Kid Shoot Update

Yeah, yeah. As in letting the kids shoot, not shooting the kids. Now that I’ve got the disclaimer out of the way …

We’re still planning on June 2, rain date June 3. Michael W., retired L.E.O., firearms instructor and Cutler to the Stars® will be here, and I’ve had at least one other adult offer to come by and lend a hand. There’s pellet gun fun to be had, a swing set, a sprinkler to run through, and a grill for a post-shoot cookout.

Sweet Daughter’s BFF will be here along with the rest of her family. Our neighbor and his son hope to show up, and Broken Andy plans on coming with his kids. I tentatively mentioned the event to a couple of other local moms and I was surprised at the enthusiastic response. That weekend is already booked for them, but the asked if they could attend the next one, and two moms have stated that *they* want to learn to shoot as well.

So, if you’re interested (with, or without kids), let me know and I’ll get you directions and details.

Oh, and rumor has it there may be a cake. Or something with candles. Lots and lots of candles.

Open Carry Weekend Reminder and my 2 cents

Just a reminder that OC weekend is coming up June 2-3.

It seems there is a segment of the gunnie population that is against Open Carry, and a few of them quite vociferously so. I was going to add my 2 cents to the discussion (echo chamber?) when I realized that I can’t do it as well as Linoge, or the comments here , or Robb, or a bunch of others, and it doesn’t matter.

While some will bemoan my lack of “training”, Sweet Daughter will be explaining to a kid in Target who wanted to know “why that lady has a gun” that I wear a gun to keep her safe.  Others will assume I must be an “attention whore” and I wear a gun in order to start conversations. That being said, if you're staring at my gun which just happens to be next to my left boob and you hurriedly complement the azalea in my shopping cart (directly in front of my left boob) as a way to prove you weren't really staring at my gun or my boob, I will respond in a pleasant manner even though I really didn’t notice you staring because I just want to check out and go home. And no, I’m not just waiting for my opportunity to engage in “ass-clownery” so I can pump my fist in the air and yell “SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED!!” when in fact I’m a raging introvert that just wants to do my errands in safety.

I have my own reasons to OC and I’m very thankful that I live in a part of the world where I can do so.  If there are those that don’t like OC, then by all means – don’t do it. I’ll make a deal with you – I won’t tell you what do to, and you don’t tell me what to do. Because I don’t remember asking your opinion, and I certainly don’t need your permission.

Gardening attempts

Or, if you throw enough crap at the wall, some is bound to stick.

I have a bit of a dark brown thumb. Gardening is not my thing. I basically stick stuff in the ground, threaten it,  and if it dies, I rip it out and may or may not try again. But this year I finally succumbed to Sweet Daughter’s request for a bigger garden plot. Her current space is about 24” x 24” -- small enough to weed and water while waiting for the school bus. But she wanted more.

It started with the sunflowers. And that meant finding a place to put them (how about in the corner of the yard by the 6’ tall section of fence?). Which meant digging up the blasted Bermuda grass and the Virginia Creeper, and putting down some real dirt, and a landscaping timber or two. The discounted tulips that were past their best at Easter? Why not? They were cheap. Then there were the extra annuals for the containers in the front of the house. And then a Black-Eyed Susan was strategically placed in front of the great gaping hole in the boxwood. And, holy cow, those Crape Myrtles sure do grow quickly. These came up from a long forgotten network of roots, popping up during a dry spell one summer when the grass wasn’t growing. Violets were transplanted from my sister’s farm so we’ll always have part of it at our house. A $1 pack of “wildflower” seeds meant knocking together something resembling a raised bed so they could contained. Luckily there’s a pile of old timbers from the previous owners, or that would have ended up being a $20 pack of seeds.

And we can't forget the marigold that SD coveted and earned by helping the "Plant Lady" at our last reenactment.

