Bits and pieces

I put a couple dozen rounds through my Springfield XD on Memorial Day. This was the first time I'd fired it since late January. (Bad Nancy!)

This is the target from the first magazine at about 25 feet, fired a tad slower than a shot/second. As long as I just point and shoot, I do okay. It was when I realized that people were WATCHING, and I tried to adjust my stance and concentrate on my sights and stuff, that things started going a bit wobbly.

All 16 on the cardboard, at least.

Speaking of targets, do you know what happens when you hit the “reset” square on a reactive target really hard and for some reason it doesn’t react?  (BTW, this has been wonderful for teaching me to use those odd modern things calles "sights".)

The pellet reacts instead!

Awesome picture on page 50 of the July 2010 copy of Tactical Weapons article, “Dogs of War”.

"Highly trained bomb-sniffing dogs can skydive into action with their handlers. Muzzles are worn for protection and dogs are calm when jumping as they don't perceive height as humans do."

Cocktail napkins were part of my birthday present from my oldest sister:

I think the sense of humor is hereditary.

Sunk

When Sweet Daughter was almost three, we went crabbing off the dock at my sister’s house. Not wanting to hold her hand the whole weekend (and result in neither of us having fun), I ran over to the local marina, bought a life jacket for her and told her if she fell in and got stung by a jelly-fish, Daddy would have to pee on her where she got stung.* I got a strange look or two from her, but she was careful not to fall in. We’ve been to the beach a couple of times since then, and I just snap on the life jacket and turn her loose. She has a BLAST and loves the water.


So, while were in Charlotte last month, we stayed at a hotel with a pool. By the last morning we were there, SD figured she had things under control and wanted to take her life jacket off. I said that was fine as long as she didn't let go of the floaty-donut-ring-thing she also had. Well, her grip on that lasted all of about 45 seconds. Luckily Michael W.’s wife had spent some time with her the previous day, teaching her how to use her arms AND legs (at the same time, even!) to propel herself around. She swam underwater for about 4-5 feet until she got to the railing and came up for air. (Somehow the concept of just STANDING UP since she was in the shallow end didn't occur to her.) We three adults were starting to kick off our shoes and take off our watches, all the while jockeying for position to go in after her when she surfaced. I think she was under water for less than 10 seconds, but it seemed a whole lot longer. Before she had a chance to realize she was scared, I said "You do realize what just happened, don't you?" The annoyed look on her face said "I dropped the damn floaty ring, sank like a rock, and without any assistance from an ADULT (thank-you-very-much!) had to save my own a$$. Weren't you watching??"

I said, "You just swam underwater. By yourself." As it sunk (hahah! “sunk”!) in, she started beaming like she’d just swum the English Channel. Later on, while talking about how well she handled the situation, I casually reminded her not to try to breathe under water.

“Why not, Momma? You said there was oxygen in water!”

I am in so far over my head (wow – I wasn’t even trying for that one!), it’s not even funny. She starts swimming lessons on Monday.

*Yes, it's an old wives tale, but it did the job of keeping her from falling in the drink.

Upgraded Holster

When I decided to carry using a shoulder rig, Shorter Half got me set up with the entry-level starter set to make sure the concept worked. It did, and so he upgraded it to the nice Galco Miami Classic II rig for my birthday. I’m wearing it around the house this evening while we get it adjusted, and at one point I looked at the magazine carrier. There’s a tab at the bottom with a circle cut into it. “What the heck is that for” I asked.

“You can hang other stuff on it, like a flashlight, or handcuffs.”

::: blink, blink :::

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be using it for that”, I said, “I’m not the mall-ninja type.”

“Nope”, he said. “That’s definitely not a MILF rig.”

::: crickets chirping :::

Some time I’ll tell you about the “No analogy involving a cow and a pregnant woman can end well” story. And, yes. I was pregnant at the time. It was actually pretty darn funny.**

But no, I’m not the typical demographic to which this is being marketed. I know I never saw an episode of Miami Vice. But then, seven-foot tall (it’s a rumor, I tell you!) middle-aged moms with orangutang arms are a pretty-limited market segment. Yes, we’ve already established that I’m a freak.*

* For instance, we discovered I can functionally draw from this holster with my off-side hand. Yes, from 4 fingers below my armpit.

** Okay, while discussing why belt rigs don't work on me because of my odd proportions, he just now shouted out to no one in particular "SHE'S A SEVEN FOOT TALL SPIDER MONKEY!!"

There was actually a perplexed look on his face as I give him the "I heard that" look.

"You mean I shouldn't have said that with my outside mouth?"

Happy birthday

Today is my dad’s birthday. He’s a veteran of WWII – a bombardier in the Army Air Corp. From what I understand, he and his entire crew did their 25 missions over Germany and came home. Quite the feat. But then, this was an older crew – most of them in their late 20’s.

It’s also my birthday. Considering that my dad bought this car around 3 years earlier,

and that my siblings are 10 – 15 years older than I am, it’s a fairly safe bet that I was a “whoops!” Especially since my father accused my siblings of giving my mother an ulcer. So she went to the doctor, the rabbit died, and it was time to turn the “den” back into a nursery.

I’m as old today as my father was on the day I was born. Happy Birthday to us!

 
My dad is 94. You can do the math if you really want to.

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.