Hoosier Family Traditions - Sugar Cream Pie

I wasn't born in Indiana, but my Grandma L. was. Her brother, Royal Crown Brown (yes, his real name), left Indiana as an adult, as did Grandma, to go to Montana for land to homestead. 

RC is buried near where Dad will be, a military cemetary out West. I try and visit his grave anytime I fly through the local airport.  He made a good life for himself, serving in World War I and coming home to the simple life of a farmer, homesteader.  He was 84 when he died, on his motorcycle. Not in a crash, but from his heart simply ceasing to beat as he raced down the road about a zillion miles an hour, a giant grin on his face. 84, an age others were in their rocking chairs. 

He had never married,  had no children. Dad said by the time he was ready to settle down, he was well into middle age  and all the girls were long since married.  So he simply continued about his business, living a somewhat unconventional life to the hilt.

 

When he died no one stepped forward to bury him.  Grandma had passed, no one else in his immediate family would claim the black sheep of the family, but my Father did.

Dad never put "rules" on how someone should live for them to be family, heart and spirit was all that mattered. Dad remembered well the Uncle who gave him his first rifle at age 8, who told him stories about honor and battle, the man who lived the life he wanted to without apology, one of hard work and self sufficiency. So even though Dad had the bills of a young, growing family to pay, he paid to have Uncle R.C. brought out West for a burial with the consideration and respect he was due as a veteran, with family there to hear the taps.

I don't really remember him, I was too young.  I wish I did.  Dad said he'd have liked me, and I know I would have liked him. All I can do now is bring him a handful of sunflowers to be placed among all the many bare soldiers graves on this peaceful hillside.

I've been in Indiana a while, and  plan on building, from plans, my next and hopefully, final home up north in Amish country, close enough I can drive to visit friends in the cities near here and commute to work but far enough away that goblins won't raid the shop that will be bigger than my cottage. I love this state and I don't see myself leaving.

Besides, how could I leave a place where you can get a lifetime Concealed Carry Permit AND the State Pie is made of sugar and cream.

Yes, a State Pie, just as states have a State Flower  (Peony)and a State Bird. After driving interstate 65 work I'd say the State Bird is the Orange Cone.

The Sugar Cream Pie -  the treat that's on almost every table at a potluck, the secret Hoosier Handshake, that simple dessert that everyone has a favorite recipe for.
 

The local origins likely lie with the Amish or Quaker families of Indiana who created it in pioneer days. It's popular in Pennsylvania  Dutch country and versions of it exist all over (such as the  Quebec Sugar Cream Pie). It's something the thrifty could make when the apple bin was empty with ingredients every farm kitchen had.  It's so popular that the Indiana Foodways Allaiance has even created a  a "Hoosier Pie Trail" with must-stop eateries for visitors looking to try their state pie and Indiana family owned Wick's Pies ships them to more than 25 states. 

The Range is not on the official pie trail, but we make a decent pie. There are many variations but they are all similar, you need cream, sugar and something to bind them together.  Some use flour, some use cornstarch.  Some mix the dry ingredients and liquids directly in the pastry with the fingers, some cook on the stove and finish both pie and crust in the oven.  A few are egg based, but those tend to be a little more temperamental.  This recipe uses no eggs.  Like anything made out in farm country, the secret is using the freshest ingredients possible.

Topped with  Cinnamon and/or freshly grated Nutmeg, it's even better on the second day.  So tomorrow, if anyone stops in off the trail, there will be pie (with only a tiny piece missing) on the table while we raise a toast to friends, family, and Uncle R.C..
 

Sugar Cream Pie on the Range

 

Single 9 inch pie crust recipe (the one on the sidebar for apple pie, readers have liked)

3/4 cup vanilla sugar*

1/4 cup brown sugar

1/4 tsp salt

2 cups half-and-half cream

1/2 cup whipping cream  

3 Tablespoons cornstarch 

1/2 cup sweet cream unsalted butter, cut into pieces

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon Saigon Cinnamon

grated fresh Nutmeg (you won't need a whole one).