Then there are the redbuds. I love redbud trees, and I seem to find a volunteer each year that gets painstaking transplanted, and invariably mowed over. (Call it aggressive pruning.) Well, I’ve moved two so far this spring, found a third, and the one that got mowed flat last year is coming back. So far, so good.
And then I discovered the “scratch and dent” section in the nursery at Lowes. Why not? I’d rather kill a $5 blueberry bush than a $10 one (and after killing 4 in the past few years, these are both are doing very well, thank-you-very-much). And that’s when SD saw the raspberries. “Momma! Look! Raspberries! You love raspberries! Think of the money you’ll save!” I grabbed one, liked the price and put it on the cart. Then the nice gentleman with the mullet and muscle shirt came running over with two more. (No, I have no idea what that was about.)  I managed to resurrect the Catawba grape that got mowed last year. I planted a Carolina Jasmine to cover the chain-link fence. I started some morning glories from seed. I put in some more herbs. I put an azalea in under an oak tree where it’s hard to mow. I pruned back and Shorter Half moved about 20 Barberry bushes to the other side of the fence, closer to the road.
SD got a larger section of flower garden, and plants were procured. Seeing Breda’s tomatoes shamed me into planting a couple of my own. Roma? Safe. Then I picked a variety at random … a Jet Star. Low acid, good for eating and cooking, it said. I got it home and read the fine print. Grows four to six feet tall. Really? Any suggestions on what to use for a tomato cage or should I just ask what what caliber? Attack of the killer tomatoes is right.

O/C Marketing Fail

I try to be a good ambassador when I O/C. I make an effort to not look like a slob, or to act like I’m anything but a safe, sane, typical person. Last Sunday, I failed in that endeavor.

I’d been working in the yard all day, digging holes, pruning, weeding, sowing, transplanting, hauling water, you name it. I had to run to Wally World to pick up some mulch and some groceries, so I took a break and headed out. I did not change clothes, or even apply lip gloss. My pants were dirty, and my arms were so scratched from cutting back the barberry bushes, I looked like I’d been cutting myself. I got home, unloaded the car and got back to work only to realize I’d worn this shirt,

At least this part was on the back.

 and this hat.

Yeah. I'll try really hard not to do that again.

Kid Shoot

As in kids shooting, not shooting kids.

At the NoVA get-together in Stafford at the end of April, the topic of “Take your Daughter to the Range Day” came up. To sum up a long, convoluted conversation, the following were observed …

Some ranges have an age limit due to insurance regulations, and so young kids can’t shoot.

Getting kids started with a pellet gun means you don’t have to wear hearing protection, and so instruction is easier.

An adult can grab the barrel of a pellet gun (or pellet pistol) to maintain muzzle control without worrying about injury.

Targets can be hung at a more appropriate height and distance, and they can be reactive.

Pellet guns, with a proper backstop can be shot in the backyard.

There was more, but you get the idea ...

So, is anybody interested in a Kid Shoot? The date that was kicked around was the first weekend in June (plan on Saturday, rain date for Sunday). Michael W. (retired LEO and firearms instructor) said he’d come up and lend a hand, and JB Miller has a couple of pellet guns and found a really cool target. Sweet Daugter even volunteered to share her purple pistol.

Sweet Daughter, age 4, first time shooting

I could host it here* -- there’s a place to set up in the shade, a swing-set, and BrokenAndy volunteered to bring an inflatable bouncy thing so the kids have something to do in between turns shooting because I’m not anticipating long attention spans.  Frequent changes in activity, yes-- sort of like squirrels on meth. We could wrap up with the adults taking a turn or two, and throwing stuff on the grill.  I’m sure that if this is successful, there will be other ones planned before the summer is over.

I’m open to suggestions – let me know if you might be interested in coming (with or without kids) at dethosp@gmail.com.

*I’m about a half hour from Fredericksburg, VA, about an hour from the north side of Richmond, and about 45 minutes from Waldorf, MD.

Open Carry Day 2012

Okay, so it's two days this year. Open Carry Weekend. The first weekend in June.

