Blogiversary

Home on the Range is 4 years old.  Just a bit shy of 7 million readers, it's certainly been a journey. It started with a recipe for scones and just went from there.  I have a lot of posts which were read by many, and some that were read by few.  Sometimes the thoughts I like best probably won't be widely read.  Perhaps a post like this.  Yet, it's been a wonderful journey in which I've made many new friends, and some that have become my family.  Wherever I go, I run into bloggers and with a "Brigid!"  I'm enfolded in a group of people I am honored to know.  Even if I only know them by a simple blog name.

Sometimes just a name is enough.

The Old Norse had a word - "landnam": land naming. It meant claiming the land so named. I suspect that this concept is behind the naming of well beloved firearms, or before them, swords. I'm half Norse so I do as well ,on occassion, only naming one firearm, Vera. I did come close to having one for my Ruger Mark III the first time I took it apart to clean it but that one can't be repeated. But I have named other inanimate things "Otis" my old Piper Cub (named after the drunk on Mayberry RFD). "Fenry" a Honda scooter I used to have and Mr. Stubbs (do NOT ask). The small boat I owned before I moved to this state was Irish Wake. So I guess, I am one of those folks that do name things.

For people who know and appreciate firearms, just the name makes a statement. The nearest city to where I live had a museum that had a firearm exhibit. Their billboard along the highway said "Colt Fan?" Most would think of a certain local football team, but the rest of us immediately went. "aha" as we knew they were speaking of the legendary Colt. There are other names, those of the firearm, those of the men and women that mastered them, that are scribed on history.
The sciences were my subjects in school, and walking through an excavation, through a field, I can name things: trees, plants, animals. Acer diabolicum, canas lantrans, Mephitis mephitis (run guys run!), chrysomya rufifacies. Latin (quite often a mixture of Latin and Greek) was the language used by educated people and by the church in older times, so Latin was used to give scientific names to animals and plants. The names though weren't just given randomly. They meant something.

The knights of yore, oft were known by just one name. In all their deeds, honor renounced with honor, courage renounced with courage, they rode with the name that was worn with fealty. Bravery was something that was not shown for the deed, but for the sake of the doing, putting their name to the ultimate test even if it meant only proving that death is but final and some battles are all but vanity. Just a name can take us back to furious shadow, where sometimes all that is left of the battle is threads of metal twisted into living bark, annealing into that which it drove head on into, a path swift and narrow as glory itself, until glory is gone, and the wood only weeps.


I'm currently reading Undaunted Courage, a story about the Lewis and Clark expedition. Lewis and Clark did more than chart, they named. Their party named everything they ran across that didn't already have one, spots of land, trees, like the lodge pole pine, Piinus contorta, trees twisted and stunted by Pacific coast storms. They named birds, the Lewis woodpecker, the Clark's nutcracker. They named the waters they traveled down. They named camping sites after game taken there or the birthday of someone born the day they encountered it for the first time.

Simple acts, simple words for things that have a breadth of meaning felt deep inside. What did they think when they saw the mighty Pacific ocean for the first time, that large expanse of water that existed only in their eyes, as a giant wave broke with thunderous fury at their feet. As the waters receded, they too gave that a name, that moment that broke in an instant, vanishing at the at the end of a long journey yet not gone, for the word would hold on to the moment as long as there are those to listen to its sound.


In some religions it is believed that people can not be granted eternal life until they have been baptized, until they have been given a name. In the Bible all things are drawn out by name. In Genesis it says that "God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas". To exist is to have a name.

Yet we do not know God's name. In all the world's religions that I have read of, there is no revelation or rationalization of God as clear and powerful to me as the Name that He spoke to Moses. "I AM WHO I AM". Also written of as Yhwh. I believe "Yhwh" was "Yahweh" ( minus the vowels), likely a Greek transliteration, a name considered so holy that it was rarely spoken out of fear of misuse. Yhwh, four ancient letters, a word without vowels, a name that does not name. The power to name is the power to create, and the power to create is the power to destroy.
People have birth names and nicknames. Brigid was the name on my adoption papers, and retained, but not as my first name. I have the name I use in work. I have a title. The doc title is not just a nickname but I'm a Ph.D. not a medical doctor, for whom I have the highest respect for what they do to earn that title. It's a title I only use when I have to, but in the courtroom testifying about evidence, it wields some power. I have the name that only my brother can get away calling me. They are all part of me, they all in their forms, describe me. As little girls we give our dolls names to bring them to life. My favorite childhood doll is still in my room at home, where I see her from my bed at night when I'm visiting, sitting quietly below twisting stars, an oblivious playmate, now silenced by adulthood.

