up The Atomic Nerds on thier offer to win some free cocoa mix, but you will notice the booth is empty.

AND I got to meet Say Uncle and wave at Snowflakes in Hell Joe Huffman (apologies to all - I was misinformed!) up in the media booth. I feel like such a poseur.

Why me?

While packing for the trip to Charlotte this weekend, I found some orange and ginger scented body spray tucked away in a travel bag. I squirted some on and immediately realized why it was hidden away. I now smell like a freshly polished dining room table.

Small talk

Breda has a link to an article on whether size really matters. As one that grew up at the opposite end of the height spectrum , I can tell you that when your sleeves and pants hit 4 inches above your wrists and ankles, you don’t exactly feel elegant, either. But I digress.


I first met Shorter Half’s family when his little sister graduated from high school. I’m over a foot taller than she is, and she was trying very hard to make small talk. (“Small” talk, get it? I crack myself up.) She wondered if a lot of people asked me if I played basketball in high school. I answered in the affirmative, and then, completely unbidden by my brain – the words just fell out of my mouth, I swear – I inquired if a lot of people asked if she played miniature golf.

True story. Luckily she laughed.

Origins of a National Anthem

I was talking to Bitter Young Guy at the office this morning and it turns out that he didn’t know that our National Anthem started out in a gentleman’s club in England. The Anacreontic Society was dedicated to "wit, harmony, and the god of wine," but their (alleged) primary goal was to promote an interest in music. The melody for The Anacreontic Song (a.k.a. To Anacreon in Heaven) was written by 16-year-old John Stafford Smith in the mid 1760’s and if you try to convince me that this melody was composed without the assistance of liberal amounts of alcohol I'll disbelieve you. The song was first published by Longman & Broderip in London in 1778/1779.

There is one school of thought that thinks the melody may have originated in Ireland, but to each his own.

Regardless of origin, the song traveled across the pond, and was popular enough that Francis Scott Key’s brother-in-law noticed that the music fit Key’s 1813 poem Defence of Fort McHenry and put them together. The pairing became known as The Star Spangled Banner, but wasn’t officially adopted as the national anthem of the United States until 1931.

The original lyrics are below – and you thought “O say can you see …” was difficult.

The Anacreontic Song

To Anacreon in heaven where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be,
When this answer arrived from the jolly old Grecian:
Voice, fiddle aud flute, no longer be mute,
I'll lend you my name and inspire you to boot!
And besides I'll instruct you like me to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

The news through Olympus immediately flew,
When old Thunder pretended to give himself airs,
If these mortals are suffered their scheme to pursue,
The devil a goddess will stay above stairs,
Hark! already they cry, in transports of joy,
A fig for Parnassus, to Rowley's we'll fly,
And there my good fellows, we'll learn to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

The yellow-haired god, and his nine fusty maids,
To the hill of old Lud will incontinent flee,
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the biforked hill a mere desert will be,
My thunder, no fear on't, will soon do its errand,
And, damn me I'll swinge the ringleaders, I warrant
I'll trim the young dogs, for thus daring to twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.

Apollo rose up and said, "Prythee ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my votaries below
Your thunder is useless - then showing his laurel,
Cried, Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
Then over each head my laurels I'll spread,
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread
Whilst snug in their club-room, they jovially twine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

Time for warm weather cocktails

I just had my first gin and tonic of the season. Ahhhh. Now I’m motivated to see if I have any Pimm’s left in the liquor cabinet. My previous roommate “borrowed” my last bottle, and never replaced it. We have a local ginger ale that goes quite well with it, lacking the proper fizzy lemonade. Hmmm, that sounds like something that would travel well this weekend – they’re calling for temperatures in the upper 80’s in Charlotte. Now I need to go add cucumbers to the grocery list.

Sounds reasonable to me

Failing to profile based on one's life experiences is to abandon man's basic instinct to learn through trial and error. Such trials, when cataloged by intelligent people, reduce and oftentimes eliminate unnecessary future errors. This is good.

I don't have much of an opinion on Nugent personally, other than I saw him play the National Anthem live before a Minnesota Twins game about 20 years ago, and it was clear that he "got" it (unlike Roseanne Barr). But if you don't evaluate (profile, judge, appraise, gauge, classify, etc.) what's going on around you -- if you can't take what you've learned and apply it to a new situation -- well, I probably can't dumb it down enough to explain to you why you should.

That just ain’t right

For Mother’s Day, I received a gift certificate so I could download some music. I wanted to start filling in the missing chunks from the “collection”, especially from my college years when I couldn’t afford much. Among other things, I picked up some Bryan Ferry/Roxy Music, Patti Smith, Haircut 100, Dropkick Murphys, and Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing”. (What can I say? I was raised on Big Band, Dixieland, and bagpipes.) I thought back to what vinyl I had that didn’t survive the move of 1999, and I remembered my first week of college and hearing U2’s Boy for the first time. So I went and downloaded “I Will Follow”. And then I saw this, and my world sort slipped into another dimension.





Look! The Edge isn’t the only one losing his hair …

Next week at this time

We'll be in Charlotte unless catastrophe hits. And plans are to be at the soiree Breda is organizing Saturday night. My introverted self is looking forward to meeting new people, and I’m glad that Breda got us a room where maybe the background noise will be low enough that a bunch of people who may have been a little too lax with hearing protection or little too enthusiastic with those cool little Walkman headphones in their youth can hear each other. Or, at least the lighting will be bright enough that we can see to lip-read.

Don't sugarcoat it.

This sums things up pretty succinctly. Back when one didn’t have to apologize for the possibility of hurting somebody’s feeeeeeeeeeeeeelings just because Grandpa Schmidt still had family in the old country.

It's interesting to see "center of target" instead of "center of mass" being illustrated.

Pun

There were three Indian squaws. One slept on a deer skin, one slept on an elk skin, and the third slept on a hippopotamus skin. All three became pregnant. The first two each had a baby boy. The one who slept on the hippopotamus skin had twin boys.

This just goes to prove that the squaw of the hippopotamus is equal to the sons of the squaws of the other two hides.

It's rough being a kid

I picked up Sweet Daughter from daycare this afternoon, stopped to get gas before running to the library, and then home to start dinner. I finished filling the tank, put the gas cap back, gave it a twist, grabbed my receipt and hopped in the Family Truckster only to see Sweet Daughter looking like her heart was broken, with tears streaming down her face, as she heroically tried to stop sobbing.


“Sweetie! What’s wrong? Are you okay?!!?”

::: sniff ::: sniff ::: SNIFF! :::

“It’s just that I’m a little sad (sniff) because I can’t go to the gun range until I’m seven, and I’m (sob!) ONLY FOUR AND A HALF!!!”

Her dad and I don’t talk guns much. I didn't think we talked about the range in front of her to the extent that she would think it was some sort of mecca. We certainly don’t have the time we’d like to spend at the range (I haven’t been since the beginning of the year), and so I don’t know WHERE she gets if from. It must be genetically encoded somewhere in her DNA.

Anyhow, I did my best to console her with the fact that when we go to Charlotte in less than two weeks, they’ll have a range there, just for kids. She'd better bring her piggy bank.