If you can do it where you live, try it. You might find you like it.

I owe you guys for a target!

So Sweet Daughter and I made it up to the Range this morning to meet up with a few of the “locals”. We hung up as the rest of the gang showed up. SD entertained herself (and us to some extent) by playing in a drainage ditch at the edge of the parking lot. She was leaping over a culvert with a steep slope up one side and some wobbly rocks over the opening of the ditch.

Me: "SD - be careful playing on those rocks. All I've got with me is Neosporin and bandaids. No needle and thread to sew you up."

Gunnie 1, offhand: "I've got a trauma kit, but I don't know how to use it."

Gunnie 2, helpfully: "I've got some Quick-Clot."

Gunnies are such helpful people.

So the range opens up and we get in line. And the crew grabs 3 lanes. I knew SD couldn’t shoot until she was seven, but I was hoping I could take her in and let her watch. Nope. Insurance regulations.  Two different people offered to watch SD so I could get some trigger time in, and for that I am extremely grateful, but it wasn’t their job to babysit. Besides, you know how there’s always “That Guy” at the range? That was going to be me, today. I could feel it in my bones. The trip started with me leaving my pistol behind and having to go back and get it, and my gun handling skills did not improve as the morning went on. So, I got to meet a couple of new faces and stiff the group for the price of a target.

You see, SD really wanted to take a target home and so we picked one out. And the guy behind the counter wouldn’t sell it to me because it was too much trouble to ring up just one target. He insisted on adding it to your bill. And he wouldn’t let me leave money to pay for it. I know, I could have just put it back and let SD see this as a lesson in Jagger’s Law but I didn’t because I didn’t want to risk a temper tantrum.  And I’m not talking about SD.

So, in closing, it was great to see familiar faces, and to meet new ones. I hope we can do it again sometime when I’m not “That Guy”. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye to y’all, and I owe you a target.

Feeble attempt at an update

First, does anyone want to buy a 150 acre farm/estate just outside of Annapolis? The house was completely gutted and redone with new HVAC, kitchen, wiring, plumbing, etc. It’s on the water. It’s got outbuildings. It’s a long story, but if you’re interested, let me know.

The front of the house

The Atheneum

Looking down towards the water. Yes, there is a dock.

A very small section of the shop. Every shop needs a corkscrew, right?

The view down the driveway. Did I mention the current tenant grows turf?

In other news, Sweet Daughter has started field hockey and seems to be loving it. The schedule is kicking my butt.  I know, I know. Get used to it.

The local library is having an American Girl-themed tea party on Saturday. Sweet Daughter is going with her BFF, and they are encouraged to dress for it. Is it wrong that this is the first thing that popped into my head?

A handful are gathering in Stafford, VA, on Saturday to chew the fat and try to get in some range time. Sweet Daughter and I are going to try to make an appearance so that she can at least see how an indoor range functions. She can’t shoot there until she’s 7, but she should be able to at least take a look around.

More later …

In lieu of actual content ...

Stop those annoying abductions!

Discuss.

UPDATE: Just in case you are wondering, no, I've never made one, nor do I have plans to do so.

The most scared I’ve been on the road

JayG’s got a meme going. I’ve been hit head-on by a drunk, but I didn’t really have time to get scared even though I was on a bridge overpass. There was the time the cruise control wouldn’t turn off, Sweet Daughter was in the car, and the more I braked, the faster the car went to compensate. (I put the car in neutral, steered off the road and turned off the ignition. Waited a minute, and turned it back on. Reboot – it was all good.) This was a little different. This one scares me because of all of the “what ifs?”