I remember the night Brigid Jr, was born, after 34 hours in labor, her head crowning, her body bursting forth onto the sweat and blood soaked sheet. I remember only getting to hold her once, for just a moment before I handed her over to her adoptive parents, incredulous of her her soft hair, perfect fingers., smelling of the womb, of warmth, of love. She looked at me with a peripheral glance, while I uttered the name I would give her and the words I was not able to say again for years, for in fear of their utterance, the object of my words would be lost to me. I love you.

As adults we name our pets to make them members of the family. God called life from the fluid chaos of creation by calling its name. We call home our own loved ones with a name, yelled across the back porch into seeping twilight. Time to come in, time to come home.

There are names within cultures that with one telling word have deep significance. The Inuit Indians use ilara, to bring to perceivable life, the utmost respect and fear they feel when they see a polar bear crossing the ice towards them. They also have the single word Inukshuk -in the image of man, which has meanings that pull together all the forces of their world, the sky, the snow, their creator.

There are some living things that define classification, and thus defy being named."Protists", groups of living things comprising those eukaryotes which are neither animal, plant or fungi. Protists - the scientists way of saying "none of the above". One of them is algae. Bones are affected under the earth by algae, fungi and bacteria. The traces of damage due to fungi or algae appear in thin ground sections as horizontal or vertical channels which sometimes converge on one another to form large flat or tufted like forms, causing the entire bone to disintegrate. In some rare cases, destroying all we might have left to identify someone by name.Sometimes all that is left to be buried is a few teeth, a piece of bone. But it is at least something to be placed in the ground with a name. Something for remembrance, for closure. On my long drive into the city I see the occasional cross by the road, with simply a name and perhaps a few flowers. How important these undistinguished little memorials. Every death is a memory that ends here, yet continues on. Enduring, for there is not one of us who can affirm that there must be a web of muscle and bone to hold the conformation of love. It's there, in dust and sky and new life. It''s there in the shadow of a half moon, quivering in the sky like a heel print in wet sand, a large piece of rock that man has named but few would walk. It's there deep within us, waiting.

So what is in a name? It is memory, something that is not simply particular, it is also tutelary, foretelling. It is, in the end, as reliable as we are, as strong as our word. The names and facts of my life by themselves are insignificant. But what our names represent is history, a life. When I look at the name of someone I loved on a gravestone, I do not see stone, I do not see letters. I see remembrance, and that is what we live on for. A simple name brings back memories, as a plunge underwater in a swift stream, as an airplane baffled and bounced in a fierce Spring wind as we labored to get home, as a Southwest night pouring into our heads every star, as smells of kitchens and gunpowder and black earth and lilacs and coffee and warm need, as a hatred of loss, as a discarding of painful past, as stillness and persistence going forward alone. I trace the outline of a name, and I know how that name made me feel. And that is not insignificant. I hear my name across hundreds of electronic miles of science, breathed into a phone late at night, and I know the warm rush that comes with that one word.

For earth without form is void, but heaven without names is only blackness

Quote of the Week

Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things.

It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe. 

―   Robert W. Service

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

The Right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. 

The phrase, penned by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence and written 11 years before the U.S. Constitution was adopted, is said to have been influenced by the writings of John Locke, who expressed a similar concept of life, liberty and estate (property) in his work.

What is a Right? It's a principal that defines and sanctions a man's freedom of action within a social framework. There are many rights, but the one true right is the right to life, not in the context of the right to be born, but a man's right to his own life.

What is liberty? Again, I think Jefferson was somewhat influenced by the words of John Locke, who said in The Second Treatise of Civil Government (1690) - "This freedom from absolute, arbitrary power, is so necessary to, and closely joined with a man’s preservation, that he cannot part with it, but by what forfeits his preservation and life together: for a man, not having the power of his own life, cannot, by compact, or his own consent, enslave himself to any one..."

 He also says: "The NATURAL liberty of man is to be free from any superior power on earth, and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but to have only the law of nature for his rule."

As to the "Pursuit of Happiness". No where in the words of our founding fathers did it say the "right to happiness". Only that we have the right to pursue our own happiness, to engage in self sustaining activities, to build up a sweat chasing whatever it is that is our dream. We have the freedoms to do what is necessary to support, further, and daily savor our own life; freedom to do so by our own voluntary, uncompelled choice.