 

Combine sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a medium saucepan. Stir in the cream. Cook and stir over medium heat until thickened and bubbly., stirring constantly so it does not burn. Remove from heat. Stir in butter until melted. Stir in brown sugar and vanilla. Pour into pie shell. Sprinkle with cinnamon and a little grated nutmeg (I used a couple teaspoons of the butter and dotted it on the top before baking, but you don't have to). Bake at 325 degrees F about 30 minutes or until edge is bubbly and the piecrust is becoming golden.. Cool completely on a wire rack.  It will always be a bit jiggly but it will set up some as it cools. Serve at room temperature.

 

* to make vanilla sugar, place the following in an airtight container and let sit 8-14 days. 
- 1 vanilla bean, whole or scraped

- 2 cups granulated sugar 

HOTR Memories - Grounds of Play

A little blast from the past. . .

A playground in Montana. A time long ago. I'm the little redheaded girl that looks as if she's ready to give someone a little help down the slide. We used to polish them well  with waxed paper to get even more speed out of them. (hehehe.)

I think that's my brother R. swinging like a monkey from the monkey bars.  He was safe. . . for now.

Have you noticed that some the playground equipment has been seriously lawyered up since you and I were kids?

The slides are now about four feet tall and have bumpers and areas of thick soft mulch to fall in (we had rocks). Monkey bars are getting harder and harder to find. What happened to that merry go round that was the childhood equivalent of a G Force accelerator. If you got going fast enough with a siblings help, hanging on by one hand, you could get up to about 2 g's. Or come flying off and break a tooth as I did and get banned from the playground for a few days. Then, there was the teeter totter (lever and fulcrum = initiate launch sequence!) Yes, we had discipline, the 9th and 10th amendment were alive in our parents hearts, but they let us get a few bumps and bruises alone the way, so we'd learn, not only our limits, but how to take care of ourselves.

I'm not uncaring to safety. I have a child.  As a teen, I spent 34 hours bringing her into the world at 10 pounds 6 ounces, the old fashioned way.  I  then handed her over to her loving adoptive parents who raised her in all the ways I could not at that time.  All I have of her childhood is a couple of photos.  Still, all of these years later, I'd give my life to ensure she is happy and safe.

But I would not have wrapped her in bubble wrap so she never learned the difference between deliberated courage and "stupid should hurt".  Those readers who are parents and grandparents know of which I speak. But I think of our entire generation, that grew up with no more than a few skinned knees on the old stuff and the trust of our parents to make mistakes, and sigh a wistful sigh for times lost.

The ground was hard, the high desert polished by clouds the color of glaciers, white drifts torn from the mountains and piled up until they shed hard rain on every surface. The rivulets wore down the earth, already marked with the ruts the wagons made as people settled this area.

I started thinking about it a couple of years ago when they recalled the Easy Bake Oven.. Apparently some kids have had their fingers burned and someone lost a fingertip so they're off the market. Amazing, my generation managed to make it through a gazillion adventures with this thing and none the worse for wear. Kids raised today on video games can't handle the toys we had I guess. They made noise, they got hot. . they REALLY could put an eye out. They were GOOD toys.

When I was little, I begged Mom for an Easy Bake Oven every time a gift-giving holiday rolled around. I'd watch the ads that aired with the Saturday morning. I was not one of those girls, dressed in pink, pulling my own, light-bulb baked cake out of the retro green oven with the special removing tool. No, I wanted an endless source of non parental controlled baked treats we could make for the field when we were playing soldier or cop and robbers.

Then we had the toy that was as good for a good electric shock as anything. The Tudor Electric Football game. Picture the concept: You put eleven players into position. Your brother does the same. Ours came painted like the Kansas City and Minnesota. (Go Minnesota!)

You flip the switch and the whole field begins vibrating and the players start jostling around on the L.A. earthquake-prone gridiron. Time to stop the game so you can place the felt ball on the little base of your favorite player and turn that switch on again. Your player has an opening! He's going for it. . the crowd goes wild.. . . wait! He's turning around! He's running the wrong way! Son of a bitch! . Fortunately since this happened almost every time, the little rule book allowed you to call the play as "dead" rather than have your running back relive Dad's old story about Jim Marshall's 1964 run against San Francisco.

One toy that actually worked, albeit with the risk of second degree burns, was the Creepy Crawlers Thing Maker. I inherited this from an older sibling and what a wonderfully dangerous toy this was, cooking bugs and things in an open hot plate. That wonderful smell of cooking goo, filling the house with the warm ambiance of plastigop and the electrical sizzle as the plate hit the cooling tray.