It was in the somewhere around 1997, and a weekday as I left work in the DC area for a doctor’s appointment outside of Annapolis. I was driving a 1987 Mitsubishi Mighty Max pickup. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and very few cars were on the road. Which is why I thought it was odd that I was being tailgated by a black sedan – there was plenty of room for him to pass. If slowed down, he slowed down. If I sped up, he sped up. I wasn’t terribly worried, I figured he was just being an ass. Then he pulled up next to me and made eye contact. And that’s when I realized that the situation was Not So Good. I was in a pretty rural area without any exits coming up. Mine was the next exit, but I had, oh, another 5 miles to go.

My mind raced ahead to think about the exit. Partway down the ramp, it divided. The left lane continued its curve (and to this day, I don’t remember where that left lane went), but the right lane cranked right, and then was a fairly straight downhill shot down to the other road.

So, I signaled and moved from the right lane to the left. He followed me. I waited until I was about a half mile from my exit, signaled right, and moved over. He followed right on my tail. I eased off the accelerator, signaled my turn, downshifted into 4th gear, and he tailgated me right on to the exit ramp.

At this point, I started picking up speed, and flipped my turn signal on to indicate I was staying in the left lane. I got going as fast as I thought I could go and not roll the truck, and at the last minute, cranked the wheel right and shot down the other lane of that exit ramp. He flew right past me.

Still being somewhat of a trusting soul naïve idiot, I figured it was just some jerk trying to intimidate me. At least until I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that he had stopped his car on the ramp, had gotten out, and was literally shaking his fist at me. And that’s when I got scared.*

Yeah. My blood pressure reading was a little high that visit.

*And to illustrate my former cluelessness further, it wasn't until years later when retelling the story that it dawned on me that he might have had duct tape, Hefty bags, a bow saw, and prior "trophies" in trunk of his. I'm a very lucky person, indeed.

Sweet Daughter guest blogs

On noon on Saturday, I finished another 18th century girls gown for Sweet Daughter's best friend. Her birthday party was at 2:00. Finished in plenty of time!

I looked at SD and said "Do you know what I'm sewing tomorrow?"

She looked at me expectantly and said "What, Mama?"

"NOTHING."

And so, on that note, I'm letting SD guest blog with a creative writing assignment she had in class. The assignment (1st grade) was to write 3 or more sentences about a leprechaun. Here it is, complete with creative spelling.

Once upon a time there was a leprechaun. He was very quite.* Once I saw him under a bush. I asked him for his gold he said to look under Scottland. I took an airplane to Scottland. I dug up Scottland and found no gold. The sneeky leprchaun tricked me. I dup up the whole Earth but I found no gold. So finaly I caut that leperchaun. He said his gold was not on Earth it was on Jupiter!** He burried his gold in Jupiter's red spot! I'll never find it I can't bleve you burried the gold in JUPITER! He said "OK! OK! OK! I will go get the gold. I'll be back in 100 days." "If you don't bring it to me I will crush you! Now GO!" So the leprechaun went to Jupiter. But all he brought me was the big red spot. I said I would crush him if he did not put the red spot back and get the gold! He said his friends would help the leprerchaun dig up Jupiter. He found the gold and I got the gold!

* quiet

** I thought this would have been a great opportunity to substitute Uranus, but I really don't want to contemplate a red spot on Uranus.

The Newbius Meme

 I met Newbius in Charlotte, NC, at the NRA convention, and had the honor of sitting next t him for a good part of the evening. In a room full of well-known names, Newbius took the time to make this  shy new blogger feel welcome. He was gracious and smart, and a wonderful example of how to welcome someone into the fold. In honor of Newbius, and all the wonderful things being said about him, I’d like to start a meme so that fellow-bloggers can hear those compliments first hand. I could go on and on about most of the people on my side-bar, but I’m only going to pick a couple. I’m not tagging anyone. Say something nice about another blogger if you like. Run with it or not.

