Sometimes corporate policies aren’t always thought through completely. A recent requirement at work was that all sites must have an evacuation plan. This is a good thing, yeah? I agree until you recall that I work from home and that a home office counts. So, in order to remain fully compliant I sent the plan below (redacted to protect the mostly innocent) to my boss:
(click for full size)
>>> Share: <<<
… in your thoughts on the forefathers intent with regard to one Nation under God.
George Washington’s 1789 Thanksgiving Proclamation:
Whereas it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me to "recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"
Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th day of November next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed; for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and, in general, for all the great and various favors which He has been pleased to confer upon us.
And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions; to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shown kindness to us), and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.
Given under my hand, at the city of New York, the 3d day of October, A.D. 1789.
Thanks Aunt Jessica.
>>>>>> Share: <<<<<
This weekend was a blast… literally. Some friends from Chicago that work with Rob were in Charlotte on business. They decided to stay an extra day and hang out. Since Rob is the local, that left him playing entertainment committee and since I already knew most of the guys we figured we could come up with something fun to do. I mean, hell, it IS North Carolina after all.
In discussion, they let on that they wanted to shoot guns which, around here, is easy. So, this past Saturday I met Rob at Waffle House for breakfast and came up with a plan. The idea was to grab a field at the local skeet/trap range and just spend the day busting clays.
We picked up Rob’s future son in law (assumed, we haven’t actually forced them into it yet) and his brother, Scott, up and then met the guys at their hotel where we did a quick safety briefing in the parking lot. (“if you point one of these things at one of us we’ll hit you…” *shrug* too many years in the military). With that done we loaded up in my truck and their minivan for the skeet range.
As we drove down the gravel drive to the range I could already tell that our plans were shot. (heh, pun, sorry). There was WAY more shooting going on than there should have been for first thing on Saturday morning during hunting season in North Carolina. As it turns out there was a trap tournament going on that day that we hadn’t been told about. The tournament was using all of the fields which left us out in the cold.
My wife was in Atlanta exercising her rights (getting molested/inspected by TSA) so I did what any good redneck would do and said, “well, I guess we can go to my house. “ One of the guys from Chicago said, “Cool! can we blow something up?”
Now, I don’t know what answer he expected from a trio of guys playing token rednecks for their entertainment but I answered the question in the only way that I could.
I said, “Hell yeah!”
They seemed excited by the prospect of blowing stuff up which left me in a bit of a quandary as to what, exactly, we were going to blow up and… well… with what. I mean, I *could* blow things up but I’m past the days of having to worry about the ATF showing up at my parties. That’s not to mention the fact that I’m not big on sharing information on how to do things like that with people that I don’t know. In a quick huddle off to the side wherein I discussed this intention to avoid federal authorities Rob mentioned that it would be great if we only had dry ice. When he said that I remembered that they sell the stuff at the local grocery store. Score.
So, while rob and the four folks from the city went to Wally-world to buy ammo and skeet, Scott and I went to the grocery store for dry ice.
We met back at my house where we discovered that they had bought skeet but no ammo. Luckily, I had a few hundred “spare” number 8 12 gauge loads “laying around”. We dug my skeet thrower out of the shop and set up in the back yard.
Because there were so many of us, eight if you haven’t done the math, one of the rules for the day was that no one would touch a gun unless Rob, Scott or I handed it to them. This turned out to be a great rule and everyone played along nicely. For what it’s worth, Rob and Scott were, like me, raised around guns and I’ve hunted with them both a lot. I trust them implicitly not to shoot me. Interestingly, they don’t have that same trust in each other ( with exceptionally good reasons that differ according to who’s telling the story… what can I say? They’re brothers. )
We quickly fell into a routine that we learned years ago in various professions. As a group we would explain each weapon. How to hold it, how to aim it, how to load it, how to make it safe and how to fire it. With that done, one of us would demonstrate by firing the gun in the same way that we wanted them to do it. Then, as each person took a turn, one of us would stand next to him and walk him through the process helping and correcting safety breaches. That is, mostly reminding them when to flip the safety either on or off (though it’s great fun to let them leave the safety on and see who’s anticipating the shot).
