Borg Brownies

RESISTANCE IS NOT FUTILE.

It's voltage divided by current.

Internet Stalker

I have a stat counter which posts the visitor count, but I'd not really looked at where they were coming from. There's a wide assortment, 90% from the states, maybe 8 % from Canada and the rest an assortment, including a military base far away. I then clicked on visits from my State, which broke down by City.

I really didn't expect anything unusual, Broad Ripple, some friends in Zionsville and further north, but there it was, sticking out like a sore thumb. A frequent, really frequent visitor from the town right next to my little burg. 15 minutes away. Three visits on some days. Some lasting an hour or more. Early morning, late night. A couple of Saturdays, logged on all day, one visit in the total count, but all day. Did they log on in the morning and just forget about it like I do a lot. Does this person not have a LIFE?

I have to admit, it bothered me a bit. None of my friends live there, one coworker but he doesn't read blogs, hardly touches the Internet. This person just seemed to be tailing my every blog post. Sometimes staying for hours late at night, multiple visits on a daily basis. Creepy. I pictured someone living in their parents basement, mall ninja by day, sitting home alone playing with their Wookie action figure at night.

So I looked at Stat counter to see if I could see the IP address. There it was, the IP address, the Internet provider.

IT WAS ME.

Apparently, my little town doesn't show up with the IP, the next closest town does. Now, I have a healthy ego and all, but I'll do eharmony.com before I stalk myself

And yes, I do feel like a complete dork.

You all have a safe and happy week!

Love - Brigid

Range Day - On the Road

Range Day.

Mr. B. and Midwest Chick and I loaded up and headed to a private range to do some group therapy with a couple friends of theirs. A good time was had by all.

Gear.

The one on the left is my trusty P220 in .45. The firearm on the right (I'll let my readers take a guess as to what it is) has had a trigger tweak from Mr. B's friend Mike. Wow. that's not a trigger, that's art.


More Gear!
And even more new gear!


Midwest Chick nails a bowling pin. (click to enlarge).


Steve fires. Great stance equals consistent groupings.

I liked their pistol range. What's not to like with a club house that actually knows how to decorate the women's restroom for the female shooters! Pardon me, I need to go wash the lead residue off my hands again.


Then, firearms tucked away at home, we waved goodbye to some of the gang. Then B and MC and I went off on a drive to meet Mr. and Mrs. Og at a Indiana winery for a wine tasting. We missed the IND blog meet which was too far away to make it, but this was sure a good way to enjoy the day.


Anderson's Orchards and Vineyard. So many good wines to try. I liked the Rhubarb the best, a recommendation of Mrs. Og. The staff was quite welcoming, and we got to try a sampling of many of their fine products (except for our designated driver who got some tasty water).


While the menfolk went out for a cigarette, the women engaged in female small talk. Children? No. Doilies? No. Church bingo? No.


Quotes from Airplane ("oh Stewardess, I speak jive"):

Jive Lady (Mrs. Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver): Cut me some slack, Jack! Chump don' want no help, chump don't GET da' help!
First Jive Dude: Say 'e can't hang, say seven up!
Jive Lady: Jive ass dude don't got no brains anyhow!

(It's even funnier when Midwest Chick and Mrs. O did it)

Young Frankenstein:

"What knockers! Oh Thank you Doctor!"

and, of course, the unashamed politically incorrect Blazing Saddles:

"It's twue! It's twue".

And the men wondered why we were all giggling when they got back.

I'm fortified by two glasses of wine. I wonder if Magnum P.I. would like my shirt?


Too soon, time for the drive back to the home and hospitality of my friends, where the black labs, Barkley and Schmoo were defending the perimeter and G-cat was guarding the house along with her feline stealth forces.


You can take my gun when you can pry it out of my cold cold paws (did I mention I also have back-up claws??)


It was a great day, my friends. We'll do it again soon.

Weekend Group Therapy

Midwest Chick to me
show details 5:58 PM (3 minutes ago)
We can shoot handguns and rimfire rifles. If you have targets, bring
them and we can also shoot bowling pins... wheee!

I'm out of here. Barkley and I will be back in a couple of days with a theraputic range report.

