His name might have been Rick. It's been so many years, and it really wasn't important to me at the time anyway. It was back when I was a lonely freshman on campus and he was an upperclassman fraternity brother. Not just any fraternity, no, this was Alpha Tau Omego, ATO for short, right across the street from my dorm, home to the supposedly smart guys. They weren't like the "Teeks" who decided to flood their frat house basement for want of their own swimming pool, destroying its foundation and shutting down that frat on the campus, at least for a while. Not following that news, I have no clue how long it lasted.
Since I have been unable to come up with a better name for him, I'll call him Rick here. If it's wrong, he may thank me. He wasn't all that impressive, despite being an upperclassman and an ATO. There was just that one thing about him: some nincompoop on the faculty entrusted him with a key to the swimming pool, the real one, which he could and did use to offer younger females the chance to go for an evening swim with him. (Hey, I couldn't have been the only one, right? Even I figured that out.)
In all my life, there have been few physical activities which I actually enjoyed, and swimming was the first of them, once I finally learned how and managed to secure a reliable set of noseplugs. Bicycling was another early one, but by that time I was considered - and considered myself to be - too old for that. Later would come beledi and other forms of dancing, occasional canoing, and hiking over whatever terrain as long as a camera was involved. At the time of Rick's invitation, swimming was still big on my list of favorite activities, so without much thought, I answered, "Yes." After all, swimming! Didn't matter that it was late at night - that was part of the thrill, being forbidden, and if caught I could assure whatever authorities that Rick had assured me that this was perfectly OK - or that I didn't particularly know or feel attracted to Rick, because, hey! Swimming!
I know: unbelievably naive, right? Besides selfish, as well.
By fifteen minutes into the swim, I had a revelation. I had never realized that swimming could be boring! It turns out that even worse than having no company was being in the wrong company. If I drooled over fit guys, I suppose it could have been entertaining enough. But I didn't. And nothing that evening told me that Rick was very interesting to know, aside from his having that magic key, and despite his being in the "smart" fraternity. I really couldn't swim the way I wanted to, because Rick kept crowding me . I was a good enough swimmer that I kept getting away from him, back into my personal comfort space though it wasn't known as such those days, and he let me. I'd guess it was a fairly novel experience for him, being so thoroughly avoided, and finding out it wasn't just a game of playing coy. I really was only interested in the swimming.
The grown up me would feel like I owed him an apology for that, except for what came later.
I knew just enough about him that I knew he was engaged to some girl from wherever "back home" was, and was operating on the idea that his actions in the pool would respect that. I know: unbelievably naive again, right? Maybe just unbelievably lucky that actual rape wasn't on his mind. But with both of us being bored with how the evening was going, it wasn't a disappointment when it ended fairly quickly. The swim was refreshing, not to be repeated, end of story.
Or so I thought.
I was also unbelievably naive about what guys go back and report to their "brothers" about what happens on a date like that. They can't just say it was OK, but hey, didn't meet expectations. Nope.
"SCORE!!!"
I didn't find out about that addendum to our swimming date for several weeks. It came in the form of Ann F. and Gerri T., two girls who lived a couple doors down the hall in the dorm. They were, I decided later, the kind of people who love sticking their noses deep into somebody else's business, the worse news they carried the better, all in the smug sanctimoniousness of doing it "for somebody's own good."
It started as a warning. I was to quit chasing Tom M. and some other guy whose name is lost in the mists of indifference. I kind of thought I knew who Tom was, another fraternity brother, hence viewed across the street on occasion, but had no clue either on who the second one was or where this was all coming from. After much back and forth with Ann and Gerri, I found out, and it was ludicrous. It was almost laughable, except that this was back in the day when these kind of slurs on a reputation meant something.
Switch back to first term astronomy class. I got there a bit late the first day and my seat was towards the rear of the auditorium and off to one side. I'm not sure why this didn't change, whether those default seats were assigned or it was just habit. I didn't think it mattered as I could hear and see well enough to learn what I needed to for my "A". The professor stood down in the center, and as it turned out, right in front of Tom and Whoosit in the center front row. I actually had noticed them in class, not just because they were in my direct line of sight but because they both kept turning back and looking somewhere over in my direction. Since their actions had nothing to do with me, I paid them little note other than thinking them foolish, and just kept my eyes and ears on the professor.
Somewhere in their little pea brains attached to highly oversized egos, they concocted the idea that I was busy staring at them all through class! As for supposedly chasing them, I have no recollection of ever speaking to either of them. Nor wanting to. Especially after hearing about this from Ann and Gerri.
I tried to point out to Ann and Gerri how ridiculous this all was, but found I was getting nowhere with them. It was all because of Rick, you see. They wanted me to be sure to know that I ruined his engagement because of seducing him that night in the pool!
Whoa! Wait! What?
Not only had that never happened but if any so-called news of it reached his fiancee, it was all on his own head, either his excuse for other fooling around or some credulous frat brother letting something slip during a visit. I figure the fiancee was lucky they broke up, though I wouldn't say that to Ann and Gerri.
As it turned out, I managed to say little to nothing at all to the two of them for the rest of my time on that campus. Ever. On any topic.
I still wouldn't, not on any polite topic. Of course I'd have to be re-introduced to them to know who they were. We've all changed over nearly 50 years. Perhaps that's a blessing. I'm not so guarded with my tongue these days as I was then. I'd likely inquire whether they'd reaped as much misery as they delighted in spreading. It's tempting to hope so.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Spring Marches On
You can only call it spring on the calendar. Days typically are in the 90s, a couple each week over 100. But they're not calling it monsoon season yet, so for the native Arizonans I guess it's still spring.