As to our neighbors, a right means that our actions should impose no harm or obligation on them, they are our actions for our lives. If your dream is to stay home and watch a brand new TV all day that is fine, but that that doesn't mean that I am obligated to buy it for you.

 We have the right to liberty, to freedom. I do not personally believe that means that we are free from helping to reasonably support or maintain that which we use, our roads, our parks, our libraries, our schools. That does not mean we are free to shrug off responsibility for elderly parents or those children we bring into the world. But we have the right to expect that our efforts won't be wasted. We have the right not be forced by threat or law to give up our possessions or income or hand over our Second Amendment rights which protects the safety of that family or personal community we do provide for. We should not be forced to take the food off of our table, there from our own toil, to give to people who do not have the desire to produce, only to consume. Given with no measure of accountability that they will not come back to rob our table again.

Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Or as John Locke defined it first, the right to property. Not the right to an object, but to the action and reward of producing and earning a product. Our founding fathers did not intend the issue of property to be a guarantee that all will have all they want, but only that if a man will own it if he earns it. It will be his to use, to keep or if he chooses, to give to another to help them in time of need. 

We are at the end of an administration, one who had stated that we need to change our country to be one where the rich will be made to provide for the poor. "Share the wealth" was not just words in a campaign, but what I perceived as being the culture of the party. What appears to be our future unless we speak out strongly with our vote, is the adumbration of our future, the ant-like, socialized destruction of the America that people bled and died for.

No matter what your political party affiliation we would agree that there are many things that this country can improve on. But improvement is not, as it has been in the past, having elected officials with blind power to spend the taxpayers money without accountability to where it's gone. Accountability to dispel the concerns that it merely promoted many businesses that promoted said politicians.

We need to return to healthy businesses through competition, where those who use sound operating principals, offering quality goods and services that are wanted, thrive and make more jobs and those that don't fail. We don't need handouts to those without plans to do business differently or lifelines to companies by whose greed or ineptitude the whole mess started. 

There are many of ways the country could be improved. But it can NOT be improved by changing the principals on which our country was founded. For no matter what bitter forfeit a change in government may bring, the loss of our fundamental rights, affirmed by our Constitution, should not be part of it. 

The American Revolution was a revolution of greater note than the battles fought and the words penned. One of the most revolutionary outcomes of the formation of the United States was the subordination of government to moral law, moving away from societies in which the citizens life belonged to those that ruled, and the freedoms he had were only that which the rulers decided by whim he might have that day, or that week. The recognition of man's individual rights by the Constitution limited the force of the power and greed of the states, protecting its citizens from an unwanted collective. 

The United States was one of the first moral societies in history, all previous governments viewing their citizens as a sacrificial means to the ends of others, and society as an end to itself. Our founding fathers had taken note. They recognized two threats to a man's possessions, to his rights. One threat is a criminal. The other is a government. The most laudable accomplishment of our government when it was formed was its ability to draw a distinction between those two, thereby not allowing the second to become a sanctioned version of the activities of the first. 

We the People is I. And I support the constitution and ALL its amendments, not just the ones you pick and choose. When the elected President takes the oath of office, I hope that he truly hears those words as he speaks them from Article II, Section I of the U.S. Constitution:

 "I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Preserve, protect and defend the Constitution. Support those words that gave us a country that worked, that thrived. Preserve. . . Because our founding fathers were smarter than we have been 

- Brigid

Why?

Because I'm neither morally or socially obligated to be a victim.

- Brigid

The Weekend Begins

I am back from my journeys, loaded up Barkley and headed out to Midwest Chick  and Mr. B.'s homestead. I don't live in Indianapolis but close enough the traffic is still wicked during race week.  I usually head way out of Dodge.  

Right now, I'm surrounded on the large couch  by tactical kitties Tank and Bob Cat while two black labs (Barkley and the Amazing Schmoo) are on the floor waiting for Mr. B. to cook the bacon and sausage. The backyard squirrels have made their early morning run on the bird food but were fended off  :-)

We're still pretty full from the blue cheese and bacon plus the mushroom and cheddar stuffed burgers grilled last night) but. . .

 It IS bacon and sausage.  . . and waffles.