My blog-father, JayG. He let me hijack his blog when I needed to ask about buying a pistol for a four-year-old. I didn’t know y’all very well yet, and had visions of someone calling the police. Instead I got a lot of advice and even more encouragement from JayG and his readers. JayG encouraged me to start blogging even though I didn’t have a clue as to what I’d write about that anyone would find interesting. He’s unfailingly polite, and generous to a fault. When asked, he’s given useful advice on everything from guns to model cars to kids. When I met him at the 2010 NRA convention, he greeted me like he’d known me half his life and introduced me around when I was feeling shy around all the cool kids. JayG has shown me that it’s okay to come out of my shell and join the party because, well, why not? It’s a party.

Breda. She befriended me at the blogger dinner in Charlotte, and allowed Sweet Daughter to monopolize a good part of her evening. Same thing in Pittsburgh. SD all but surgically attached herself to Breda’s hip for a good part of the afternoon, and  Breda was marvelous about it. She’s one of those rare people whom I won’t be in touch with for weeks, but when we do touch base we pick up right where we left off without any whining as to why I haven’t been in touch - don’t I like her any more?? She is a marvelous role model for SD who adores her, and one of those people I want to be like when I grow up. But taller.

Michael W., whom the reenacting world knows as Dr. Mike. I met Mike in 1994, and was invited to join his reenacting group 10 years ago. To this day, I’m still not sure why as I don’t do, or have any interest in, a medical impression. In addition to his encyclopedic knowledge about 18^th century medicine, dentistry, knotwork, ad infinitum, he’s a man of many talents – Cutler to the Stars®, gunsmith, horner, leather worker, firearms instructor, to name a few. He can also tell me what I may or may not want to hear what without pretense or pulling any punches. He’s not subtle, and occasionally he’s not tactful, but I can count on him to have my back at all times, and to give me the shirt off his if I need it.

Sweet Daughter (ahem) cooks

At MTA Sweet Daughter watched our cook prepare this amazing salmagundi.

I know, I know. Navel oranges hadn't been developed yet.

Later that day, she decided to make her own "salad". She took the redware pan we'd make the venison pasty in (with bit of crust still attached) and asked for contributions. There was a heel of cabbage, and a leftover carrot and parsnip. I pulled some onion slices out of the fire (a.k.a. trash pit) and the cook donated the top of a leek. There are a few red potato slices as well.

For the finishing touch, she added grapes. She then wanted it placed over the fire. Our cook graciously indulged her, and added water.

Chock full o' vitamins!

After a while, it was taken from the fire and allowed to cool. I was then asked to sample it. Uh ... I thought this was all "pretend", hence the vegetables salvaged from the fire pit.

"Try it, Mama!"

I tried to distract and redirect, to deflect, to otherwise figure out a way I could weasel out with my honor intact. It was impossible to even try. What self-respecting mom could say "no" to this?? Not I. So knowing the history of the grapes (washed before being added to the melange), I chose to impale myself on that particular sword, figuring that the whole thing had been heated pretty thoroughly, and I wasn't likely to die from a few grapes. Well, I'm typing this so I can affirm that I did not die, or even get ill, but those were some interesting grapes. They were still hot and completely infused with the flavor of onion. With a hint of venison.

For the event at Petersburg next month, I'm planning ahead. There will be kid-friendly food to prepare and if I have anything to do with it, grapes and onions never the twain shall meet.

Patching a shirt

So, our cook had an unfortunate incident at MTA last year. As he was bending over the cook fire, the fire went all Rice Crispies on him with a snap, crackle and pop. Fire do that all the time, right?

Well, “… man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.” As he was bending down, some sparks went up, which, from the cooks perspective was down his shirt. But he didn’t know it at the time. He stood up and felt something warm. He looked down and saw nothing. Then he felt hot. And saw his waistcoat smolder. From the inside out. He yelped for help, and I grabbed the hem of my gown and shoved it down inside his shirt between him and the ember and patted it out.

We now keep a linen rag in the buckets of water we keep by the fire.

Anyhow, the shirt needed help. In the 18^th century one didn’t sew a square of fabric over the hole and call it a day. Precious little remains of original utilitarian garments. They were used, repaired, repurposed and then sold to the rag man. Near as we can tell, holes were patched from the back in fabric that matched as closely as possible to the original, and done in a neat and workmanlike manner.