Having taught at a public shooting range I kind of fell into this role while Rob and Scott managed the remainder of the group, threw skeet for us and handed me guns.
To do this safely we let them load one round at a time and fire it at a thrown clay. Hit or miss, you get one shot and then a break during which you get to hear me repeat all of the instructions to the next guy and then the next guy and then the next until it’s really burned into your brain. As people got comfortable with holding a firearm I would start working with them to get the stance more stable and help them with the aiming. This continued until everyone had hit at least one moving clay with the Remington 11-87.
After the shotgun we took a bit of a break and sat on my patio while we showed everyone how to make “bombs”. It’s an old trick that works great and is relatively safe. You just drop a chunk of dry ice into a half filled plastic water bottle, screw the lid on and chunk it down the hill. You get satisfying “boom” with no fire and no Feds. Fun.
When I thought the neighbors might be getting tired of the noise we went back to the “range” (yard) and went through the training cycle again with the .357 Sig. And, yeah, for those that remember a previous post… I DID remember to replace the $52/box hollow points with FMJ “cheapo range” ammo this time. Luckily everyone hit the target on the first or second try so this wasn’t as expensive as it could have been. (score one for 5 meter “ranges” and big targets).
After another short break (and more dry ice fun) we went for the artillery. We had been talking about “the fifty” all day to sort of talk up the experience for the boys and I’m fairly certain that they were underwhelmed when I took Wolf 209 muzzleloader out of its case. That changed as soon as the monster belched smoke and fire for the first time. These guys, none of whom had fired more than a couple of rounds before were suddenly and ceremoniously introduced to black powder shooting. They were, in a word, awestruck. The camera’s came out and posed shots were set up. The smoke and noise of the thing is impressive, even to me, and the wolf is super simple. It didn’t help matters that I took the gun back to the patio between shots and made a production out of cleaning and reloading it while we sat talking.
As they left, I presented them each with a new powerbelt copper series 50 caliber bullet from the muzzleloader. They make nice gifts because they’re cheap, heavy and shiny. One of the guys, even asked for as second one for his other kid.
More than once in our talks on the patio the conversation turned to what needed to be done to purchase and keep a firearm within Chicago city limits and what weapon is best for different home defense scenarios. I did my absolute best to answer the questions.
So… take that ThirdPower. I made converts in your bailiwick. 
>>> Share: <<<
I want a t-shirt please…
Thanks Navesink for the idea. 
… Share: …
An interesting question popped up over lunch yesterday. How do you explain to young men what it means to be a man.
I, of course, instantly fell back into an old comfort zones. Being a man is driven by your values. Those values are important and include God, Integrity, character, respect. All inter-related and neatly bundled. It works. All decisions are driven by those values and though I sometimes fall short of my “ideal” man I try not to miss by much.
But that answer doesn’t work. The question was, how do you explain those values to young men. Kids really; aged 15-25, who are desperately trying to figure out what being a man means and what skills they need to become those men. More importantly, how do you do it if you only have an hour to spend with them.
From values we began discussing “skills” needed to “be a man” and covered a long list of them. Everything from how to shave properly, to how to shoot, to how to change a flat. But while those are all good skills to have they don’t answer the question because, in the end, they’re just a set of skills and without the values to tie them together they’re nothing more. You can add ‘the ability to take a leak anywhere I want’ to the list and not really add value to the list or detract from it at all.
So, it’s a combination of things, integrity, respect of self, basic engineering skills, responsibility, providing for your family, love of country, submission or adherence to the laws of man and humility before God. Difficult concepts to explain to a teenager whose only goal in life is to get laid… tonight… hopefully twice. Or to explain to a young adult who has a general understanding of what the words mean and really thinks they’re a great idea but wishes you’d shut up because he’s got plans to meet the boys at the bar at 8:00.
In the end, the best idea that I could come up with was two fold. Help them identify role models and teach them to learn from those models in an effective way and do what you can to BE those role models. Not a great answer but it was a short lunch.
