Hidden in Plain Sight

How do you transform a gun cabinet into classy bedroom furniture?

Step 1. Buy some fru-fru patterned paper that matches the bedroom decor.

Step 2. Line up the pattern and tape inside the glass face.

Step 3. Close gun cabinet.

Step 4. Admire handiwork and ingenuity.

Would that be tactical furniture?

Unprepared.

Out and about around town, and I forgot to put my gun in my pocket before leaving the house. A month Ago I felt odd carrying. Now I feel unprepared without my S&W. Kinda like forgetting a pocketknife, I just feel as if I'm not ready for what life my throw at me.

Home is the next stop, thank god.

Saturday Range

My wife took the boy and went to the gulf coast to see her grandmother today. My shift at work got switched to an evening shift in the tavern, and it left me with a whole day to myself.

Flummoxed with all the free time, I decided to mow and weed eat the yard. I finished around 10:30, so I went ahead and straightened the house, but it wasn't really dirty, so by 11:00 I was all alone with nothing to do.

So how did I kill my time? I beat feet for the local gun shop, and acquired some targets, and headed to the range to shoot my new 1911. It's a Springfield GI45, and I'd only shot it once before.

In short, it's pretty darn accurate. Now some new sights may be in it's distant future, but it still preforms admirably. I did all my shooting from a weaver stance at 7 yards, and while the targets aren't great, I was just having fun plinking, so I noticed that I frequently had a loose grip, and I didn't pay any attention to my breathing. My technique was lousy, in fact. But usually when I go to the range I spend all my time working on technique, so it was great to just go shooting for fun.

Even given the sloppy technique, though, the 1911 preformed for me.

The first picture is 50 rounds, weaver stance, 7 yards.

The second is 6 rounds, weaver stance, 7 yards (I was going to run a full magazine, but I only had 6 rounds left at that point.)

Nothing in the world like some recoil therapy!

P.S., Dad- that was your reload, just FYI

Meat Pies

So I was going to post about Meat Pies yesterday.... yeah.

I didn't take any pictures, but they sure were tasty! Our friend had a great birthday party, and everyone left with a full belly. I guess that counts as a win, even if I forgot to document the experience.

Burgers

I made bacon cheddar burgers tonight, with french fries. Dressed up with mayo, pickles, and lettuce, they're hard to beat.... Yeah, an amber lager helped it go down well, too...

Tastiness!

Two Model Twelves

After yesterday's post, I thought I'd post a few side-by-side pictures of my two Legacy Model Twelves.

The one with most of the bluing gone belonged to the Morrisons.

The one with the custom stock was my Grandpa's.

Ain't they a pretty pair?

Food

I realized recently that I haven't had any posts about food lately. I LOVE food. I need to remedy this. Expect a post about burgers tonight and a post about meat pies on thursday.

C.B. Morrison

The first time I saw C.B., I showed up at his restaurant looking for an employment application. I was dressed nice, as I was looking for a job, wearing a heavy black button-down shirt during a Louisiana October. I believe the temperature was around 88 degrees. Inside his kitchen, it was closer to 105. I politely asked for an application, and he eyed me up and down, weighing me in his mind. He removed the Marlboro light from his lips, and said in his raspy southern voice,

"find an apron and start washing them dishes. I'm short handed, and that no-account Tom didn't show today. If you can get them dishes done without lollygagging, I'll hire ya."

For the first week, I hated that man. He rode my ass, called me lazy, and chastised me without cause, but I needed the paycheck. After about a week, though, he stopped riding my case. He was gruff, and he would still call me out if I messed up, but he stopped riding me constantly.

Eventually, I was able to see beyond his bluff exterior and realize what a great man he was. In true southern style, he was a man of honor, who did business on a handshake, and would occasionally spout poetry or philosophy in his booming drawl. He was an educated man, but was as salt-of-the-earth as one could get. I began to respect him and his opinions on things great and small, and I wished to make him proud.

Somewhere along the way, the Morrisons adopted me, and they became as family. C.B. made me manager of his restaurant. Months later, he called in a few favors, and unknown to me, re-enrolled me in college.

"Joe, come here!", he yelled from his office. he rolled three one hundred dollar bills from his wallet and pushed them to me.
"That's for books. I called the dean at the business college, and got you re-enrolled. you have an appointment with him tomorrow to set up what classes you'll take."

I was too stunned to speak. I'd told him before that I wanted to go back to school, but I didn't see it happening for another year or so.

he leaned in to me and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"You're too sharp to be uneducated. I'm putting my faith in you. Don't fuck this up, boy."

I can't even recall all the ways that man helped me during the few years that I knew him.

His daughter employed me as a handyman for a few years after he died. She also bought a house for me and my wife to live in when our landlord sold the property we were living on three weeks before Christmas. She hired me for a secretarial position at a non-profit she ran, and she's been a wonderful friend to me. She asked me to dig the hole where we placed C.B.'s ashes after he passed. It was fitting that both the first and last time I worked for C.B. I was doing menial labor in dress clothes.

C.B.'s sister is a wonderful woman and a great friend. I've done a lot of odd jobs for her over the years.

C.B.'s first name was Carlisle. After all the things the Morrison clan did for me, I thought it appropriate to name my son after such a great man. My son's middle name is Carlisle, and today, the Morrison's generosity to my family continues.

A few months ago, I cleaned up a gun for C.B.'s daughter. It belonged to C.B.'s mom, who shot competition skeet in her youth. It's a beautiful Winchester Model 12 produced in 1913. It is a 20 ga. with matched Full and Modified barrels, and C.B.'s daughter gave it to me today.

One day, when he's old enough to understand and respect the weapon, as well as it's legacy, it will go to my son.

It's his namesake, after all.

Fire Trucks and Sno-cones

The fire department set up a truck in front of the local library today. The library provided sno-cones to the kids.

Elyas had a red sno-cone, because when asked which color he wanted, he said 'fire truck'.

If three circuts around the truck, and sitting in it are any indication, he enjoyed himself.

My Little Gunnie

My son showed an interest in guns for the first time last week. We've started working on the question 'What do you do if you find a gun?' He doesn't quite grasp what an 'adult' is, so for now, the answer is 'go find mommy or daddy.'

I'll be starting on the four rules soon, but he's not allowed to touch guns, even with supervision yet (two still seems a bit young).

However, his enthusiasm is catching. He found me yesterday disassembling my 1911 and proudly proclaimed 'I love guns!', so I decided I'd let him watch and explain what each piece was.

Then he started naming them.

The video is of the second time he's seen a 1911 disassembled.

What have I created?