The yard has been cleaned up. Filipe came over with his blower and rakes and got up the pine straw and accumulations of dead leaves so it looks neat again. The bird seed block had just been finished but we waited a week to put the new one out, mostly laziness since it was sitting inside the house waiting, and the seed eating birds are returning to the back yard. It's mostly pigeons and dove varieties, but quail are coming back as well.
I hadn't seen quail in our yard for a couple weeks, though I haven't spent time looking either, getting organized for the upcoming surgery. No further baby quail, or larger youngsters have been seen, so I'm thinking they haven't had a good year. We have a neighbor who lets a cat roam at night, and it's easy to pin the blame there. The first pair of adults hitting the block this afternoon caught my attention. I couldn't figure out why they looked weird until I decided the female was limping. A further look from a better angle showed she was sans tail as well, so just had some kind of narrow escape. The male was keeping quite close to her as they crossed the yard.
The best rain of the season just hit, bringing us up to over an inch YTD. It was the same day the back yard got cleaned, starting just as the tools were being loaded into the truck, and it was a joy to look out after it fell and see standing puddles in the low spots, including around the trees we haven't watered since we returned last fall. They are thriving, by the way. Our palo verde doubled its height this last year, the desert willow is just finishing blooming, and the palo blanco has a hummingbird who has staked out its territory among the dozen or so seed pods resulting from hundreds of fuzzy pale catkins it bore earlier. One sees them all in silhouette, so you have to sort out the pod-looking-thing with a beak from the others.
The new bushes from last fall are still being watered and are thriving. The only one not yet showing signs of blooming is the Texas mountain laurel, but it's still just 2' tall. Maybe next year. The ones lining Hwy. 60 that we see on the way to Surprise are bearing clusters of buds, still greyish at this point, but I remember their abundance of purple from last year. Our little sage has bloomed twice now, the orange bells has never stopped blooming from its original foliage and has sent up nearly twice again the number of new shoots for next year's blooms, and the yellow bird of paradise, of which we cut back its single stem in February, now has two very tall stems, one bearing a bud cluster looking very healthy.
The honeysuckle, also cut back last winter, is twice as tall and just as full. We don't expect blossoms until fall. The biggest and best surprise has been the San Marcos Hibiscus. It's first pale yellow bloom was both a delight and a lucky sighting as we have found out they open for only a single day. A closer look shows all the stems lined with buds, and while one may bloom from a stem every few days, with all those stems suddenly growing every which way, it's not uncommon to see six or seven blossoms in a single day.
The big old ocatillo in the corner has bloomed its prettiest that we've seen since moving down, thanks to a broken lemon tree branch across the fence that was shading it until last fall. The young ones along the east fence are thriving, especially now that we realized the rabbits were nipping them across their tops and we had to replace their wire cages with ones twice as tall. No blooms there yet, of course, but we started with 6" tall babies. The blue agaves planted between them along the fence are thriving, even the one I thought I completely squished when I fell on it while doing the planting.
Tough old birds.
Our red yuccas in the front are surviving despite rabbit predation early and ongoing, even with their chicken wire cages. But one is stubborn enough to have sent up two flower stalks this season, charming both us and the resident front yard hummer. It now bears several growing seed pods even while still bearing profusely. Of the rest of the front yard plantings, the healthiest are still the rocks, so I guess it's a good thing we have a lot of those.
I have four more days to get through before surgery #2 . I really miss my ibuprofin! For a week I have to forgo all medicines considered blood thinners, so all I have left are Percosets. Since everybody has decided, absent actual evidence, that Prince is merely the latest famous person to die from opioid OD, everybody's jumping on the no painkillers bandwagon, at least in public. That leaves me concerned, not about personal addiction, but about personal access to an effective supply after we head back up north. It's one of the reasons I've been working so hard to cut back my usage, i.e. stockpiling, the other being that I can. Doc prescribed 3 per day (5/325) for this week, but I've been limiting myself to two, taking half tablets 4x day. It nearly works, but I miss the ibuprofin most in bed when I go to roll over from one side to the other. Legs get tangled in sheets, or rest on the other at some non-flat angle, and "ow-ow-ow-ow" is how I wake up. About 6 times every night. I need my anti-inflamatory too, and won't get it for about three weeks. Good thing I can sleep days.
Otherwise, I've been having Steve drive me around for appointments, shopping, etc. There are no more 8 hour periods since the last Perc, so I'm not legal. Again. But groceries are stocked, laundry is done but not put away, Ellie is shaved down, the biggest Fred furballs are picked up off the floors, the wedding ring is where we both know how to find it after I can wear it again, the calendar is full of appointments. I got an unexpected one today because the surgeon forget this 2nd time to get a "long bone" x-ray so they can tell how long my leg should be when they are finished. No, they assure me they can't make me an inch taller in the process! Darn!
There's been a lot of sitting around, reading, catching up on missed TV episodes, watching everybody else's bad weather on the news, snickering at alarm over annother 2-point-something earthquake up in the northwest corner of the state, loudly contemptuous over news anchors who still think Arizona is going to become beachfront property. Even worse was the "expert" who assured them it wouldn't happen for at least a million years, totally ignoring that the California plate is riding up over ours rather than preparing to fall off into the ocean.
Twit!
We definitely need a better educational system.
The yard has been cleaned up. Filipe came over with his blower and rakes and got up the pine straw and accumulations of dead leaves so it looks neat again. The bird seed block had just been finished but we waited a week to put the new one out, mostly laziness since it was sitting inside the house waiting, and the seed eating birds are returning to the back yard. It's mostly pigeons and dove varieties, but quail are coming back as well.