 EJ is far away saving the world, to return soon, but the Og family is going to stop by, so much of the usual gang will be here.  I have four days off, there's a couple large bags in the freezer from Beef Mart and some steam engine bits in the barn.  Let the weekend begin!

Barkley Presents - Snoozing vs. Surfing

Top Ten Reasons Snoozing on the Couch is Better than Surfing the Web.

10.  I can't stick my head out of Windows 7.
9.    "You've got mail" less fun to bark at than actual mailman.
8.    I thought it was PEThouse.com.  What a disappointment!
7.    A butt sniff is more honest than most online dating sites.
6.    I can't mark where I've visited without getting yelled at.
5.    Bruised nose trying to catch MPEG ball.
4.    No Microsoft Opposable Thumb
3.    Mouse doesn't come with cat app
2.    Carpal Paw Syndrome

And the #1 reason?

SPAM's not food ? !

Give Us This Day

I could never manage the whole "low carb" thing.  I tried it and within 24 hours I was ready to take hostages at a Dunkin Donuts. I'll  never be skinny, I just want to be strong and healthy.  Besides, there are men in the world that do not want to spend their time with a woman who looks like a bag of antlers.

So bread is still my friend.  Brot, pan, brød, le pain, Хлеб in Russian, Khoubz in Arabic. Sliced, torn, blessed, kissed, eaten fresh from the oven or broken, slightly stale and sweetened into milky coffee. There are as many variations as there are languages.  In some cultures it's eaten with every meal, in many parts of the world it IS the meal. But since it's something I have at least once a day, I want only the best. 

As  little kids in the late 60's, we had "Wonder" bread, with the trademark plastic white wrapper with brightly colored balloons on it.  It  made up most every kids lunchbox PB and J sandwich in those days, but it also made for great fun rolling  it up into little balls of dough the size of grapes and bouncing them on the floor.  When pressed, it had the texture of library paste and, if you removed the crust, you could use it to get an imprint of the Sunday funny papers. It wasn't food as much as fun.

But Mom didn't give us store bought bread all the time and she and Grandma knew how to make the best sweet breads and yeast rolls.  My favorite was a yeast roll, fragrant with butter and buttermilk that was baked in a muffin cup and spread out like fans, to be peeled apart and consumed ever so carefully.

Mom and Grandma Gullikson worked in the kitchen together, not really needing to talk except the occasional little quip or pun. Grandma lived with us.  Widowed not long past her 40th birthday, (my grandfather was a lumberjack), she was in good health, but Dad didn't want her to be alone when she was in her senior years.  Dad and my Mom met in grade school. Dad came  from an extremely disfunctional family. Grandma  G. recognized a kid who needed some support and love and welcomed Dad and his siblings into her home as childhood  friends of her own children.  As he grew up to love my Mom, he grew to love her family as his own.

So for me, it just seemed natural to have her in in the house as they baked. Mom would  lift the pans into the oven, Grandma laughing as she spilled salt and then threw a pinch over her shoulder, all the misfortune, worry and hunger that is the world, only so many grains on a finger that could be flung back in a gesture that was as much defiance as superstition.
 

Dad would join us, softly kissing the soft spot of flour, there on Mom's neck, brushing back a strand of auburn hair, sprinkled with more flour. Then we'd eat, the bread a benediction, a blessing, confirmation of the love that was in that house.

When I am home from my travels I will bake bread again.  Flour will swirl in a shaft of light, small smudges on my face and neck, salting my hair.  The oven heats up as I knead carefully, lift and weigh the smoothness and density in my hand, watching the bread rise up, the aroma filling the kitchen.  On the table is simply fresh butter, to spread on the top, lick out of the crevasse of layers, nibbling on the tender edges as the warmth fills our nostrils.

Yes, it's time to bake some bread.

Low Flight

Oh! I've slipped through swirling clouds of dust,

a few feet from the dirt.

I've flown my Intruder low enough to make my bottom hurt.

I've SRTC'd the desert, hills and valley, mountains, too.

Frolicked in the trees, where only flying squirrels flew.

Chased the frightened cows along, disturbed the ram and ewe,

and done a hundred other things, that you'd only care to do.

I've smacked the tiny sparrow, bluebird, robin, all the rest.

I've ingested baby eagles, simply sucked them from their nest.

I've streaked through total darkness,

just the other guy and me,

and spent the night in terror of things I could not see.