Strength Under Fire - one for Dad

Do you ever wake up alone and not know where you are? You sense a room, slightly cold and roll over in bed to drape your arms across one whose form would feel like gold in your hand, to nuzzle the soft hair there at the base of the skull. But there is only cold air, and it dawns on you that side of the bed is empty and still. That realization rushes you into wakefulness with the sense that you are somewhat lost, a feeling that hovers constant in the corners of the dark. Half awake, you aren't quite sure where you are, how you got to be here. It's not much different than when you were a little kid and you wake from a nightmare of monsters and homework, calling out to a parent who rushes to your side to let you know you are safe.

What woke me was a bad dream, metallic form tumbling end over end, driven by provoking gusts, tumbling away from me even as I chase after it. I close the distance, sparks bursting out like fireworks, flames spraying towards me as I walk towards it unharmed, attempting to reach its precious cargo before it's immolated. But in my dream, there is nothing left but ash, and I stand there in a halo of fire that smells of burning flesh, slapping at the small and blooming holes of fire that are erupting on my shirt like crimson flowers sprung from my heart. There's no going back to sleep after that. Days like this you need the extra big bowl of Corn Pops. But it's just a dream, and now I have to go, as I have my own things to protect

I look out the window, the landscape is flat, the shadowed forms of the city in the distance rising out of the dawn. There are no mountains, and no more of the thick cloud cover that has been the sky for the last several months, clouds hanging like sodden towels on the peaks of buildings, making distance and form deceptive. I'm either in Texas or Oz, one of the two.

I won't be out West until Fall, another trip to see Dad. But I still call him at least twice a week. It doesn't matter how old I get, I'm his little girl and he worries about me out in the world. He worries about me even more lately, wanting to make sure before he leaves, that I'm happy and safe. My guys. Barkley is 8, getting a little white around the muzzle and slowing just a little. Dad is still going full tilt. Hard to believe he turned 91 a couple of weeks ago.


I give my Dad a lot of credit. He's not a big man but he's an imposing figure. But he's incredibly strong, still working out with weights several days a week. A golden glove boxer, a veteran of WWII, retired as a Lt. Colonel. He and my Mom Grace lost their first child, a little girl, born early, only surviving days. After that, with complications from the birth, they remained childless for over 15 years, watching their friends have kids, then grandkids. Mom said "adoption"? I imagine his first words were "but I'm retired?!" But he soon took up the monumental task of filling out all the paperwork, with hope and joy and adopted more than one. It can't have been easy at that age. Being a parent, isn't about blood lines or age or paternity, it's simply a love beyond feeling that resonates in the heart as you look on your child. It's making tough sacrificial decisions, decisions that say without words what is important to you. It's remembering the lessons your father passed on to you, for a father with a sense of honor wants to be even more than he is and to pass something good and hopeful into the hands of his child

I remember coming home crying when I was about 10, wrapped in angst because some boy I liked had said something very cruel to me, crueler in that I thought he was my friend. So I went to my Dad, for he was that approachable, golden authority on everything from dugouts to Daisy rifles in whom I held total faith and trust. I told him what the boy said and asked "is that true? " He looked e in the eye and said, "I once caught a steelhead as big as a cow." HUH? I thought". He repeated "maybe it was as big as a Buick" and I started to giggle knowing that wasn't true. Then my Dad said "Just because someone says something, doesn't make it true."and then he added under his breath "remember that when you're old enough to vote" and chuckled. And in that simple moment, spoken with humor, Dad showed me the importance of honesty. I went back to school, whacked the snot out of the kid that said it, and felt immensely better.

When I was a teen, I was a volunteer at a nursing home. The elderly people thoroughly enjoyed the visits, and often would keep me in their room for what seemed like hours to someone my age, as I brought juice and some blessed company. But for a teenager it was not a fun way to spend the afternoon and one time when Dad was dropping me off, I said "You know, I don't really want to do this". The silence echoed in the car like a question. Then Dad quietly said, "Did you tell them you would do it?" I said, "Yes." That was that. I knew exactly what he meant. They were counting on me. I missed an afternoon at the mall with friends and felt right for doing so.