I hadn't seen quail in our yard for a couple weeks, though I haven't spent time looking either, getting organized for the upcoming surgery. No further baby quail, or larger youngsters have been seen, so I'm thinking they haven't had a good year. We have a neighbor who lets a cat roam at night, and it's easy to pin the blame there. The first pair of adults hitting the block this afternoon caught my attention. I couldn't figure out why they looked weird until I decided the female was limping. A further look from a better angle showed she was sans tail as well, so just had some kind of narrow escape. The male was keeping quite close to her as they crossed the yard.
The best rain of the season just hit, bringing us up to over an inch YTD. It was the same day the back yard got cleaned, starting just as the tools were being loaded into the truck, and it was a joy to look out after it fell and see standing puddles in the low spots, including around the trees we haven't watered since we returned last fall. They are thriving, by the way. Our palo verde doubled its height this last year, the desert willow is just finishing blooming, and the palo blanco has a hummingbird who has staked out its territory among the dozen or so seed pods resulting from hundreds of fuzzy pale catkins it bore earlier. One sees them all in silhouette, so you have to sort out the pod-looking-thing with a beak from the others.
The new bushes from last fall are still being watered and are thriving. The only one not yet showing signs of blooming is the Texas mountain laurel, but it's still just 2' tall. Maybe next year. The ones lining Hwy. 60 that we see on the way to Surprise are bearing clusters of buds, still greyish at this point, but I remember their abundance of purple from last year. Our little sage has bloomed twice now, the orange bells has never stopped blooming from its original foliage and has sent up nearly twice again the number of new shoots for next year's blooms, and the yellow bird of paradise, of which we cut back its single stem in February, now has two very tall stems, one bearing a bud cluster looking very healthy.
The honeysuckle, also cut back last winter, is twice as tall and just as full. We don't expect blossoms until fall. The biggest and best surprise has been the San Marcos Hibiscus. It's first pale yellow bloom was both a delight and a lucky sighting as we have found out they open for only a single day. A closer look shows all the stems lined with buds, and while one may bloom from a stem every few days, with all those stems suddenly growing every which way, it's not uncommon to see six or seven blossoms in a single day.
The big old ocatillo in the corner has bloomed its prettiest that we've seen since moving down, thanks to a broken lemon tree branch across the fence that was shading it until last fall. The young ones along the east fence are thriving, especially now that we realized the rabbits were nipping them across their tops and we had to replace their wire cages with ones twice as tall. No blooms there yet, of course, but we started with 6" tall babies. The blue agaves planted between them along the fence are thriving, even the one I thought I completely squished when I fell on it while doing the planting.
Tough old birds.
Our red yuccas in the front are surviving despite rabbit predation early and ongoing, even with their chicken wire cages. But one is stubborn enough to have sent up two flower stalks this season, charming both us and the resident front yard hummer. It now bears several growing seed pods even while still bearing profusely. Of the rest of the front yard plantings, the healthiest are still the rocks, so I guess it's a good thing we have a lot of those.
I have four more days to get through before surgery #2 . I really miss my ibuprofin! For a week I have to forgo all medicines considered blood thinners, so all I have left are Percosets. Since everybody has decided, absent actual evidence, that Prince is merely the latest famous person to die from opioid OD, everybody's jumping on the no painkillers bandwagon, at least in public. That leaves me concerned, not about personal addiction, but about personal access to an effective supply after we head back up north. It's one of the reasons I've been working so hard to cut back my usage, i.e. stockpiling, the other being that I can. Doc prescribed 3 per day (5/325) for this week, but I've been limiting myself to two, taking half tablets 4x day. It nearly works, but I miss the ibuprofin most in bed when I go to roll over from one side to the other. Legs get tangled in sheets, or rest on the other at some non-flat angle, and "ow-ow-ow-ow" is how I wake up. About 6 times every night. I need my anti-inflamatory too, and won't get it for about three weeks. Good thing I can sleep days.
Otherwise, I've been having Steve drive me around for appointments, shopping, etc. There are no more 8 hour periods since the last Perc, so I'm not legal. Again. But groceries are stocked, laundry is done but not put away, Ellie is shaved down, the biggest Fred furballs are picked up off the floors, the wedding ring is where we both know how to find it after I can wear it again, the calendar is full of appointments. I got an unexpected one today because the surgeon forget this 2nd time to get a "long bone" x-ray so they can tell how long my leg should be when they are finished. No, they assure me they can't make me an inch taller in the process! Darn!
There's been a lot of sitting around, reading, catching up on missed TV episodes, watching everybody else's bad weather on the news, snickering at alarm over annother 2-point-something earthquake up in the northwest corner of the state, loudly contemptuous over news anchors who still think Arizona is going to become beachfront property. Even worse was the "expert" who assured them it wouldn't happen for at least a million years, totally ignoring that the California plate is riding up over ours rather than preparing to fall off into the ocean.
Twit!
We definitely need a better educational system.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Bird Brain
Literally! And demonstrably earning the denigration implied in the name.
Near as I can tell, after pouring through the bird identification pictures, and doing that only after actually holding it in my hands, it's a curve billed thrasher.
It's been around for a while. It likes the hummingbird feeders, it's bill narrow enough to poke inside the openings and grab itself a drink. We cut off the perching rings the feeders come with as a way if letting the hummingbirds rest while they eat, because they made it too handy for the thrasher. It wasn't deterred, however, hooking one foot around the plastic flower, the other around the wire hanger, and thus secured, dipping its bill into the sugar water. As territorial as the hummers are, they seem to have given up on dive bombing the bigger bird that simply ignores them until it's finished anyway.