These toys didn't just get 100 watt light bulb-warm like the Easy Bake Oven. These suckers got HOT. The small scars were worn around the neighborhood like a badge of honor. And frankly, nothing spelled fun like a good aim and whacking your brother right in the forehead with a piping hot stink bug.

But days inside were limited to really bad weather. Unless it was so cold our digits would freeze to the ground we were outside, and usually up in a tree or on some non sanitized playground equipment. The slides were tall, the ground was hard. The purpose of a swing was not to feel the wind in your face, but to get as absolutely high as you could, then FLING yourself out of it towards the ground and hope you landed feet first.

There was just something about playing with the boys, my brother being my best friend in the whole world. Boys, guns, guns, boys. There is an obvious connection there, and being a girl I was never left out of the picture. I had guns. From the time I could walk I knew what they were, and the difference between a real one and a toy one. And guess what, I made it to my 40's without committing a felony or shooting anyone I wasn't supposed to. Our folks had to get us toy guns, otherwise we'd make a gun out of a stick, Legos or even a banana if that's all, as the neighborhood sheriff, we could get our hands on to defend ourselves against outlaws. Some parents say it is toy guns that would make a child warlike. But lacking a gun toy, I more than once grabbed my Donald Duck figurine around the neck like the butt of a pistol, pointed him, beak aimed, and said "BANG!". My folks, thank goodness never bought in to this "nurture, vs nature" and let me choose. I played with the toys I wanted to.

My favorite gun of choice as a youngster which I have written of here in the past was Topper's Johnny Seven O.M.A which was handed down from an older brother, still in working order. Johnny Seven had all of the essentials - gun, helmet and combat phones. The thing that made this line special however, was the gun. This baby was a yard long and chock full of the things that boys/men (and the occasional redheaded girl) love to this day - gizmo's galore! The O.M.A offered seven weapons in one. It launched a grenade, fired an anti-tank rocket, shot an armor-piercing shell, chucked an anti-bunker missileshot, 10 bullets as a rifle made a rat-a-tat-tat sound as a tommy gun AND had a pistol that detached and functioned as a cap gun. The stock was also detachable and the O.M.A. had a built in bipod, which was handy since the thing weighed about 5 pounds. Maybe I should have found another one of these rather than laying out $1500 for an AR15 with accessories.

My favorite weapon though couldn't be found on any shelf at the toy store. It was the Weller soldering gun kept in the neighbor's garage. It was black and sturdily futuristic looking with two lights that would glow when you pulled the trigger and a tip that would make this Outer Limits kind of humming sound and got really hot, hot enough to melt plastic and burn paper. It was a decided step up from the Wham-O Air Blaster. Though it really did a number on G.I. Joe's arm when we tried to give him a tattoo with it.

Like most of the kids of the West, and of that generation, we liked to be outdoors. We learned to fish and later to hunt, a continuation of the early childhood games we played, except this time the strategy involved steelheads, and the only make believe "counting coup" we did was the "one that got away" stories.

The outdoors made us strong, made us self sufficient and capable. It made us search for something up ahead on that horizon, something we would not find in our room on a computer or on a PlayStation.

We didn't have "play dates", we simply rounded up some neighborhood kids and headed out each morning. We pretty well burned, nicked and scrapped most parts of our body, and periodically one of us would have to go in to have someones Mom clean it up with Bactine and a made from scratch cookie, to be sent back out to likely scrape the areas that had been missed.

We didn't sit inside much either, unless it was raining. We'd head out into the boonies, where there were hills and trees to climb, crossing a stream with the aid of a stick to make sure it wasn't too deep, and finding a swatch of "wolf" fur in the bush (OK, maybe it was coyote). It was a different era. We didn't have grown-up worries, about drugs or crime or social standing because we didn't have $300 tennis shoes. We were simply kids, behaving like kids, skipping rocks, marveling in the discover of a nest of robins, or the rub of a pair of antlers against a tree, dragging our tired selves home with a huge sheet of plywood we found we could make a raft out of sometime. But we were taught that there were some places it wasn't safe to play thanks to 50's and 60's safety movies they always had on hand in school.