I turned my eyes to heaven,

as I sweated through the flight,

put out my tired hand

and touched The Master Caution Light

One of the luxuries of youth is a sense of immortality, of freedom from responsibility. But for most people that illusion begin to fade when the responsibilities of adulthood loom; a spouse, a mortgage, family, work. As the years go by, caution can replace carefree abandon.

This process isn't necessarily the case for some people. One of my friends on the phone the other night said I was "an adrenalin junkie", though when he told me that I was parked on the couch in my robe watching an old movie, eating a bowl of Grape Nuts for dinner - not exactly the picture of the adventuress I'm supposed to be. Yet I probably shouldn't think about some of the corners I mop myself into. I don't have a will any more, because it's as if I were to have one, I'm admitting that I might die doing what I do and then I should have to stop. Like that will work.

Mountaineer Jim Wickwire once said "I had this notion, that if I was outthere on the edge willing to push the edge, then I was somehow pushing back the limits of mortality. That by looking at death and then coming back to life I have made that mortality recede". As a climber, he wrote in Addicted to Danger, " I had remained in a kind of perpetual adolescence". Perpetual adolescence, a term I've heard several partners of friends or colleagues  utter, and not in a kind way.

Most of my closest friends now are either in law enforcement, intelligence, science or engineering. They all have this infinite way of looking at the world, like mine, and the acceptance into their fold falls on me with the warmth of a summer rain. As is said in an old Quaker expression  "they speak to my condition".  They understand what drives me, and I them. We all live life out of an open suitcase, never knowing what any one day will bring, looming disaster, a simple challenge or making ramen noodles in a hotel coffee pot in Hong Kong.

Yet, despite the differences in our jobs, my friends seem to be all cut from the same mold, charming, unconventional, full of interesting ideas and always in pursuit of that missing piece. We have difficulty sitting still for very long with nothing to do, get bored easily and always have to have a new plan. We are horrified by the thought of a normal life in a a cubicle and yet are able to work 14 hours at a stretch completely and intently focused.

There's nothing like it, almost touching the answer, teetering there in the solitude between smoke and noise; pieces and parts, aware of that giant puzzle of integers, lurking rhythmically just beyond your reach, unrecognizable, yet not.  Then, after hours and hours of sweat and introspection, it falls into place, revealing itself to you like a flash of night sky erupting out of darkness and all the hours you've stared at it, paced it, mapped it out, fall away.  In that moment you realize you can catch time if you stare at it long enough.

.

It's not an easy life for those who love you, and those you leave behind, especially when you have a family. You leave for those adventures and come home with your little bag of life's knowledge fuller than when you left, it's form but a shell for all you have gained.  What you bring back with you may well compensate for what you missed, but there is a tangible price tag. You may miss that family fathering, that celebration of holiday, that party, that event and you realize that what is absolutely integral to your soul has another price tag in addition to the danger. You're not home. You're not home a lot.

It's long nights away, it's whispered conversations on the phone, thoughts running hot and loud through veins untraced by the touch of another for weeks.   It's expectations from people that won't ever be met.  But we can't seem to give it up, not entirely. Despite it's costs, despite it's losses, it is as much a part of you as the one you love. If you're truly lucky, the ones you love recognize this life as much as you, cherishing the time you do have, for they live a form of it themselves.

For there is nothing like it, those times when all is going to hell in a hand basket around you, and there's a sense of this huge elemental power and you think "what the (#*@ are we doing, this is insane!, and you get out of it either alive or not blowing something up and you go "well that wasn't so bad was it?" As you're going home, you're already thinking about going out and doing it again. It's a sense of communion with the infinite, when you've stretched yourself to the absolute limits of your skill, senses cranked up to red line with the knowledge that if you screw up, you or others could die, or at least cost someone an incredible boatload of money. But if you don't, then the world will, for that instant anyway, have one moment of equilibrium, of order, of reason.

Those moments, narrow moments of perfection. Moments almost worthy of the price.

G'Nite - Brigid

Notes from the Red Eye

Well,, after perusing one of the in flight shopping magazines, I realize that I really need to spend $499 on a personal foot and body sauna.

We hear back in steerage, that ALL the Cool Kids in First Class are doing it.

Besides, it gives me a costume for Halloween if I don't have a thing to wear.

Forget Little Bo Peep or Naughty Witch.  I can go as Captain Pike from Star Trek.

I'll be back in a day or two, there's a Sig review below AND a couple of recipes.  Cheers!