Sewing a rolled hem. Ugh - I should have worn my glasses - this is horribly uneven.

 

Since I made the shirt to begin with, I kept the remnants of the lovely cambric linen, so I was good there. I matched the damaged front edge to the undamaged edge to see how much had been burned away. I took a scrap of cambric and made a new hand-rolled edge and positioned it in the gap and stitched it in place.

Completed rolled edge.

Patch pinned in place.

Then I pinned the edges of the shirt on top of the remnant. I trimmed off the singed edges, turned the raw edges under and carefully stitched them to the patch. Then I turned the shirt over and trimmed the excess patch away, leaving no more than a quarter inch. Then I turned the edge of the patch under, and stitched to the shirt.

Partially sewn - from the front.

Done. And now that I look at it closely, I'm not that impressed. So much for "neat and workmanlike". Next time, less of a rush and I'll wear my reading glasses. *sigh* Note the slight difference in color? The linen will continue to bleach as it's washed and exposed to sunlight.

Brief update

Wool gown sewn for MTA?

Check.

Weather forecast for 80 degrees?

Check.

Resulting in frantic sewing on dimity gown?

Gown bodice from the back.

Check.

Dump the responsibility for the cooking competition to include documentation on our cook?

Check.

Mend the hole in the cook's shirt from where a stray spark took up residence between said shirt and skin?

Check.

Tie for first place in the cooking contest?

One of our entries in the cooking competition - Salmagundi. There are greens, chicken, ham, anchovies, egg whites, egg yolks, anchovies, orange slices, fried chicken skin, rose petals, and butter in the shape of a pine cone.

Check. (Previous best has been third place. Twice.)

Frantic sewing this week for a coworker who “Fights With Foam”? to include a both linen and woolen fighting tunics.

Underarm gusset

The sleeves were lined with a linen blend and hemmed with this nifty stitch that keeps the wool from fraying but doesn't add bulk.

Triangular gore added to the center front and back. Quality materials make this so much easier.

Check.

Need to start a gown for Sweet Daughter’s best friend (birthday party next Saturday).

Check.

Oh, and at some point, after spending a morning in the wind selling Girl Scout cookies in February, I decided our table needed to be upholstered. Sweet Daughter picked the font for the lettering. I am so not like other moms.

More when I come up for air.

I'm not dead, I'm just sewing.

I knew that Sweet Daughter had outgrown her shifts for reenacting, and while shoveling out my sewing room, I somehow came across no fewer that four in various stages of completion, all of which fit in some manner. I got them all done. Score!

Horrible picture. Oh, well.

I thought SD could get one more season out of her gowns -- after all, they laced all the way shut last October, and you can leave a 2" gap if necessary. Somehow, I had a brief moment of lucidity and decided to try them on to confirm.

Apparently she's been in the midst of non-stop growth spurt since September. She couldn't even get her arms in the sleeves. I found one hand-me-down gown that fits, other than being a bit short, and being of the mindset that it's better than nothing, asked SD what she thought. She clearly had some sort of issue with it, but was sucking it up and said it was "fine". I finally got her to tell me what was wrong. She hated the shade of pink. So some red dye, and a little black dye (it looks like grape juice when I mixed it up), a crock-pot and about 45 minutes gave me the following ...

Before.

After. No more Pepto Bismal pink. It's actually a lovely shade of rose.

Since out first event of the season is in mid-March, and the weather can range from sleet to short-sleeve weather, I decided to start with a wool gown. I figured that if we prepared for the sleet, we'd get 80 degrees.

Bodice from the back. The sleeve is turned up with a remnant of a more expensive cotton print. The lining is done with another remnant. There is boning up the center edges, and eyelet holes for lacing the gown shut.