With the first line of defense against it now useless, I gave up fighting it, partly in admiration for its cleverness, partly because the hummers don't drain the feeder fast enough anyway to keep the sugar from drying out in crystals on the bottom. It's much harder to clean that way before refills. So, what the heck.
It has gotten easier for us to passively allow the dogs access to the back yard by leaving the patio slider open during the day. Very few bugs fly in, perhaps two flies a week, and there are fewer puddles to wipe up when our timing doesn't quite match the dogs'. Lately however the thrasher has gotten to be a regular visitor - inside the house.
We're not sure why. Every time it ventures inside it gets terrorized by the dogs. They think it great sport to chase it around, and manage each time to get the little birdbrain to leave behind a few feathers in its panicked flights from curtains to windows to Steve's hats to the picture frame for which I think we have the right kind of glue, to... well, any and every where. The formerly clean and folded towels on top of the dryer. The window blinds, from which it requires an assist in freeing its wings. Cabinet tops. Chair backs. The fireplace mantle.
It takes a while and several sharp commands to call the dogs off and enclose them in another room so the bird can calm down enough to find its way out again. Usually in a half hour it's gone after being left completely alone. I've found that my chasing it does exactly as much good at encouraging it to locate the door it came in through as does having the dogs chase it. So I don't try.
Usually.
This morning they chased it into a corner of the floor between the wall and a display cabinet. Fred could nearly push himself into the space. Ellie did, dragging the bird out in her mouth before dropping it at my command. The bird huddled back into the corner where I was able to slowly surround it by my hands and scoop it up gently. It didn't seem to be hurt, despite new piles of feathers on the floor, and was not fighting my holding it once I had it securely in my hands. (It hadn't been too thrilled when I first only managed to hold onto a single wing.)
Taking it back out to the patio to check it out further for injuries, it began to struggle in my hands. I tossed it up slightly and it flew off to the fence top at the edge of the yard, perched for a few seconds, and disappeared. I presume it is fine.
However, from what it has shown of a learning curve so far, I do not presume that it has learned to stay out of the house. One of these days it may discover a different set of consequences. Perhaps I'll simply come home to a much bigger pile of feathers on the floor. But they are much easier to clean up than the other kind of doggie presents, so I'm thinking we'll still keep a door open for the dogs.
Near as I can tell, after pouring through the bird identification pictures, and doing that only after actually holding it in my hands, it's a curve billed thrasher.
It's been around for a while. It likes the hummingbird feeders, it's bill narrow enough to poke inside the openings and grab itself a drink. We cut off the perching rings the feeders come with as a way if letting the hummingbirds rest while they eat, because they made it too handy for the thrasher. It wasn't deterred, however, hooking one foot around the plastic flower, the other around the wire hanger, and thus secured, dipping its bill into the sugar water. As territorial as the hummers are, they seem to have given up on dive bombing the bigger bird that simply ignores them until it's finished anyway.
With the first line of defense against it now useless, I gave up fighting it, partly in admiration for its cleverness, partly because the hummers don't drain the feeder fast enough anyway to keep the sugar from drying out in crystals on the bottom. It's much harder to clean that way before refills. So, what the heck.
It has gotten easier for us to passively allow the dogs access to the back yard by leaving the patio slider open during the day. Very few bugs fly in, perhaps two flies a week, and there are fewer puddles to wipe up when our timing doesn't quite match the dogs'. Lately however the thrasher has gotten to be a regular visitor - inside the house.
We're not sure why. Every time it ventures inside it gets terrorized by the dogs. They think it great sport to chase it around, and manage each time to get the little birdbrain to leave behind a few feathers in its panicked flights from curtains to windows to Steve's hats to the picture frame for which I think we have the right kind of glue, to... well, any and every where. The formerly clean and folded towels on top of the dryer. The window blinds, from which it requires an assist in freeing its wings. Cabinet tops. Chair backs. The fireplace mantle.
It takes a while and several sharp commands to call the dogs off and enclose them in another room so the bird can calm down enough to find its way out again. Usually in a half hour it's gone after being left completely alone. I've found that my chasing it does exactly as much good at encouraging it to locate the door it came in through as does having the dogs chase it. So I don't try.
Usually.
This morning they chased it into a corner of the floor between the wall and a display cabinet. Fred could nearly push himself into the space. Ellie did, dragging the bird out in her mouth before dropping it at my command. The bird huddled back into the corner where I was able to slowly surround it by my hands and scoop it up gently. It didn't seem to be hurt, despite new piles of feathers on the floor, and was not fighting my holding it once I had it securely in my hands. (It hadn't been too thrilled when I first only managed to hold onto a single wing.)
Taking it back out to the patio to check it out further for injuries, it began to struggle in my hands. I tossed it up slightly and it flew off to the fence top at the edge of the yard, perched for a few seconds, and disappeared. I presume it is fine.
However, from what it has shown of a learning curve so far, I do not presume that it has learned to stay out of the house. One of these days it may discover a different set of consequences. Perhaps I'll simply come home to a much bigger pile of feathers on the floor. But they are much easier to clean up than the other kind of doggie presents, so I'm thinking we'll still keep a door open for the dogs.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Bang! Bang!
Those of you who know me well enough, know that I hate the idea of a gun in the house. We don't go hunting (not that I'm opposed to well regulated hunting and eating the proceeds thereof), and the only other use I know of for a gun is trying to kill your fellow man.