Pop Up Targets - the Sig P220

I've written a lot this last year about my smaller concealed pieces but there is one gun that is guaranteed to be found on my hip if I'm traveling somewhere other than a quiet little neighborhood errand for gas or such.

Sometimes you want something. . well. BIGGER. Like for breakfast on an early morning. I had some little store bought roll things, but I wanted Popovers  Real ones, baked in a deep popover pan. If you've never had straight out of the oven popovers, you don't know what you're missing. With just eggs, milk, flour, salt and just a tablespoon of butter for the whole batch, you get big crispy sided puffs with a soft, buttery, airy center. You need to measure exactly though.  This is not a recipe that will turn out by guessing the amount of ingredients in your hand.  But if they turn out well, with the right recipe, low humidity and the six muffin pan, they are incredible, lacking the thick interior of a roll or muffin, but rather having  a center of just thinly stretched pieces of the eggy, cream puff-like dough. If you've had gougère that's probably the best comparison, but these are airier, thanks to that popping effect.

click on photos to enlarge

A few ingredients,just butter, eggs, salt, flour, butter and about two minutes prep time and they were in the oven baking. You can make these in a muffin tray but they don't rise as high.  They cook at a high temperature for about 15 minutes, then are turned down. The steam inside builds the top up.

With some fresh blackberry preserves, a perfect start to a shooty day.

I've often sung the praises of the church of the 1911 and I'm a big fan of some of the Smith and Wesson wheele guns, but a definite favorite for home and occasional concealed is my Sig P220. In 1975 the Swiss armed forces adopted the P220 as the Model 75 in 9mm Parabellum; Japan, Denmark and France subsequently followed suit. This pistol, chambered in either 9mm Parabellum, 7.65mm Parabellum (.30 Luger), .45 ACP or .38 Super, was first marketed in the U.S. by Browning under the name BDA (Browning Double-Action). Those I know that procured one of those BDA models love them. Dubbed the "Thinking Man's .45" for good reason, the new Sig P220 is solid shooter. For me, it is what I term a "serious working gun" and I keep .45 acp 230 grain Hydra-Shok jacketed hollow points for it. (For those of you new to shooting, Hydra-Shok features a unique, patented center-post design and notched jacket. The center post acts to prevent plugging of the hollowpoint cavity with clothing and tissue which can cause a failure to expand, reducing the failure rate, and making for a better defense choice.

On first picking up the P220 .45 you'll notice - it's solid, with some heft to it. Like the other pistols in this series (P225 and P226), the P220 will not find favor with you if you have an unrequited love for wood furniture and milled forgings. Fabricated from an aluminum alloy, the frame has a durable, matte black, anodized finish. The aluminum frame is largely responsible for the pistol's total weight of only 25.5 ounces, without magazine. And there's no Safety - it's DA/SA - the safety is between your ears. If you're only comfortable riding cocked and locked, this isn't the gun for you.

The P220 that I have is a large framed .45 ACP with a single stack magazine and the DA/SA that is the classic Sig Sauer. SIG was, in my mind, the first to actually get the DA/SA right--just draw and fire, and they are probably still the best. Some folks don't like that, but I think if you can master the DA/SA you can shoot about anything else. But it's something you have to spend a bit of time on. If you have a good DA trigger, like I do, it's very easy to shoot well with. The often stated "your first shot will be way off" was never true in my experience. My low ready shots with the P220 are just as decent as my SA only shots from the 1911.That first DA shot always goes just where I'm looking, but perhaps that was just getting comfortable with the feel of the trigger, especially in shooting the magazine double tap.

The DAK (for Double Action Kellerman, after the designer of the system) is an option in the SIG's, including the Combat 220. When firing the pistol the first trigger pull is only 6.5 lgf (compared to 10 pounds for the typical DAO). When the pistol fires and the trigger is released forward, the trigger has an intermediate reset point that;s about halfway to the trigger at rest position. The trigger pull from this intermediate reset point is 8.5 lbf. If the trigger is released all the way forward, this will engage the primary trigger reset and have a trigger pull of 6.5 lbf. To engage the intermediate reset, the trigger must be held to the rear while the slide is cycled, either manually or by the recoil of a round being fired. I fired one on a pistol I rented at a range while traveling. DAK is OK, it feels like the Glock/XD/M&P with a slightly long, light, smooth consistent DA pull. But to be honest, if you want DAK you might be just as happy with a Glock. I know JayG loves his G30 and Caleb does toothe the Glock 21that EJ won at Gunbloggers Rendesvous is sweet.  But I want a SIG, and I want it to feel like a SIG. But it is all subjective, this is one area where it's strictly personal opinion and mine may well be different than yours or the next persons.