Me? I drive an F250 4×4, shoot well, and try to fix a problem before I abandon it to the repair guy. I get dirty when I work and I work hard to ensure that my wife has a comfortable life. I try to make good choices directed by a Christian upbringing and I try to make the same choices regardless of whether anyone will ever know. I display a love of life and a love of family in my daily living and to balance that I will, occasionally, have a bubble bath. But if you giggle about that last one I can kick your ass.
So, how would you do it? How do you teach a young adult to be a man in todays world while dealing with the confusion of gender roles and general androgynation. of both roles?
Oh, and for what it’s worth, views from both sexes are important and welcome.
While you formulate your reply I think I’ll have a bubble bath.
I wake up and my shoulder is cold. Damn cold. The rest of me, however, is toasty warm snuggled into several blankets so I wriggle a bit and get the shoulder in too. The bed is soft and I am comfortable.
It’s 5am and still very dark. The only light in the place are the softly glowing night sights on the .357 Sig next to the bed and the brightly glowing green indicator LED on the CO2 detector in the other room.
I can hear my neighbor rattling around outside. He’s in a tent and I feel sorry for his having to sleep on the ground in the cold weather for a brief moment. Then he fires up a Coleman lantern and floods my cozy retreat with bluish-white light. I had the blinds open the night before so that I could lay in bed and see the billions of stars that they have out here and left the blinds open. I hope he has to sleep on the ground at home too.
I blindly grope for the plastic rod that closes the blinds and twist them closed. It’s still too bright in here to get back to sleep but I think I want to risk it. I go through the laundry list of lies that might keep me in bed this morning. I hate deer hunting, it’s freezing out there, it’s dangerous hunting public lands.
I sigh and scoot off the end of the bed. Mrs Jinksto and I replaced the foam pad “bed” that came with this camper with a full size queen mattress. The only problem is that the bed almost fills up the “master” bedroom end of the camper so, you have to scoot off the end and right out the door. Kinda nifty really but a little annoying.
I can see well enough using the neighbors light so I don’t bother turning any on. Since there’s no power at this campground I want to save the batteries as long as I can and with a second sun glowing outside there’s no point anyway.
My clothes are all laid out on the couch in the order that I need to put them on. Socks, jeans, shirt, boots, another shirt and carhart jacket all go on quickly enough that I barely notice the cold. I marvel briefly at how quickly you can get dressed when you lay your things out like this and then grin. Mrs Jinksto would be horrified at the state of the camper were she here. All of my things are stored neatly. All of the dishes are washed. Leftover food from last night is put away. The only bit of disorder in the place is a neat pile that has three days of dirty clothes in it.
I stumble out the door and realize that it’s warmer outside than it is in the camper. I hate when that happens.
My neighbor, Mike, from somewhere in the far western part of the state nods good morning and I mumble a reply. He’s up making coffee for himself and his buddy Chris. He looks up at the sky and says, “should be a good day for it.”
How the hell can you tell with that super nova glowing right there?, I want to say but simply nod and say, “hope so.”
Mike and Chris were here when I arrived last night as were Rudy and his wife Judy (I kid you not) who have a motorhome parked nearby. Behind my camper is Greg who is, apparently, still asleep in his pop up camper. He will remain so for several more hours owing to my campers ability to block the light from Chris’s lantern and the two bottles of cheap wine that he drank last night around the fire. Such are the hazards…
They all seem to know each other and chatted amiably last night over a roaring fire. Mike and Chris have been coming to this campsite on opening day of Muzzleloader season for sixteen years. Rudy and Judy have been coming for twelve and Greg for only six or so. They don’t hunt together and only meet here once a year on this weekend. They tell hunting stories until late at night and talk about campers that were here last year (who got a little too drunk a little too fast and passed out before nine o’clock) and wonder where Mark is. Mark has been coming every year for longer than Mike and Chris have but hasn’t been seen this year.
I went to bed early last night and laid there listening through the thin camper walls to the drone of hunters talking quietly around a campfire. It reminded me of being a kid, crashed early, listening to tales of Outdoor Life quality deer and spindly little “cull” deer that would have made the record books if these men cared about such things… or the stories were half true. Each story leads to the next as I watch the stars out my window and I eventually drift off to sleep..