I know that a home gun is much more likely to be turned against the owner or misused by a child in the home that it will be used to defend the homeowner. Toward avoiding that end, I'm the one who didn't allow any toy guns, not even a water pistol, in the house when the kids were growing up. I didn't want anybody thinking it was a game to point something at another kid and pull a trigger. The daycare kids and some of their parents were mad at me, but I told them they could bring any water squirter toy they wanted as long as it didn't look like a gun.
They never did.
There is now a gun in the house. It's a 38 revolver, a six shooter. There is also plenty of ammunition.
A couple weeks ago Steve told me that I was going to be mad at him. I asked him why, and he informed me that a gun had been purchased and would be arriving via package delivery. When I again asked him why, he replied that he didn't feel safe in the home any more. The local news is full of bleeds/leads stories, and a lot of folks are getting shot out there. Out there is a couple town away, but it's still too close for his peace of mind. Ergo the gun.
I had some concerns about legality, safety, storage within the house, all of which he answered. Once it arrived, he took it to the local shooting range, just a couple miles away, bought ammo, a target, and an hour of lane time to check it out. He returned all excited and insisted that he show me how to use it. I in turn insisted that he not tell me where in the house it was being stored, that a trigger lock be attached soon, particularly before visitors arrive, especially any with children.
He wanted to take me to the range with him to learn how to really use it. He was all full of expectations that I would be just as enthusiastic about the gun as he was and we could go to the range together to enjoy shooting.
I have shot before, down at the Rosa family farm in southern Minnesota, early on into the first marriage. It turned out that I out shot my husband, and he never brought up the activity again. I was just as happy because his gun had a very stiff slide action that I didn't have the hand strength for, even back then. He also had a knack for killing the enjoyment in anything we did, or that I did. The abcessed molar on the deer hunting trip later that fall didn't increase my interest in shooting to hunt, either, particularly as being on a weekend there was nothing to do but suffer for 3 days. I did see a deer, I think, but it was only almost sunrise and whatever it was disappeared into the woods before it was legal to shoot.
None of that left me eager to head out and shoot something.
I did, however, agree with Steve that it would be in my best interest to learn how to use the thing properly. I contacted my friend Terri. She's retired law enforcement, and agreed to take me to the range and show me the ropes. She also thought she'd bring along her 4 pistols and give me a go at trying different kinds in case I liked something different. I figured it was best to learn from her, without the weight of Steve's hopes and expectations riding on how the hour went. I could focus on what was happening rather than what should be happening.
I did learn several things. I know how to hold the various guns, both for not shooting, and shooting. I did manage not to slice my thumb on the slides, thank you very much. I am in awe of the power from a little bitty bullet. Of all the guns there, I like the revolver best, for lots of reasons. My hand strength is not an issue either in loading or shooting. Even Terri had some issues with loading her clips, particularly with a new gun she'd just gotten and was trying out. Turns out it was set up for a lefty and she needs to reassemble it so the gizmo that releases the clip is on the other side. (My being a lefty is no issue with the revolver.) Her real issue with hers was how tight the springs were, being new. She had to keep checking the clip to see if it was full yet, needing so much force to load.
I can shoot single handed with the left hand if necessary, but if I happen to grab the gun in an emergency with the right hand I need to add the other hand to shoot, not to mention properly aiming the thing as it kind of goes all over. It seems my right trigger finger is even weaker than the right hand is. I know how to stand, which arm to lock straight, how to wrap the other around it. After the first 4 shots I even learned how to properly sight rather than just pointing where I sort of thought it should go.
Hey, didn't matter, really. Three of those first four shots were kill shots anyway, two in center mass and one through the eye, and the 4th would have badly wounded the attacker. As it turns out, I'm a pretty good shot, at least with the 38. By the time we got to the 44 and 45, where Terri was showing me how to rapid fire, I managed to hit the target's ear a couple times. Or maybe she did. The target was so full of holes we couldn't always tell which shot went where by then.
One other appreciation I gained for the revolver was that it didn't chuck brass all over the place. While I was waiting behind Terri while she was shooting, I was getting pinged by brass from all sides, not just hers. The staff kept passing by with big floor brooms sweeping it up so we wouldn't trip all over it. None of it actually carried enough force to cause injury, but I gained a healthy respect for the back side of a shooter.
So: enjoy? Not the word I'd use. I expect I should really go back once a year or so to refresh myself on how to use it, just to be safe as well as prepared. It won't become a hobby.
As we left, I had a final question for Terri, prefacing it with the fact that I didn't know if it was a really rude question or not, and that she needn't answer if she didn't want to. In all her years in law enforcement, how many times had she pulled her gun, not just to say "I'm here and I'm prepared for you" but with the intent to actually use it? After a short pause, she decided to answer. "Once." I didn't pursue by asking what happened as a result, and she didn't bother to fill me in. That was fine.
She did say there were an uncountable number of times she had been shot at, including once when a guy with a loaded shotgun showed up at her front door.
I recalled that before shooting each of her guns she'd brought, she'd emptied them of ammunition and reloaded with bullets like I was using, with full jackets. She keeps them loaded with hollow points at home.
I know that a home gun is much more likely to be turned against the owner or misused by a child in the home that it will be used to defend the homeowner. Toward avoiding that end, I'm the one who didn't allow any toy guns, not even a water pistol, in the house when the kids were growing up. I didn't want anybody thinking it was a game to point something at another kid and pull a trigger. The daycare kids and some of their parents were mad at me, but I told them they could bring any water squirter toy they wanted as long as it didn't look like a gun.
They never did.