The magazines come in both 7 and 8 round capacities, I have the 8, and though it came with two magazines, I've purchased several extras as I will shoot off 4 or 5 magazines with just a pause for breath. When I called the gun store and asked them if they had that model, I was met with some hesitation. I could tell the fellow didn't mean to be impolite, but he said "uh. . Miss. . have you held one yet?" I knew what he was getting at. "Yes, I have really long fingers" and he knew exactly what I meant. Ladies -it is a gun that does need somewhat long fingers. If you are petite with small hands or short fingers, you might have a stretch on the DA trigger. Though once the guns is in SA mode it's easier, though the transition will feel odd to you, and on first shot you might even think it jammed.

The answer to that is to simply make sure and practice going from DA to SA while firing it. This is easily accomplished with the decocking lever on the P220; just decock the gun, fire a few rounds, then decock it again to ensure you are experienced with this transition.The DA pull on the P220 is relatively heavy as DA pulls go, but if you have any decent strength in your hand at all, it's not an issue and is smooth enough that you don't have to measurably increase the pressure at all through the pull. In SA mode there is a considerable take-up on the trigger, but it breaks nicely and, once past the take-up, feels much like a typical 1911 trigger break.

The sight is the vertical "dot the I" type and in good light it's great though at an indoor range of 50 feet or more, with less than great lighting you might have to work at it. You can also get the Truglow fiber/tritium sights for this weapon? I've not used them, but they are just dandy on the XD.

Probably the best thing about the P220 is it's solid feel. Again, a personal preference, but the extra weight does help manage some of the recoil. Yes - as in "Holy Recoil Batman!" You feel like you're really shooting something, not playing with some little kids gun. Yet, the P220 is like no other .45ACP- it just sort of rolls back slightly in the hand under recoil and allows for a quick followup shot Unless you have an extremely small hand, you'll find the controls well placed and large enough to maneuver, and there's just enough movement required to reach the mag release that it's not likely you'll hit it accidentally while firing. The decocking lever is located well and isn't wimpy. This is NOT a Hello Kitty gun. It's precision engineering folks and it has a takedown for cleaning that's the easiest of anything I've owned. Though be aware of the recoil spring weight, it's HEFTY, so this is not a good weapon for someone with weak upper body strength. All areas that need to be cleaned and maintained are easy to get to once the gun is broken down. but with the engineering and the tight fit of it all, have someone walk you through the procedures before going past anything past simple cleaning.

As for the concerns on firing that have popped up on forums. I know some PD's had some problems showing up in some of the 220's after 10 years of service, and after 50,000 rounds there was some hairline cracks in the frame and there's stories of jamming. But these were severely used guns with 50,000 rounds of 230 grain Hydra Shock. I think that proves how good the guns are as opposed to being a worry. I've not had a "new" SIG so am not familiar with any problems there. With quality ammo, mine has never jammed.

For that reason, it's a "big" gun with a nice slender slide that I'm comfortable with on my hip in its Blackhawk holster, for a trip to to the wild, be it urban street or forest. Because sometimes you just want something a little larger and more mighty on your plate.

Photo taken moments before the little store bought roll threw itself off the table in shame.

Dog Days of Spring - Citrus Meringue Pie

Barkley, like most labs, will eat most anything. He's always had a sensitive stomach to any  fatty or spiced people food so all he gets is the occasional nibble of plain lean meat, frozen veggies (he LOVES frozen baby peas and will eat them up like little ball bearings) and apple (no skin or seeds). So there I am after a long day of work, contemplating a frosty beverage and thinking of what I could make to take to work for the team.

Pie.  I've never known a man to turn down pie.

But I've got no fruit on hand other than some frozen blueberries which were more withered than Papa Smurf and one lone leper banana (fail).  But I do have  some nice lemons from Trader Joe's and some OJ and eggs and flour and. . .

. . . . one black lab that's begging for a bite of that lemon I'm slicing.

"Dude, it's lemon, you're NOT going to like it".

He persists.  I give him a little piece, sans rind, carefully checking all seeds are removed (seeds can be toxic to pets).  He RUNS back to his bed in the guest bedroom with his prize

Chews.
His face scrunches up, his eyes squeeze shut, he shakes himself once and slowwwwly swallows with a small whine.  That lemon slice did NOT go down easy.