Dad showed me dependability.

Later I had a chance to work and go to college far from my hometown. The first leap into independence is hard for anyone, the time when you know who you are but not what you may be. Hesitant to take the step, to move so far from home, I did what I still do, I called my Dad."What if I don't make it" I asked. Dad told me about leaving Montana behind as a young man and going to England on the Queen Mary to be an Army Air Corp area police officer during WWII. How hard that trip was to make. After listening to him I realized a simple trip across a state border was nothing and packed my things. I harnessed my dream because Dad showed me the important thing is to be able, at any moment, to sacrifice what we are for what we could become. Dad showed me courage even as things change.

Dad probably doesn't remember these conversations, but I do. The things that leave the biggest impression on a child may not be obvious to them until they are grown. They are not money given, or cars bought or video games provided. It's being a pillar of strength and support, patience and compassion. What will make you memorable to your children will be the things you don't think they see, and perhaps they don't now, but when they get older and step back from you, leaving for their own life—then they will measure the greatness of your example and fully appreciate it.

Did I always follow his example? In a word. NO. Over the years I've been headstrong and stubborn and foolish and more than once insensitive. But he has always stood by me, even if in the vagrancy of foolish dreams and adrenalin, I have disappointed him. Still, I tried to learn from his examples. I still do.

My Dad has always been active in the community and the church, especially working with the Lion's Club, where for a time he was Club Secretary, raising money for eyesight programs, the Red Cross and Service Dog programs as well as and local scholarships for area children.

One thing he was particularly proud of was their newspaper recycling fund-raising program, which provided income for these programs but not without a lot of hard, volunteer work. The shining marker of that program was a Newspaper Recycling Building built to further expand on that community project. The members constructed it themselves, husbands and fathers, grandfathers and great grandfathers, laboring in cold and rain, hot and sun, often at the expense of their own sleep. In November 2000, newly constructed, vandals burned it to the ground,

There was nothing left, but a few support timbers, lined up in stark order like gravestones at a military service. The men, my father, simply stood there stunned, as water dripped from the remains, strips of clouds like bayonets against the sky. A lot of work went into it, all volunteer and many of them in their 60's and 70's. You would have expected my Dad to storm and rage against a senseless act of destruction. But he didn't, though I was not so naive that I didn't miss the simmering outrage within which lives a betrayal too intense and inert to ever be articulated.

I read somewhere that heartache is to a noble what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.So true and words my Dad lived by. From him I have learned that whatever terrible things may happen to us, there is only one thing that allows them to permanently damage our core self, and that is continued belief in them. Dad's lived these beliefs. He's survived cancer, and a small stroke, buried two beloved wives, married to them over 60 years. He held my hand during 34 hours in natural childbirth, when Brigid Jr.s father abandoned me, and swept me away to our cabin after I handed her over to her adoptive parents, listening to me cry myself to sleep for months. I was a teen, barely out of high school and he never judged, never said he was disappointed in me, never said I told you so, for a choice in first loves that he had warned was going to be a bad one.

He taught me patience and compassion

I've watched him sit a vigil at his wife's bedside that lasted days, sleeping only in naps in a chair, never letting go of her hand. He was simply there, a constant presence next to her tiny, silent form, from which weariness and exertion had yet to depart, holding her, never doubting the actuality of his faith, guarding with sharp and unremitting alertness those minutes that he knows are fleeting. For a man such as this, that vandalism was merely a setback. He and his friends simply set out to rebuild what was lost. They did so with the help of kids from the local Elementary school, who amassed more than 600 pounds of pennies to help pay for the new building, with the adults, amazed at the kids efforts, donating the rest. The kids had a little contest between boys and girls and had their own little assembly line, putting the pennies into bags to take to the bank, learning the value of hard work and what it can bring. Those little kids raised well over $1000 from just pennies they rounded up at home and school, in thanks for what the Lions had done for them, a covered play area and an improved playground accessible to all the children

That new recycling building still stands proudly today, a testament to the faith of children and the loving example of fathers.