There is now a gun in the house. It's a 38 revolver, a six shooter. There is also plenty of ammunition.
A couple weeks ago Steve told me that I was going to be mad at him. I asked him why, and he informed me that a gun had been purchased and would be arriving via package delivery. When I again asked him why, he replied that he didn't feel safe in the home any more. The local news is full of bleeds/leads stories, and a lot of folks are getting shot out there. Out there is a couple town away, but it's still too close for his peace of mind. Ergo the gun.
I had some concerns about legality, safety, storage within the house, all of which he answered. Once it arrived, he took it to the local shooting range, just a couple miles away, bought ammo, a target, and an hour of lane time to check it out. He returned all excited and insisted that he show me how to use it. I in turn insisted that he not tell me where in the house it was being stored, that a trigger lock be attached soon, particularly before visitors arrive, especially any with children.
He wanted to take me to the range with him to learn how to really use it. He was all full of expectations that I would be just as enthusiastic about the gun as he was and we could go to the range together to enjoy shooting.
I have shot before, down at the Rosa family farm in southern Minnesota, early on into the first marriage. It turned out that I out shot my husband, and he never brought up the activity again. I was just as happy because his gun had a very stiff slide action that I didn't have the hand strength for, even back then. He also had a knack for killing the enjoyment in anything we did, or that I did. The abcessed molar on the deer hunting trip later that fall didn't increase my interest in shooting to hunt, either, particularly as being on a weekend there was nothing to do but suffer for 3 days. I did see a deer, I think, but it was only almost sunrise and whatever it was disappeared into the woods before it was legal to shoot.
None of that left me eager to head out and shoot something.
I did, however, agree with Steve that it would be in my best interest to learn how to use the thing properly. I contacted my friend Terri. She's retired law enforcement, and agreed to take me to the range and show me the ropes. She also thought she'd bring along her 4 pistols and give me a go at trying different kinds in case I liked something different. I figured it was best to learn from her, without the weight of Steve's hopes and expectations riding on how the hour went. I could focus on what was happening rather than what should be happening.
I did learn several things. I know how to hold the various guns, both for not shooting, and shooting. I did manage not to slice my thumb on the slides, thank you very much. I am in awe of the power from a little bitty bullet. Of all the guns there, I like the revolver best, for lots of reasons. My hand strength is not an issue either in loading or shooting. Even Terri had some issues with loading her clips, particularly with a new gun she'd just gotten and was trying out. Turns out it was set up for a lefty and she needs to reassemble it so the gizmo that releases the clip is on the other side. (My being a lefty is no issue with the revolver.) Her real issue with hers was how tight the springs were, being new. She had to keep checking the clip to see if it was full yet, needing so much force to load.
I can shoot single handed with the left hand if necessary, but if I happen to grab the gun in an emergency with the right hand I need to add the other hand to shoot, not to mention properly aiming the thing as it kind of goes all over. It seems my right trigger finger is even weaker than the right hand is. I know how to stand, which arm to lock straight, how to wrap the other around it. After the first 4 shots I even learned how to properly sight rather than just pointing where I sort of thought it should go.
Hey, didn't matter, really. Three of those first four shots were kill shots anyway, two in center mass and one through the eye, and the 4th would have badly wounded the attacker. As it turns out, I'm a pretty good shot, at least with the 38. By the time we got to the 44 and 45, where Terri was showing me how to rapid fire, I managed to hit the target's ear a couple times. Or maybe she did. The target was so full of holes we couldn't always tell which shot went where by then.
One other appreciation I gained for the revolver was that it didn't chuck brass all over the place. While I was waiting behind Terri while she was shooting, I was getting pinged by brass from all sides, not just hers. The staff kept passing by with big floor brooms sweeping it up so we wouldn't trip all over it. None of it actually carried enough force to cause injury, but I gained a healthy respect for the back side of a shooter.
So: enjoy? Not the word I'd use. I expect I should really go back once a year or so to refresh myself on how to use it, just to be safe as well as prepared. It won't become a hobby.
As we left, I had a final question for Terri, prefacing it with the fact that I didn't know if it was a really rude question or not, and that she needn't answer if she didn't want to. In all her years in law enforcement, how many times had she pulled her gun, not just to say "I'm here and I'm prepared for you" but with the intent to actually use it? After a short pause, she decided to answer. "Once." I didn't pursue by asking what happened as a result, and she didn't bother to fill me in. That was fine.
She did say there were an uncountable number of times she had been shot at, including once when a guy with a loaded shotgun showed up at her front door.
I recalled that before shooting each of her guns she'd brought, she'd emptied them of ammunition and reloaded with bullets like I was using, with full jackets. She keeps them loaded with hollow points at home.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
More Than A Prank?
It was done on a dare by a classmate, supposed to be a simple prank, a harmless bit of silliness. When the football team posed for its yearbook picture, one student dropped his pants.
It wasn't caught right away. The picture got into the yearbook. I expect it was one of those things where those who knew about it slyly and gleefully pointed it out to those not yet in the know. How much detail can there really be in a picture limited to a partial page with a hundred or so students in it, after all?
Even in the news blow-ups that followed, full screen and high def, there was little definition to be found in any of the students' pictures. You were pointed out where to look because the student was circled, his jersey number singled out. The news outlets proudly patted themselves on the back for blurring the relevant bit, of course, after doing everything they possible could to stir imaginations to run rampant.
Yes, the kid was stupid. Stupid in the jockiest way possible, the logical way he would be with all the worship this country has for his sport, its emphasis on its sex appeal and the sex appeal of its best performing athletes.