Then, I swear he's smiling,  The tail is wagging.  He's snooting my hand.  He wants ANOTHER piece!  Mom it's so horrendously bad it's good, like the Steven Seagal movie we watched!

But I can't really be surprised, this is a dog that has eaten a sock, a worm and a piece of Little Caesars pizza all with the same gusto. (Given the choice of the three, I'd eat the sock).  He's also the dog that sat by the edge of the counter for ages because  I'd left a small meatloaf there one evening that accidentally got knocked to the floor to be immediately"retrieved".

Even after it was devoured, he sat there in the crop circle of barbecue sauce stain on the rug for hours, waiting for the mother ship to drop another chunk of beef to earth.

Sorry Barkley, just a bowl of nasty dry crap for you, and lots of love while I make a pie.   If anyone scrunches up their face at it, I guarantee you'll hear about half a dozen "suck it up Marine" and they'll go back to eating. They might jokingly complain about the calories, but there is never a crumb left when I bake something. to share.

It's a little bit of time to make, but very much a favorite in these warm days ahead.

Citrus Meringue Pie

The filling recipe is an adaption of one I saw in Taste of Home magazine.  The crust, a standby of mine with a meringue I added some Mexican vanilla to, to give it some extra depth beyond sugar and egg.

Unfortunately it will be gone before I get together with friends again, but there is a chocolate stout cake in the freezer with their name on it for Memorial Day.

Cheers! 

Girls Day Out - The Wookie Goes to the Art Fair

With bat phone in hand,  I headed down to the city to meet  Tam and Roberta X. for the Broad Ripple Art Fair.  With temps in the 80's by 10 am, with high humidity, it was going to be a warm one.  So we grabbed our little point and shoot cameras, sunscreen and hats and headed out.  Roberta was on her bicycle, Tam and I were in the German Roller Skate with the top down and Rage Again the Machine on the radio (not that a tall blond and  redhead in a Z3 with that playing loudly would draw ANY attention in Broad Ripple).

There, in the shade by the bike parking in the cool T-shirt.  It's  Bobbie!

Tam got us  all our tickets (thanks Tam!) and soon we were inside. ARTSPARK!

First the ground rules, no shooting any mimes. Tam informed me that in Texas there is no season as they're considered pests but I had to remind her that up here the season is limited AND you need a silencer.

Making fun of the hippies is authorized.

Italian Ice is Mandatory.

Me - Come On Tam.

Tam - NO

Me - Didn't they just have a sale on finger cymbals at Brownells?

OK, maybe next year.

These were beautiful, the train the largest of the pieces.  I know someone who would like that.

$1500.  Maybe not this today, but the craftsmanship was incredible.

There were probably two  hundred booths with everything from pottery to metal art to fabric art. The variety was amazing, the talent, impressive.

This caught my eye.

As did this key holder, by the same artist, which Tam and Bobbie ended up going back and buying.

There's always food at the fair. Gee? What to order?

Ah, but we went for the gyros, the smell of the cooking meat and onions proving too much.

There were also booths with food to purchase, canned goods (mmmm candied jalapenos) and Bobbie was looking at some Amish popcorn (don't forget the Shaker Salt to go with it).

I bought something at the woodcrafters place (no, not the train) for a loved one, and a big print of The Milkyway of Galactic Center by John Chumuck, whose photographic work has been in many a magazine.

I wanted to buy a bunch of this, but it was a bit out of my budget. Still, extraordinary leather work.

After a few hours, we were definately warm and our legs were getting a bit sore (between  motorcycle wrecks and "labs on ice!" I think we have one good knee between us)

So we headed back towards Roseholme Cottage.  Say, the path takes us right by BRBP  and I don't know about you but I am THIRSTY AND I'm not on standby any longer.

Bobbie went on ahead  to home on the bike and Tam and headed out on the walk back towards the Pub.  It was hot and humid and as we got closer, I started slowing and wandering off the straight line in the trail.  Tam is behind me saying  "stay on target. . .stay on target"  and soon we were at the Brew Pub.

AHHHH.

As the sun dipped in the sky it was time to say goodbye at Roseholme Cottage to everyone, and of course, Huck the Cat.  Come on Huck, come out and give me some love. . .

She let's go of me, I will hurt you !