(The video is long and the major excitement is a squished lunch box, but fellow train buffs will like)

 

But play we did, and hard.  When we'd get home, dog tired, and dirty, sometimes with dried blood on a limb somewhere, Mom might let us roast marshmallows in the living room fireplace and eat on our stomachs on her good carpet, so we could continue the adventure until sleep, stomach full of hot globs of sweet security. We'd be asleep as soon as we said our prayers and Dad and Mom said goodnight, to soon wake up, ready to be outdoors again.

It's still early, have you noticed how beautiful the day really is, as you sit in front of the television set, a day so glorious you'd gladly pay God if the universe had a cover charge. Take a dog, take a bike, take your child or grandchild and get out into that dimensionless map of green where steams and paths and baseball diamonds, all overlay onto the shifting present, while you go back in time.. Laugh like you have forgotten how, drink from a garden hose, build up a sweat, and do not, for a moment, care what the neighbor's think.

For I'm going to. Today, the sun is out, peeking from behind the sky. I've been on this computer long enough. I gather  my hat, Barkley rushing to join me as we head out to the park.. I'll lob a well chewed tennis ball at him, and he'll chase me, barking in a game of canine tag. The trees watch down on us, like sentient parents, as the wind blows gently, warming the skin, sparking my soul.

In the distance there are no mountains. But here is a confluence of earth. The cut of my land, the way it folds and lay, the bleached azure sky, the swath of verdant green across the land unfettered, all are beautiful. Oh and the wind. The wind that smells of farmland and freedom, the wind that carries the voices of laughing children across the field. Wind that brushes the trees aside, God's hand, watching over us as we play

And play I still do, with firearms that actually fire, with soldering irons and tools and things that get really hot. When I'm done, I will still lay back down, in the grass and look up to the sky. I will gaze up into the rain murmured fabric of a late summer storm, upon which the sun hammers the clouds like my heart beat, growing into something wet, and wild and free. There have been some scrapes on both body and heart, but for those moments, like hard ground that exposed nerve endings to the sunlight, I'd not love as deeply as I can now. For that I am grateful.

Even if I don't have a Johnny Seven OMA any longer.

Get These Hards Times Right On Out of Our Minds

A number of folks I hang out with are Law Enforcement, for various reasons.  It doesn't always make me popular with some crowds but the ones I know are the best people and I'm proud to know them and to have worked alongside some of them along the way.

It's a tough job, it's a stressful job, and sometimes, well sometimes, you just do what you can to relieve a little tension.

The names in this story have been changed, but any of you who were growing up in the mid 70's will know exactly what I'm talking about in this MUCH more recent tale.

"B" was a little tuckered out and moving slow, trying to get a bite to eat as a call went out on the radio to  all of the locals - there was a complaint and a possible danger to the public in this dark, flat land.  Having  busted down its stall perhaps, "a pony running free in the roadway". 

Laughing, "B" grabs the cellphone and hits the call button for the the local LEO dispatch as the young and "wet behind the ears" Deputy is accepting the call on the radio.

"It's "B", I'll pay you $5 to get on the radio and say the pony's name is Wildfire..."

 It wasn't 5 seconds later..

"Complainant advises pony's name is Wildfire."

You could almost hear the laughter across the county and the diligent young man does NOT put it together.

On scene, he even confirming with the horse's owners that the name was, indeed, Wildfire so that he could accurately note it in the report. Word is the owners just looked at him like he was perhaps a bit  strange. It wasn't until he had closed out the call and was back at headquarters asking, "What did it matter what its name was. . . . . .?"

"oh, damn it!"

You all have a safe day out there, be mindful of flooding and wind and watch out for ponies in the road (rear ending a pinto never turns out well).

Isaac - For My Readers In The Gulf

May the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob watch over you.

 

It's not as big as Katrina, but there is still great peril.  Be safe and know you are in our thoughts and prayers.

 

Brigid and Barkley

You're a daisy if you do.

One of my favorite Westerns. An excerpt from Tombstone

Doc Holliday   What did you ever want?
Wyattt Earp:  Just to live a normal life.
Doc Holliday: There's no normal life, Wyatt, it's just life. Get on with it.
Wyatt Earp: Don't know how.
Doc Holliday: Sure you do. Say goodbye to me. Go grab that spirited actress and make her your own. Take that beauty from it, don't look back. Live every second. Live right on to the end. Live Wyatt. Live for me.