Naturally somebody complained. Charges were filed. There was a single felony count and a bushelful of misdemeanor counts on behalf of all the fellow team members who were supposedly corrupted by his action of exposing himself. An ankle bracelet was required. It was to go on his permanent record that he was a sex offender, with all that implies these days.
OK, guys, yes it was stupid. But really? A felony? Sex offender status?
Whom did he hurt? The students around him with a couple of exceptions had to be completly unaware of his actions. All were facing the camera. The ones on either side likely knew, but the rows of teammates in front, behind, and off to his side had no angle from which to view the offense. They were too densely packed.
If offense to them if even was. I wager that every one of them had at some time seen him in the shower, and vice versa. It's a part of gym class and school sports for both genders. The exposure was not done to threaten, intimidate, attack or seduce a fellow student. Had it been all that flagrant, the photographer would have noticed, as would the yearbook editing staff. It would never have made it into print.
But printed it was. And folks reacted. Woweee, did they!
His fellow students and a number of adults spoke up for him. The punishment was way too harsh. After two days of salacious reporting, it was finally announced tonight on the news that the felony charge has been dropped. The county will review whether it wishes to pursue all the misdemeanor charges. If they do, I hope they choose me for the jury. I'd have no problem letting them know just how foolish they are being.
Yes, pranks have consequences. Nearly all of them should. I figure an appropriate one in this case would be a fine to cover reprinting charges for the school system to reissue the yearbook with a suitable fig leaf. Of course, collecting those already in distribution could be a problem: they might very well be a collector's item. Way too much attention has been paid to the picture.
Let me conclude with a parting thought for you to mull over. When are we as a society going to decide to change the idea that while female nudity is beautiful, a tradition going back thousands of years, that male nudity, specifically a penis, is a dangerous thing?
It wasn't caught right away. The picture got into the yearbook. I expect it was one of those things where those who knew about it slyly and gleefully pointed it out to those not yet in the know. How much detail can there really be in a picture limited to a partial page with a hundred or so students in it, after all?
Even in the news blow-ups that followed, full screen and high def, there was little definition to be found in any of the students' pictures. You were pointed out where to look because the student was circled, his jersey number singled out. The news outlets proudly patted themselves on the back for blurring the relevant bit, of course, after doing everything they possible could to stir imaginations to run rampant.
Yes, the kid was stupid. Stupid in the jockiest way possible, the logical way he would be with all the worship this country has for his sport, its emphasis on its sex appeal and the sex appeal of its best performing athletes.
Naturally somebody complained. Charges were filed. There was a single felony count and a bushelful of misdemeanor counts on behalf of all the fellow team members who were supposedly corrupted by his action of exposing himself. An ankle bracelet was required. It was to go on his permanent record that he was a sex offender, with all that implies these days.
OK, guys, yes it was stupid. But really? A felony? Sex offender status?
Whom did he hurt? The students around him with a couple of exceptions had to be completly unaware of his actions. All were facing the camera. The ones on either side likely knew, but the rows of teammates in front, behind, and off to his side had no angle from which to view the offense. They were too densely packed.
If offense to them if even was. I wager that every one of them had at some time seen him in the shower, and vice versa. It's a part of gym class and school sports for both genders. The exposure was not done to threaten, intimidate, attack or seduce a fellow student. Had it been all that flagrant, the photographer would have noticed, as would the yearbook editing staff. It would never have made it into print.
But printed it was. And folks reacted. Woweee, did they!
His fellow students and a number of adults spoke up for him. The punishment was way too harsh. After two days of salacious reporting, it was finally announced tonight on the news that the felony charge has been dropped. The county will review whether it wishes to pursue all the misdemeanor charges. If they do, I hope they choose me for the jury. I'd have no problem letting them know just how foolish they are being.
Yes, pranks have consequences. Nearly all of them should. I figure an appropriate one in this case would be a fine to cover reprinting charges for the school system to reissue the yearbook with a suitable fig leaf. Of course, collecting those already in distribution could be a problem: they might very well be a collector's item. Way too much attention has been paid to the picture.
Let me conclude with a parting thought for you to mull over. When are we as a society going to decide to change the idea that while female nudity is beautiful, a tradition going back thousands of years, that male nudity, specifically a penis, is a dangerous thing?
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Addendum:
For those of you who read the last post and thought, "Big whoop! A post about a tiny bit of rain when floods and tornadoes are devastating much of the rest of the country? Who cares?"
Let me just note that, had we wanted to live in Texas, for example, and deal with its weather (and laws!) we would have moved to Texas. Same with Oklahoma. Or Kansas. We could have stayed in Minnesota if we adored snow, ice, and frostbite, or wished to exchange them for mosquitoes.
We chose to live where snow is almost unheard of locally, where tornadoes are pictures on the TV, where floods are in places where stupid folks choose to build or drive into despite warnings, where earthquakes may register on a Richter's scale but not underfoot.
And yes, a little rain is a big deal down here. So is a mosquito.
Let me just note that, had we wanted to live in Texas, for example, and deal with its weather (and laws!) we would have moved to Texas. Same with Oklahoma. Or Kansas. We could have stayed in Minnesota if we adored snow, ice, and frostbite, or wished to exchange them for mosquitoes.
We chose to live where snow is almost unheard of locally, where tornadoes are pictures on the TV, where floods are in places where stupid folks choose to build or drive into despite warnings, where earthquakes may register on a Richter's scale but not underfoot.
And yes, a little rain is a big deal down here. So is a mosquito.