It will soon be time to give my Dad another call. For he too will be waking up in a lonely bed, wondering where he is. We can pour ourselves a bowl of Corn Pops and have our biweekly chat, while I tell him how very proud I am, that he chose to be my Father, through it all

"Splody!" - A Trip to the Powder Room

Some women deal with stress or other angst by traditional methods. Ice cream. Shopping. Good old fashioned tears. Tried that. Doesn't work.

I prefer blowing something up.

Black powder therapy. Cannon ready. Range style.

You just need a few spare parts from the shed, garage, or evil laboratory and perhaps a friend or relative to divide the blame. And a golf ball

The golf ball is essential.

Now I'm not going to explain how to build one. Sure enough I'd leave out one step, someone would lose an eye and the next thing you know, I'd have 5 drooling personal injury lawyers on my porch (zombies!).

Do your homework, check your state and local laws for restrictions on such things (many modern subdivisions have a "no cannons" covenant). Don't mix blackpowder with tequila, alpacas or enclosed areas. But there are directions on the net on a number of legal, family-friendly, build this science experiment in your garage kind of websites and there are even golf ball cannons for sale, that look like something out of Bladerunner (and are about $280 and up).

With the right amount of black powder, dry, losely packed material (yes that is cloth) and a quick but thorough check of the area to make sure no people, animals, news choppers, Conservatives, or Girl Scouts with cookies are in the line of fire.

FORE!!

Almost 1000 feet. You couldn't even see it go. Of course, the successful first strike raised the question.

What would this thing do with aircraft gun sights? Then, with sights, you could take it deer hunting. Kill AND gut the deer in one. . . . . no never mind. I still haven't heard the end of this
.


Beats the hell out of shopping.

Open Wide

Off to the dentist.
I've got a ride there and back and a female friend to spend the night after. Then, a couple of of the IND blog gang are coming over this weekend with reinforcements of dog biscuits, computer toys, pyrotechnics and a movie. I have pudding and soup and I hear a single malt scotch makes a nifty mouth rinse to reduce bacteria. Though if I could find a way to get some black licorice through a straw I would try that.

Several people have said the sedation meds do weird things to one's brain. So If I call ANYONE at 2 a.m Wednesday night and start singing The Lumberjack Song, Anchors Away or Oh Canada just set the phone down and pretend it didn't happen. It will be our little secret.

Till later, I'm lying low but will drop a line when it's over if I can.

Letters to Home - My Dad

The pictures of Dad and the house here were taken when I visited my Dad last month. Lt. Colonel Harry Allen D. He still lives on his own, house and yard tidy, still spry, though he turns 91 in a few more days. His companion, the great and powerful Oz, is almost 12. He still drives, (Dad, not Oz, though if he had opposable thumbs, he'd have lifted the SUV by now). It's just to the church and the store, friends take him everywhere else but he's still pretty sharp. He can't do 18 holes on the golf course any more, but still lifts weights three times a week, and shoots a bucket of balls on the range with my big brother, who patiently waits while he drives another home. His secrets to health? Exercise, hard work, integrity, commitment, good ale, and adopting two kids when your friends are becoming grandparents.

He's doing well despite a mild stroke about 5 years ago. I took much of the summer off from work and stayed with him through the initial recovery and he was up and moving about surprisingly fast. He was out of the wheelchair in three weeks. The doctor recommended a cane when he started getting up and around walking. He didn't want to use one as "those are for old people". So I got him a hand carved "hiking stick" with a big bear on the crest of it. That's so not a cane. He will use it when he gets really tired and for that I'm thankful.




I took a friend with me to meet him this last trip, wondering if we'd get the chance again. There's only been a handful of friends I've been proud enough to bring home to meet my Dad and only a couple who had the depth of caring to want to meet him, and I'm glad I did.

I realized it as I watched both of them. The future is what we make of it, each single day, a gift. Coming from being with him, I realize that and I do my best to remain close. Dad doesn't have a computer, a cell phone or a blackberry. So for my Dad, between many phone calls, I write letters.


A letter. Faded with time, a bit frayed around the edges, the words upon it written with clear, flowing script. The stamp carefully placed, the envelope addressed with precision.

