Touchstones

Most of us have some trinket or souvenir from our past that we've kept around for sentimental reasons. A postcard, a shell, a stuffed animal... or in my case, a coffee mug.

For as long as I can remember growing up, that mug was Dad's Mug. Coffee, cocoa, anything hot went in that mug.

When I was getting ready for college, we spent weeks making lists and making sure I had everything I'd need to survive dorm life. Sheets, pillows, blankets, food galore, clothes, laundry soap, dish soap, dishes, etc. A set of silverware and a plate and glass... and a mug. But I didn't take just any mug.

I went to Dad and I asked him - when he was in a good mood - if I could take His Mug. I didn't explain it to him - we don't have that kind of relationship - but I think he knew that I needed a little piece of home along with me.

He hemmed and hawed a little bit, then consented to parting with it.

It went to college with me. It survived a year in the dorm, a move home, a move to an apartment, a year there, another move home, and then ten more moves over the following years. It's still in one piece, and it's still my favorite mug ... even though it's still Dad's Mug. When my parents visit, Dad still gets his hot drinks in that mug.

It's not much to look at. Nothing sets it apart from any other mug in the cabinet. It's not the largest, or the smallest, but it holds more than coffee for me. A whole lot more.

Thanks, Dad.

Another notch

If you'll recall my post from two days ago, I wished for snow. After I wrote that post, I made a mug of cocoa and settled in with a book and a puppy while I listened to the rain patter on the patio doors.



An hour later, mug empty, I went out to the kitchen to find some more cocoa. Glancing out the kitchen window, my wish had come true: there was a good inch of fresh wet snow, and more coming fast.

We ended up with just a couple inches, but it was enough to make things clean and white for a while. The lower-lying areas around us had some problems with flash flooding; the high school got a few inches of water in the hallways and a few people drove their car into flooded roads and then flooded ditches. While our house isn't completely immune to such things, it's in a pretty good spot and we'd need a whole lot more than two or three inches of rain to cause problems.

The weather broke late Wednesday evening, and while Thursday was overcast, it was reasonably mild, not windy, and there was enough snow to make spotting deer a bit easier. I changed and headed out around 2, arriving at my hunting spot around 2:45.

Pulling on the remainder of my clothes and loading the gun, I moseyed in to the woods, watching the trail and muttering to myself about life. As I rounded a bend in the path, a snort from my right froze me in my tracks, and I slowly turned my head that way. Not twenty-five yards away stood a small deer. I brought the gun up and clicked off the safety, drew a bead...

And lowered the gun and put the safety back on.

Rule 4, kids. "Identify your target, and what is behind it." It's easy to get a little turned around in the woods, and a difference of 30 degrees can be the difference between shooting towards a house and an open field. I knew for a fact that there was a state highway about 200 yards beyond the deer, and while the woods between were dense, I wasn't going to take a chance on a stray slug going somewhere I didn't want.

We stood and watched each other for a few more minutes, then he (90% sure it was a button buck) turned and loped off. I headed further down the trail and found a comfy tree to sit against overlooking a wide swale, with an easy view into an adjacent cornfield.

As I sat, a few flakes drifted down, and the highway in the distance faded into background noise; like cicadas in the summertime you don't hear it unless you listen for it. Even the squirrels were quiet today, and contemplative silence was what the doctor ordered.

After 45 minutes or so, I moved my seat to the other side of the trail for a slightly better view of the opposite side of the swale. Half an hour later, a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye turned my head to the cornfield. Sure enough, a deer was coming up over the edge of the swale and into the field - a common spot for them at sunset. I turned my torso a bit and brought the gun up and double-checked for antlers through the scope. None - good. Not even nubbins that I could see.

I clicked the safety off, calmed my breathing, and waited. She took a step forward into a good clear spot and started nosing the ground for forage. I settled the crosshairs just behind the shoulder, held a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun barked, the deer jumped ... and started running. She'd only been 35 or 40 yards from me when I pulled the trigger, and ran in a wide arc to my left. I worked the slide on the Mossberg as I stood up and brought it back to my shoulder. Just as I brought my cheek down on the comb, she stopped for a moment, and I thought I was going to have a clear second shot.