YTD In The Rain Gauge
I love our new rain gauge. The last one was cute but kept tipping over in a breeze and was the dickens to try to read even if it didn't. The new one mounts on the fence, and has the wide top where an inch of rain shows up as about a 4" column in the tube, well marked of course, and easy to see clearly from the bedroom window or the patio.
With showers being as spotty as they are down here, it's necessary to have an accurate one if you care what your rainfall was. Perhaps you were thinking of watering something. Or hoping not to. This way you know. The official Sun City rainfall can be wildly different from backyard rainfall, even though that backyard is actually in Sun City. The first two rains of the year - and the only ones until yesterday - each left behind a quarter inch of rain. The record for other spots in Sun City read higher. We were deprived. Even for here.
Somehow the older, established plants cope with that. I was, however, contemplating watering the Mexican Bird of Paradise, as it hadn't received a drop, not even a dog leg lift, since we cut it back in mid February. With enough water it is absolutely gorgeous in the early fall, full bright blossoms topping long feathery stems. It was coming back up from the ground nicely, but the stems did seem short for this time of year. The reason I delayed was pure laziness. One has to fill a bucket and haul it back to the bush, far removed from the reach of a hose that at any rate has been enlisted to connect to three soaker hoses which are nurturing last fall's plantings until they are fully established. As in, when we leave to go north.
Yesterday relieved me of that particular work load. We were just coming back from a trip to use coupons for sandwiches on their last day before expiration when we saw lightning to the south over the road we were traveling. We decided to sit out on the patio to eat as the temperature was as perfect as it gets, and noted more and frequent flashes of lightning. Ellie was busier hunting for a hiding space than she was eying us for possible dropped crumbs, and once finished, plus feeling a chilly breeze move in, we adjourned to the living room.
I caught a whiff of rain-washed air. Down here, that is indicative of nothing in terms of possible actual precipitation, but soon there followed a light sprinkle, and finally a lovely little downpour with rain streaming off the roofs front and back, streams running down both sides of the street, and the physical and emotional refreshing that a desert rain brings.
We're used to rain falling much harder on the outskirts of the valley, up in the high country. A modestly flooded street makes the news, and those are always elsewhere. As it was, the big news from this rain was the lightening. It killed a horse. Now that wouldn't necessarily have made the news by its lonesome, but it also severely burned its rider, who was transported to the hospital after CPR revived him. He's still critical, last they reported. The news cameras keep rolling on the carcass of the horse behind a very small bush while people try to figure out what to do with it. The close-ups just show its hooves. I guess that's supposed to be the least upsetting part of the picture.
Those same news reports give official rain totals for various parts of the valley. Sun City got .04 inches. Our gauge showed a whopping - for here - 3/8 inch.
By this morning that fresh desert after rain smell had vanished, along with all but fluffy clouds. The bigger ones had moved north and east to drop snow by Flagstaff and rain over the rest of the high country. Looking over the yard I was glad I had just pooper-scooped two days earlier. It would have been such a mess otherwise!
With showers being as spotty as they are down here, it's necessary to have an accurate one if you care what your rainfall was. Perhaps you were thinking of watering something. Or hoping not to. This way you know. The official Sun City rainfall can be wildly different from backyard rainfall, even though that backyard is actually in Sun City. The first two rains of the year - and the only ones until yesterday - each left behind a quarter inch of rain. The record for other spots in Sun City read higher. We were deprived. Even for here.
Somehow the older, established plants cope with that. I was, however, contemplating watering the Mexican Bird of Paradise, as it hadn't received a drop, not even a dog leg lift, since we cut it back in mid February. With enough water it is absolutely gorgeous in the early fall, full bright blossoms topping long feathery stems. It was coming back up from the ground nicely, but the stems did seem short for this time of year. The reason I delayed was pure laziness. One has to fill a bucket and haul it back to the bush, far removed from the reach of a hose that at any rate has been enlisted to connect to three soaker hoses which are nurturing last fall's plantings until they are fully established. As in, when we leave to go north.
Yesterday relieved me of that particular work load. We were just coming back from a trip to use coupons for sandwiches on their last day before expiration when we saw lightning to the south over the road we were traveling. We decided to sit out on the patio to eat as the temperature was as perfect as it gets, and noted more and frequent flashes of lightning. Ellie was busier hunting for a hiding space than she was eying us for possible dropped crumbs, and once finished, plus feeling a chilly breeze move in, we adjourned to the living room.
I caught a whiff of rain-washed air. Down here, that is indicative of nothing in terms of possible actual precipitation, but soon there followed a light sprinkle, and finally a lovely little downpour with rain streaming off the roofs front and back, streams running down both sides of the street, and the physical and emotional refreshing that a desert rain brings.
We're used to rain falling much harder on the outskirts of the valley, up in the high country. A modestly flooded street makes the news, and those are always elsewhere. As it was, the big news from this rain was the lightening. It killed a horse. Now that wouldn't necessarily have made the news by its lonesome, but it also severely burned its rider, who was transported to the hospital after CPR revived him. He's still critical, last they reported. The news cameras keep rolling on the carcass of the horse behind a very small bush while people try to figure out what to do with it. The close-ups just show its hooves. I guess that's supposed to be the least upsetting part of the picture.
Those same news reports give official rain totals for various parts of the valley. Sun City got .04 inches. Our gauge showed a whopping - for here - 3/8 inch.
By this morning that fresh desert after rain smell had vanished, along with all but fluffy clouds. The bigger ones had moved north and east to drop snow by Flagstaff and rain over the rest of the high country. Looking over the yard I was glad I had just pooper-scooped two days earlier. It would have been such a mess otherwise!
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