Growth tucks along the bottom. The hem is finished by binding the bottom with twill tape. This reduces bulk and is more wear-resistant than the wool, and can be replaced if worn through. As SD gets taller, I'll pull the stitching out of the pleats to lengthen the skirt.

Just two to go ... one in linen, and one in dimity.

Remember the war dead remains that went to the landfill?

Apparently, it has remains from 9/11 too!
"The practice at Dover of cremating partial remains and sending them to a landfill began shortly after Sept. 11, 2001, the report said, 'when several portions of remains from the Pentagon attack and the Shanksville, Pa., crash site could not be tested or identified.'"

The county Board of Supervisors does not, at this time, seem to be enthusiastic about erecting any sort of memorial or consecrating the site -- even through donations and at no cost to taxpayers.

The BoS may be reached here if you would like to offer an opinion.

Schimmel

I have an e-acquaintance from one of my 18th century lists who is looking for some information. Can anyone lend a hand?

Looking for help in tracking down the German word Schimmel.
I know schimmel as meaning "Grandpa's" old barn gun.
A barn gun was a very plain flintlock rifle - one which was sturdy enough to stay year in-year out in its designated place in the barn. It was NOT "a piece of junk" - it was a highly accurate and reliable vermin killer. It was not exactly a "frontier" gun because it was not kept in the house, but rather was always in the barn, handy for use on the spot.

We did find the definition below, but it does not seem to expand to cover a rifle.

Does any out there - perhaps Mohawk Valley Platts Deutsch or "Pennsylvania German -
recognize a schimmel as a "barn gun" of the era?

Schimmel : Old High German
- mold, mildew, to become moldy, a white horse, a grey horse

Thanks, all!

Honest Gun Owners Meme

My blogfather tagged me in the latest gun meme that started here.

"I will write down 5 things that indicate, to me, that a gun owner or shooter maybe is an honest one; I say 'maybe' because I have known some seemingly honest gun owners to tell some really tall tales. Then I will tag 5 other gun owners who are also bloggers and I hope each will play along, each listing, in their blogs, at least 3 things that are indicative a gun owner is an honest one, then sending the challenge of this meme on to 5 other gun owner who are also bloggers."

Here's what I've got:

You have more than one holster that fits each handgun you own as a result of well … lots of reasons. You thought IWB would work. It came with the pistol. It was too inexpensive to pass up.  It seemed like a good idea at the time. Someone told you you should buy it.

Someone asks if you’d like to shoot their gun, and you say “Sure! Can you show me how?” Okay. Maybe that one’s just for me, but I’d rather ask for instruction than beg for forgiveness. Because if there is one thing I know, it’s how much I don’t know.

You own a weapon strictly for its historical/sentimental value, even if it’s a piece of crap.

Somebody posts about something stupid they’ve done with a firearm to serve as a warning or example of what not to do, and after heaving a sigh of relief that nobody died and realizing that there but for the grace of God go I, you notice that the comments are full of respectful commentary, including at least one “Me, too.”

And the corollary to the above: You’re not a d!ck. I’ve seen some rather, um, intense discussions on topics that completely elude me. Or subjects that, to me, don’t really seem to matter in the long run. Or occasionally even about something where I know enough to actually have an opinion. But for the most part, you can passionately disagree without being rude.

So, now I have to tag 5 more, and so I'm going to pick some locals who will undoubtedly be much more insightful than I.

Old NFO
MSgt B
JB Miller
CTone
Andy

Northern VA Blogshoot/Meet Thing

Alternate title A: Hide and Seek

Alternate title B: Marco Polo

Alternate title C: Chinese Fire Drill

Alternate title D: CTone and Andy are my heroes.

The Miller (alternate title: “My buddy the gun enthusiast”) organized a northern VA get-together. Living 80 or so miles away, I knew there was no way in this lifetime (or any other) that I was going to make it to the range by 7:30. I didn’t even bother to bring my range bag, and considering that those who showed up at 7:40 had a 20 minute wait, that was a wise decision. So, Sweet Daughter and I hit the road about 9:00 and headed north by northwest. I had the address programmed into my Garmin, and having been hosed by that stubborn little device before, had also printed out directions from MapQuest. Things were looking good.