Even if you're not a fan of Westerns, there are parts of life that resonant throughout this movie that most will recognize.

If you've not seen it, it's worth a view.

Tri-State Engine and Tractor Show - The Fun Continues

The Tri-State Engine and Tractor show is held every year in Portland, Indiana and continues to be the largest event of its kind in the world. I've gone to such tractor and railroad shows for years. The last two trips, I went with friends, which adds to the fun.  The road trip here is an event in itself, checking out the sights along the way and making quips about the other drivers and the passing landscape.

Watching a DeLorean go whizzing past: 

Me: (humming the theme song) "Go Speed Racer, Go"

From  the passenger seat, in Japanese accent - "make no extra movement, requires more frames, animation expensive!"

Looking for a place to make a rest stop:

 Me:  "There will be a gas station or a business along here soon.  Hey, there's a clothing store for women and plus sizes called Dress Barn"

From the passenger seat: "I think it would be best to avoid the word BARN in any association with plus size women's clothing."

Less than two hours from home, we're here!  Parking in the Jay County Fairground is free, and they have school buses to take you to the entrance.  There will be a lot of walking today, this would be a fun alternative. . .

 John Deere Go Cart by the front entrance.

 

It is going to be a scorcher.  Mr. B. has all kinds of extra water and I brought lots of sunscreen  (not being able to find those little tiles they use on the space shuttle which would probably work better for redheads). 

 

I had the kind with zinc oxide for my sensitive skin.  I apply it liberally, and then look at my friends and ask "too much?"

 

I hear back  "Next, on kabuki theater!" 

 

Oh well, at least with this and a hat, I shouldn't burn.  We start in the small engine section.

 

 

Moving onto lawn and garden tractors.  From the Hercules Gas Engine Co., Evansville, Ind. circa 1915

 

 

A beautiful little Bolens, maker of the first engine powered garden tractor

 

 

Just some of the scale projects that were on display.

 

 

Lots of interesting things everywhere.

 

 

 

Then there were tractors, all KINDS of tractors.

 

 

 

 There were even engine powered washing machines.  One (not this one) was branded "Easy" (yeah, right).

 

 

Most, equipped with an attached wringer, look like they could take off an arm easily.  But one thing we notice, there are not warning signs everywhere.  This place is loaded with things with teeth and moving parts and gears and all KINDS of scalding and burning potential.  I went into a bathroom in Northern Ireland once and they even had a "caution hot water" on the hot water faucet on the sink in the bathroom!  It's not much better in the US, with  warning notes telling you to remove the baby before folding up the stroller.

 

 

Here was  machinery in all it's mangling glory and everyone pretty much knows what is safe to touch or not, having the kind of intelligence that I wish to associate with -  "intelligence" meaning, the ability to sensibly cope with whatever environment you are thrust in, while retaining a measure of your own personal liberty and thought.  Roll out the hot steam engines and let Darwin take over, I say.

 

Though there is this little sign next to a very old "powered" saw.

 

 

What does is say on that paper?

 

 

 

But of course, there's always one in the crowd. . .

 

From the announcer's loudspeaker. "Folks I've seen 10,000 people here and I thought I'd seen everything but DO NOT drive your golf cart through the barn.  Do NOT drive motorized vehicles through the barns.

 

(Where signs aren't necessary, public humiliation WILL work.)

 

The show has all kinds of food for snacks and supper, but I packed tailgate food for a mid- morning light meal as our day started early and breakfast was a granola bar in the truck. There's spicy grilled chicken and tortillas to make wraps, all kinds of chopped veggies and two kinds of dressing, a spicy one, and a creamy one I made with cheese, peppercorn and caramelized onion.  There are grapes I bought fresh yesterday and cheeses and yummy cayenne almonds and cinnamon almonds (which Midwest Chick put in Mr. B's backpack before he left, yay!).  

 

After that, still more acres and acres of tractors and engines we haven't seen yet. There's also flea markets with antiques and crafts, hand crafted toys for the  kids, and things to interest a whole famil around the perimeter of the show.  Me - I just wanted to play with the engines.