Letters from my father to me when I first moved away from home. No one really had computers then for personal use at school, the phone was the most common source of connection for family. But as computers became second nature, my father continued to write me letters, refusing to learn to use a computer. Harriet would read him my blog, the words in there as meaningful for him as if I had written them on paper, read aloud by the woman he loves. (Yes, Harry and Harriet). But he will not take up a keyboard, and will not before he is gone, so others print out some of the posts for him to read now that she is gone, lost from us this time last June. He's probably raised an eyebrow to more than one, but he knows how he raised me, where I come from, and where my heart is.


Simple letters, simple words.

The letters themselves are not full of particularly sage wisdom, or things that might be considered of great depth. They are simply the doings of his day and the memories of his heart. What he planted in the garden, where he went out for lunch after church. A bird he saw on a long drive, a story of that steelhead trout he finally caught under the covered bridge at Grey's River. He wrote to me after he buried someone he loved more than life, words flattened out on paper, like rain, but not lost like rain, streaming out to a valueless torrent of dissolution. His words, though heart rending, uplifted me, a love not lost though life's unravelings. When I held on to him at that grave, while taps played in the distance, his words were engraved on my heart.

They were words that didn't teach, or lecture or portend, but words, that on their reading, mattered. For they filled me with elation that in their capturing, those moments would never be lost, that even when my Dad was gone, there would be stories, of meals, of moments, of caring.


Is that a testament to the power of the word or simply the power of the habit of writing? That which, however mundane, comes to our mind each day. Small, succinct phrases of thought that capture the dots of our lives, connecting us, transcending time or moment. What was in the past is here in my hand now, as if it transcends time and for just a moment we are free of the confines of past tense.

He is here with me now, with his story of that fine day, that could have been a week ago, or 50 years. His words caught and released, a brilliant day, a fighting salmon. A trip to the store, or a small prayer over his breakfast, shared with me here, as if the paper had caught it in time. Our lives are in these moments, gone too quickly, rushing water over our days.


Each of us live in the present, yet we contain our past, and we can not put our future into words until it too, becomes our past. Time is an illusion and death is a transient bend in a long journey that will take its own time. Past, present, future, I'll retain my Dad's stories, his laughter splayed across a small white page, as if part of the paper. As I fold it up and place it carefully in my desk drawer, to perhaps be opened up one day again, a thought comes unbidden. I realize that what is here, be it thought, emotion or the trivial events of our day that we share, for someone, somewhere, will be the most precious of memory.

I take out an envelope and small piece of paper, and on it scribe some other words. Not a blog post, but simply words. You are a good man. I love you. There is no place I am going to mail it to but I feel better for writing it. I put it in the envelope and seal it with a small kiss from my lips, the paper resting for a moment like a wafer on my tongue, confession, redemption.

Secret Squirrel - Meet Chipmunk Cheeks

Some tortures are physical
And some are mental,
But the one that is both
Is dental.
- Ogden Nash

Had a visit to the dentist today for my check up to find out that yes, I'm mumble mumble years old and my wisdom teeth have apparently decided to start being in the way. So they get to come out. I've never liked the dentist. My childhood one's secret hero was the Laurence Olivier character in Marathon Man ("Is it SAFE?" ) and as a result, thought "gentle Dentistry" was only for wimps and enemies of the Reich

So I haven't been to a dentist in a long time. A lot of things were different. The X-ray thing was this 180 degree imaging machine that made whirring noises as it circled me. I half expected a HAL like voice to say: "I've just picked up a fault in the AE35 unit. It's going to go 100% failure in 72 hours."

There was a TV screen in front of my chair, (if they show reality TV, I want sedation), and the dentist was a beautiful, young, and very smart young woman, who made even the upcoming huge bill sound like a pleasant procedure, so I resisted the urge to stomp on her.

Still wisdom teeth extraction on top of a a lousy couple of weeks wasn't good news.

It's a good time to bake something.Thank God for homemade Popovers (with thyme and cracked pepper). Tall, and light, and moist inside, they're even SOFT!!

Some nights, being tough is not easy. Soft will work. Especially with butter.