This morning is no time for talk. I climb into the truck and switch the headlights from “automatic” to “off” before I fire it up. I turn on the parking lights and roll down the window as I quietly crawl out of the campground, lights off to avoid blinding anyone. As I pass by Mike quietly wishes me luck and I respond with “you too.”
When I reach the road I flip the headlights on and head slowly down the bumpy dirt road. As I top a hill I meet another truck. The road is too narrow for our trucks to pass side by side so I pull over and flip the headlights back off just leaving the parking lights on. As he passes the other driver looks out his open window and says, “mornin” with a half wave at the same time that I do. When he’s past I turn the lights back on and continue on my way.
A few minutes later I find a likely spot and back off of the road into a stand of trees where I shut everything down. I find a Moonpie in the passenger seat and eat that as I smoke the first cigarette of the day. At 6:45 I get out of the truck, lay the muzzle loader over my shoulder and quietly move into the dark woods.
Thirty minutes later I am half a mile away sitting beside a tree on top of a tall hill to watch the sun rise. It’s a clear day, the birds are singing and it’s 43 degrees as I watch two squirrels playing chase around an old oak tree. The day doesn’t get any better than that moment but it doesn’t get any worse either…
…
I’m laid back in my LaZBoy recliner. My feet are kicked up and I’m juggling data back and forth across three huge monitors. The monitors are decked out in my favorite Red and Blue which means that I’m at work but it’s late in the day and time for a break.
I get up and walk to the kitchen passing Mrs Jinksto along the way. She’s quietly reading a book on her Kindle by the big picture window in the living room. Beyond her there’s a perfect fall day. Almost too cool but not quite there yet. I think that we’ll probably see frost very very soon.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen with no idea why. I am waiting. I know that want something, something good, but I don’t know what yet. I wait. It’ll come to me or it won’t. If it does I’ll make it. If it doesn’t I’ll go back to work. My eyes move around the room from the place that I know she hides the Marshmallows and pudding to the top of the refrigerator which is stacked with various cans of fruit juice all lined up in neat rows.
I almost had a hit on the pudding but not quite.
My eyes continue their silent inventory. Nothing in the refrigerator itself. I checked that earlier. Nothing in the cabinet that has enough canned food to feed the Pacific fleet (there are pickled okra and pickled quail eggs in there but I’m saving those for my hunting trip next week), nothing in the spice cabinet that I can eat, nothing in the liquor cabinet that I want except maybe a little rum. That WOULD go down nicely but I have a strict policy against drinking and working and I still have work to do.
I wait another few seconds and my eyes drift back to the liquor cabinet. I slowly walk over and open it to survey the contents. Rum, three kinds, sits behind a box of cake flour. On the next shelf down is the big plastic container that we keep sugar in. Cake flour, Rum, sugar, pudding… the idea that’s been sitting there floods to the front of my brain. Rum Cake! It’s like a physical flash of insight that I can almost see. I hear thunder in the distance followed by what I swear sounds just like a chorus of angels.
I love rum cake. Specifically, I love MY rum cake. It’s a love affair that started years ago when Mrs. Jinksto and I took a vacation to Grand Cayman. It was there that we first had “the good stuff”; Rum cake by the Tortuga Rum Cake factory. You can buy them here (original Golden Rum Cake only please) and have them shipped to you but there damned expensive (no, seriously, go look… see!) and I tend to want them “now” when I want one, not in 3-5 days. So I learned to make them. I searched the internet and found many different recipes that were purported to be just perfect copies of the cake that I love and, after a bit of testing, twisted the recipe into something that I think is actually better than “the real thing”.
I know what I want and so it’s on. I get the rum down from the cabinet as well as the cake flour and sugar. Then I grab a box of vanilla instant pudding from “the secret pudding stash” and the vanilla extract, baking powder and salt from the spice cabinet. Along with those things I get two sticks of butter (real, unsalted), a gallon of milk and 4 eggs from the refrigerator. Everything goes in one place on the cabinet so that there’s no searching for things once I start work.