Instead, she fell over. A few kicks later she stopped moving. I thumbed another shell into the magazine and set my gun down against a tree for a moment. After I found my spent brass I picked up the gun and started walking towards the deer - and was greeted by two snorts and two tails bounding off from the same spot she'd come out of. If I'd looked, I would have seen them and could easily have hung up another one, but I didn't (and that's ok).

She's another small-ish doe, probably going 110-120 on the hoof, but in fine shape and should be nice and tender. I filled out my tag, dressed her out (again, the 20ga SSTs went through-and-through in the chest, and both lungs were pulverized), and dragged her back to the truck. On the way back I bumped yet another deer out, but it was far past legal shooting light and my gun was already unloaded.

I got home and hung her in the garage; in a few days I'll skin and quarter her, and we'll figure out how to divide this one. Loin medallions, some grind, and some stew cubes, most likely.

I'd like to get at least one more deer this season. There's a week of regular season left, then ten days of muzzleloader. I've got one antler tag, one deer management tag, and two tags for muzzleloader... we'll see how it goes.

Dusty room

AD writes about stains - the ones we can shout out, and the ones that mark the very fibers of our being. Shouting, screaming, laughing - some stains won't come out.

So yeah, that’s why I was in your Emergency Department at 0645 this morning with a big mascara stain on my shirt. I’m sorry I didn’t smile at your joke, and I promise the next time you see me, I’ll be wearing a clean uniform.

Read the whole thing.

I've worked the field as a volunteer for just shy of a decade now, and worked the console for a check for six years. I've picked up my own share of stains along the way.

There are days that I (and I think most of us in emergency services) ask myself, "Why the hell am I doing this?" Why take the abuse, the hours, the lost sleep, missed meals, fast food, caffeine, and why pay the emotional toll? If someone who has worked one of these jobs for any significant length of time tells you that the job never gets to them, they are lying. Either to you or to themselves, but they're lying.

So why do we do it?

The only answer I can come up with - the one I keep coming back to - is simple.

Someone has to.

"Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
[...]
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?
[...]
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;"

Rudyard Kipling, "Tommy"

Karma time, kids

I don't know how many of you read Tam regularly - most of you, I'm hoping. (If you don't, you should. Guns, snark, and generally the wittiest things I'll read in a day.)

Anyways, she managed to break a tooth. Must have been some undercooked kheer or something...

Whatever it was, she, like many of us, doesn't have the funds for immediate corrective action. There is, however, a donate button over on the right sidebar of her blog. If you've gotten something of value - even something of intangible value, like a smile (without a gap) - from her blog, please consider dropping a sawbuck or two in the pot.

The gun blog community is a pretty tight bunch, and I'd hope we can help take care of one of our own. (Not because we have to, this ain't no tax fer another gummint program; but because we want to.) And, yes, there's a bit of a karma aspect to it - I'd hope someone would do the same for me in a similar situation, even if I don't write as well or have as many readers as Tam.

So - Tam - feel better, my click has been made, and I hope you get a few more hits.

Weather, sitting beneath

A few random thoughts:
If we call the ugly hot weather of mid to late summer the "dog days of summer", are the miserable days of late autumn and early winter the "cat days of winter"? Around here, the cats are intent on spending time on me.

The weather forecast for the space shuttle must be boring. "Hey Joe, what's the weather today?" "Sunny, dark, sunny, dark, sunny, dark, sunny, dark, (repeat to a total of sixteen), either 600 above or absolute zero, with no chance of precipitation."

I closed the storm windows yesterday, because I'd forgotten to earlier in the year. The house is a solid five degrees warmer this morning. Looks like I'll be re-glazing some windows in the spring, too.

It's December. Can we please stop with the rain and make with the snow? Please? Z much prefers looking for brown deer on white snow, instead of brown deer on brown leaves.

I shot at (and missed) a doe last week: from about 60 yards, I hit the ONLY branch between us, sending the slug off to who-knows-where. The deer wandered off. I did check very carefully for blood or hair where she'd been - and where she wandered - and found nothing.

The deer that I got ten days ago has been fully processed. There are two trussed loin roasts in the freezer, and the rest was ground. Nine-plus pounds of grind, and about 12 pounds of sausage in one form or another.

Another deer would be really nice about now...

On that note, it's time to make cocoa and read a few more chapters!