We were within 2 mile of NRA headquarters (with SD reading off the directions for me) and it was looking promising. That’s when I made my first mistake. Garmin told me to do something different, and I believed the stupid computer instead of the printout and map I’d confirmed with my own eyes. The next thing I knew, we were on a major highway, with HQ flashing past at 60 mph on our right, Garmin telling me we’d reached our destination, and me protesting “But we can’t get there from here!!”

So, I got off the highway and had the brilliant idea to tell the stupid computer to take us to our lunch destination (that I had carefully programmed in after confirming the map on The Miller’s post to the map from the corporate web site to make sure I was going to the right place). I figured I could find HQ from there. That worked after a fashion and we arrived at NRA HQ. We headed down to the range to see if we recognized anybody. Nope.

Up to the museum. Ditto.

Into the gift shop and back out. Three for three.

Things were looking bleak, but I had an ace in the hole! I had CTone’s phone number from a previous range trip! I called, he answered, and we figured I must have walked into the gift shop about 17 seconds after they had all left. He was on his way home, but the rest of the gang was headed to lunch. Great! I could catch up with them there. SD and I hopped in the car and headed down the road. Less than a mile to our destination of Ruby Tuesdays, and the Garmin and the printed directions matched. What could go wrong?

Except that when we arrived at our destination, there was no Ruby Tuesday. We circled the parking lot. We drove behind buildings. I asked someone on the sidewalk if they knew where it was, and they told me it was no longer Ruby Tuesday, but was called something else, now. I called CTone back and left a message describing our plight and asking if he had anyone’s phone number so I could figure out at what point I’d jumped into this parallel universe. SD and I found a McDonalds, and we bought drinks and I pulled out my laptop thinking that I might be able to figure something out when CTone called me back and gave me Andy’s number. I called Andy and left a message explaining that there was no Ruby Tuesday. He called back and explained that they’d decided to go somewhere else anyway, and that they were done eating, but that they’d be happy to meet us somewhere for dessert and coffee while we had lunch. Since I had no idea where anything was, and was NOT about to put my fate into the hands of the Garmin again, we decided to meet back at NRA HQ. I could find that!

At this point, SD pretty much said she needed something to eat before she died on the spot. We grabbed some chicken nuggets and headed out the door. I figured if I told her to hang on as we’d been eating in a few minutes, we’d get misdirected and end up in West Virginia or something. So, we made it back to HQ. I saw Andy and The Miller (I’d met them before) and got to meet MSgtB. Who works in the same small town that I do. (WHAT are the odds?) A new eating establishment was selected and I stated in no uncertain terms that I was FOLLOWING somebody.

And we arrived. And had lunch, and coffee and pie. And I got to meet a handful of new people who I want to thank very, very much for taking another hour or so out of their day so come hang out. It was a pleasure to see The Miller and Andy again, and to meet new folks. And SD learned some valuable lessons.

1.       Have a plan. (Garmin)

2.       Have a back-up plan. (Printed directions)

3.       Have plan C. (Fine. We’ll just meet for lunch.)

4.       Explain that it’s okay to be frustrated, or upset as long as you react appropriately. Yelling doesn’t help. Cursing an inanimate object doesn’t help. Put it in perspective. (It’s not like we’re going to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere, or starve to death.)

5.       Try to think of another solution. (Hey! I have CTone’s number!)

6.       Sometimes you just have to make it up as you go along, so be flexible.

7.       And luckily it didn’t happen today, but sometimes, no matter how well you plan and prepare, you’re just going to get hosed. So you deal with it and move on.

8.       Which just reinforces that you should carry your gun. Because there are days when the universe hates you, and it just might make the difference as to whether you’re the windshield or the bug.