I peek around the corner to see if Mrs Jinksto has caught on yet but she’s still reading away so I turn to get my mixing bowl from under the cabinet beside the dishwasher.
It’s missing. This isn’t unusual and it can usually be found with a little searching. I stand in the middle of the kitchen and look around before sighing loudly. The bowl, does not appear. I walk over to the cabinet where our dishes are kept and open the door. The bowl is not there. This is not really surprising because it’s *never* been there. Not in the three years that we’ve lived here. I sigh loudly again and check again. The bowl has not appeared. I close the cabinet door loudly and open the one next to it where our glasses and coffee mugs live. No bowl. I glare at the coffee mugs (which didn’t respond to my taunt) and close the door to this cabinet still more loudly.
I peek around the corner again to see if Mrs. Jinksto is coming to help. She’s still reading peacefully but I’m pretty sure that at this point she’s just ignoring me… waiting…
I glare at her quietly (it’d be rude to interrupt after all) and go back to my search. The mixing bowl isn’t in the dish drain or on any of the counters. I pick up a stray dishtowel and look under it because, well, you just never know where it might be. It’s a sneaky bastard, my mixing bowl.
I lean back into the dining room and say, “Hey… “ quietly.
I think I saw her roll her eyes. “Yes baby?”
“Have you seen my mixing bowl?”
“It’s in the cabinet next to the dishwasher where it always is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Did you look?” This time there was DEFINATELY an eye roll.
“Yeah!” I say, quite proud of myself. “I looked EVERYwhere.”
She sighs and gets up knowing that it’s going to be a losing battle. I let her. I am confident that I’m right because this time I really did look in the right place. That’ll teach her.
Mrs. Jinksto, walks into kitchen and opens the cabinet under the counter next to the dishwasher.
I fold my arms across my chest and smile quietly.
At this point one of two things happened and I’m not sure which. Either she stuck her hand into the cabinet and wriggled her fingers while it was hidden inside and by said gesture called forth the magic of woman to summon the missing mixing bowl out of the ether OR there was a brief pause in time-space in which some malcontent teenage meddler walked into the room, replaced my stolen bowl (which he had been studying for an eight grade science project) and then left. I’m betting on the latter but only because it’s more fun. In either case, when her hand returned from the bowels of the evil cabinetry it lovingly held my favorite mixing bowl.
Mrs. Jinksto hands me the bowl and I turn to the cabinet that has all of my ingredients ready.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I begin to measure out two cups of cake flour into my newfound bowl. Mrs. Jinksto turns to leave the kitchen. As she does I say, “do you know where the mixer is?”
I hear a sound behind me that I can’t quite identify.
“It’s right whe… I’ll get it for you sweetheart.”
“Thank you! You’re the best!” I say as I add one a half cups of sugar to my bowl.
By the time she’s back with the mixer I’ve added four teaspoons of baking powder, one teaspoon of salt and a stick of butter to the bowl. I top this off with three tablespoons of vegetable oil and kick the hand mixer into low gear. This is mixed on low for about five or six minutes until everything is well incorporated and the mix is forming smallish beads.
Once that’s done I add the package of vanilla pudding, one half cup of milk (after a brief search (not by me) that is becoming a little redundant (even to me) now (so we’ll skip that (parenthetically speaking (of course))) for the measuring cup)**, one half cup of Tortuga Rum (that my brother brought me from Grand Cayman just for me to make rum cakes with), one half cup of vegetable oil, 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract and 4 eggs. Yeah, that’s a lot… but it goes quickly when you’ve go it down.
As an aside (not a parenthetical comment) it’s best to add the oil and milk first and then add the rum after you’ve got the mixer going. Adding raw rum to milk can be interesting as it causes the milk to nearly instantly curdle. Fun for the whole family.
Once everything is in I mix the batter for about three or four minutes while Mrs. Jinksto greases our bunt cake pan and adds a half cup of chopped walnuts to the bottom.
When the batter is perfectly smooth we work together to scrape the bowl as clean as we can get it and slide the pan into the oven.
There is now a brief interlude where entirely too much spoon licking and cleaning of mixer blades (beaters?) occurs. Since this is a family blog we we’ll skip ahead a bit.
About 50 minutes later I take the cake out of the oven and post a few pictures to facebook. I test it with the ole “stab it with a toothpick” test and then start mixing the “soak”/glaze while the cake cools.
The soak is pretty easy but can get out of hand quickly. I get a small sauce pan from under the cabinet by the stove. This time, managing to do it all on my onesy without womanly magic or wayward time travelers getting involved. I turn the burner on high, place the pot on it and add a cup of sugar to the pot. To that I add another stick of butter and one quarter cup of water and begin stirring. I stir constantly for three or four minutes until things start to bubble. If you let this go much past a few bubbles it can boil over the top of the pot in a about three seconds so I watch it carefully. I stir constantly and just when things start to bubble I pour a half cup of rum on top and take it off of the burner. I stir the rum in for about thirty seconds and then Mrs. Jinksto helps me pour the whole thing over the top of the cake which is still in it’s upsidedowness in the bunt pan.
We let it cool for another 10 minutes or so until all of the soak has, well, soaked and then flip it out onto a cake plate.
I give the cake about an hour to cool and then Mrs. Jinksto fixes us a couple of pieces.
As it turns out, those really were angels that I heard.
** (by the way, sorry about all of the parenthesis in this one)
…
I had a friend in Illinois mention that he was all for the second amendment but didn’t think it was safe for “just anyone to be able to buy a gun” as it works under current law.
Really?
After I found my voice I explained how annoyed I was with the following scenario.
“So, let’s say we’re in Illinois and you want to go hunting with me…
“But I don’t want …”
“Yes, I know that you don’t want to go hunting… I don’t want to be in Illinois… just work with me.”
Ok, so, you want to go hunting with me tomorrow morning just to find out what it’s about. Easy enough, right? Wrong. For the following reasons:
1) You don’t have a FOID and,
2) Which means that you don’t have a gun and,
3) you don’t have a hunting license.
None of those are as “easy” to get as you might think.
First the FOID. It’s required if you have guns or ammunition. You can’t even go into a gun shop and touch a gun. I can’t hand you a single .22 caliber bullet. It’s illegal for you to touch them without a FOID.
So to get a FOID you download the application from the Il State police and fill out the following questions:
Yes, those are the real questions on the FOID application. You’ve already seen that they’re both patronizing and offensive and that someone with any of those issues will just, well, lie. Right?
Nope, because you see. In order to own a firearm anywhere in Illinoise you must sign away your right to privacy. The last paragraph on the form says this:
That bit about the drivers license photo… neat trick. They can use your DL photo but you still have to provide one… of the exact size that the want. You may be thinking that this is for folks that don’t have a Drivers License. Wrong. A drivers license (or Sate issues ID card) are required in order to get a FOID so if you don’t have one you’re out of luck.
Ok, so you fill out the form. Go and buy a photo that is EXACTLY 1.25” X 1.5” (e.g. NOT passport size) and contains only your head and shoulders and tape it to the form. You answer all of the questions noted above and you buy a $10.00 money order and attach THAT to the form. Once all of that’s done you mail it off to the IL state police and wait the 30 days that the form asked you to (there’s actually a law that says they shall issue your card in under 30 days… hah).
After 30 days, you call the state police on the number provided and they explain that there are delays in processing FOID’s so please don’t call back for an additional 30 days.
After an additional 30 days you call back and are told that there are more delays and please don’t call back for an additional 30 days.
So, in 30 more days you call back and are told that your card was mailed two weeks ago. A week later it shows up.
Now you have your FOID and ready to go all Rambo on Bambi! Well.. not quite.
First, you go to the gun store, show them your freshly minted FOID so that they’ll actually let you in and pick the gun you want. Now, go home, wait 24 hours and come back. Since we’re talking hunting rifles here it’s only 24 hours. If you want a handgun, wait 7 days instead.
After 24 hours you go back to the gun shop, present your FOID again and fill out the Federal Firearm Transaction Record which has most of the same questions presented earlier for the FOID and includes an NCIS (federal) background check to make sure that you answered the questions correctly. Assuming that you’re not a felon you’re on your way back home in barely under 2 hours. Here’s the form… go fill it out just for fun and see how long it takes.
So, now you’ve got a gun and you’re ready to head to the woods, right? Well, no. In order to go hunting (in pretty much any state) you need a Hunter Safety Course. These are run several times a year in Illinois and are always full. Still, you can do most of the course online and get in line for the “field day” portion. Yeah, that’s right. Hunter safety is about 10 hours of training and another 5 hours or “practical” testing. Seriously.
Once you have your hunter safety card you can go to most any outdoor store and purchase a license to hunt. Don’t forget your FOID though, you’ll need that to buy ammunition.
There you have it. I understand now why someone would think that “buying guns is just too damned easy”.
…
It’s 9:30 at night. I’m driving home without really thinking about driving. I just sit back in the comfortable seat and make the truck go where it needs to go. I’m not hungry because Ms. Tracey fed me red beans and rice before sending me home.
I watch the countryside slide by outside. There are no street lights out here just the occasional lights from a house as I pass by anonymously in the night. The wheels tirelessly singing their song. Something is playing on the radio but I don’t remember what now. Just a slow old country song that reminds me of nothing and yet defines most of my life.
The windows are rolled down and the cool night air blows in. I smell the occasional unidentifiable flower mixed in with the rich, organic, smells of early fall. Nothing really hurts but everything seems to ache. It’ll go away after a nights sleep but for now I just ignore it as I slide along through the night counting the miles to home.
I started at 0630 and have worked all day helping to refloor the house of someone that I had never met before today. Rob called me the night before and said that someone needed help so the next morning we got up early and pitched in. It took about 15 hours of work to remove old carpet, level things and lay new flooring but we finished it in a day and the job is done.
I’m tired. So tired that there’s not even a sense of a job well done but I am happy anyway. Content even. I know that I’ll be home with Mrs. Jinksto soon and that she’ll smile while performing the wifely duties of cooing over how tired I look and helping me off with my boots (if I whine enough). She’ll hug me and kiss away the aches (all the while rolling her eyes at what a crybaby I am).
That’s just a day. Nothing special; nothing different; nothing wrong.
About 12 years ago I got a brand new Bass Tracker bass boat. It was the first real boat that I had ever owned and we spent many many days on the lake playing with it.
One evening while tooling around on a nearby river Mrs. Jinksto said she wanted to drive the new boat. Which sounded just fine to me. I was already envisioning the looks I’d get from the other fishermen with my wife chauffeuring me from one fishing hole to the next.
I set her up, showed her how to work everything, explained the depth finder and off we went. She carefully throttled us up, the boat climbed up on plane and she soon had us flying up the river with the boat WFO. (That stand for Wide *Full* Open… honest)
I leaned back in my seat, stretched my legs out and waved to other fishermen as we blasted by. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw something flash by just below the surface of the water. Before I could figure out what it was something else flashed by and then another and another…
About this time I realized that I was seeing rocks… big ones! In my calmest, most serene voice I said, “STOP! STOP! STOP!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!!
Mrs. Jinksto quickly shut everything down and as the boat stepped down off of plane the motor lightly settled into the gravel.
I explained, again calmly and serenely, that one must ALWAYS watch the depth finder when traveling at high speed in an unknown river. Mrs. Jinksto quietly pointed to the depth finder which was clearly showing us in 35ft of water with cute little fishes swimming around underneath.
I looked over the side… big rocks, no fishes.
I looked at the depth finder… no rocks and lots of little fishes.
What the…
At a loss, I reached up and hit the “zoom out” button on the depth finder which promptly beeped and informed me that:
FUNCTION NOT AVAILABLE IN DEMO MODE
.
.
.
.
.
All of that to explain the following inside joke.
When Mrs. Jinksto asked me how in the heck you run a Brand New 5.5 Billion (yeah that’s a B) Hunter-Killer Nuclear Submarine aground my response could only be:
“I dunno. Maybe it was still in demo mode?”
..