 

 

I see a lot of folks in farm wear, as well as a large number of Amish and Mennonites, the ladies wearing beautifully crafted homemade dresses, the children all happy and well behaved.  The men in attendance look to be in their element, one and all, so many things to look at, to learn from and admire. These machines, if able to be hung on a wall, could be the epitaph of most of the men here. 

 

There are families and babies, and an occasional chair on which was marked "in memory of" the name of someone who had occupied that chair at many a farm gathering. Families are important, and we always miss those that by circumstance or death, remain far from us.

 

One thing we  notice though, there was NO litter.  No where.  I've noticed this, as well, at fairs in areas where the predominant industry is farming and small businesses.  But go to a fair in Lake County (blue state) and there's garbage on the ground everywhere.  It speaks to the type of people that attend this type of event, farmers, conservatives; workers; whether  poor, middle class or wealthy, all are cut from the same cloth.  Everyone here has a deep appreciation for taking care of things, a first hand experience of earning their own keep, of hard work and innovation. Some succeed ,and are properous, some, through fate, a bad choice or two, or nature, may not.  But all understand what went into their effort.  It's far removed from the "entitled" mindset that is taking over our country, don't work, someone will feed you, make a mess, someone else will clean it up.  It's definitely a refreshing change from what is seen in many public gatherings elsewhere..

 

 

 

In the afternoon there is big cups of iced tea and Sno Cones for all (one grape, one root beer and one blue raspberry please!)  As the temps are getting up into the 90's we are happy to give some of our money to the service groups that are providing food and refreshments here (including some amazing breaded tenderloins and other meats you could purchase by the case to take home).

 

But there is respite from the sun for a bit in the covered grandstand for a parade of antique fire engines and  all kinds of tractors.  We sit in anticipation while they line up to drive by the stands where their ownership and history would be announced.

 

We can't t tell what will come into view first, the machines stirring up a cloud of dust that is both portent and promise. But oh we can hear them, moving noisily and steadily, but not quickly, onto the track, the future, our past, the mechanised, mobilized unavoidable destiny that was, that is America.

 

 

As the machines move into view, several kids are perched up on Dad or Grandpa's lap "helping" to steer, another generation.  I hope that they  will come to appreciate this little piece of our history. We did chuckle at one young man, late teens I'd say, who has his beautiful young gal friend perched up on the edge of the  tractor, balancing herself in a pair of Daisy Duke shorts and a little shirt, flashing the hair and smile at the crowd like a beauty queen.

 

"Hope the Tractor Muffin doesn't fall off" was all I can say, but the men appreciate the ornamental features of that particular tractor. 

 

I remember this next one from last year.  Beautiful.

 

 

There are firetrucks as well.  I knew my good friend PA State Cop would appreciate this.

 

 

 

After that, there is still more acres and acres of tractors and engines and some working threshers to explore.

  

 

 

 After the day ends and before everyone heads out to start their work week, there are old fashioned board games to be played (this board, a $2 find at the thrift shop along with some model railroad magazines that were in immaculate condition). 

 

Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.

 

Teach a man to play cribbage and a week later he is taking the board and running with it.

 

 

For those of you that play, you understand the significance of the skunk, which made his appearance after my first game of the evening. ( something from my cribbage playing family out West). 

 

But losing or winning, some of the best fun in the world is the old fashioned kind. 

 

If you live anywhere near farm country and you've not taken in such an event as the Tri-State Engine and Tractor Show and have any kind of interest in engineering, history, antiques or machinery, you should go.  Go, listen to the throated growl of a tractor, the labored chuffing that is a working steam engine, the whistle that is both challenge and release, before they're gone, taking with them the last echo of a young nation's fire and promise.

 

 

Tractors and Wheel Guns - Childhood Memories

Mom can I go to Thunder Ranch instead of Girl Scout Camp when I get bigger???

Good Lord, I'm probably about 3  here, and what's with the Jack LaLanne plaid jumpsuit?  My family is there in the background with conservative attire (including suspenders), well dressed and keeping a safe distance. "SHE HAS NO GRIP OR MUZZLE CONTROL - STAY BACK"

If you are  reading this, I've rolled in from the Tri State Tractor and Engine Fest after a long weekend, making it back to  town in time to pick up Barkley at the doggie day camp before they closed. (All my friends who normally watch him were either at the Gas Engine Fest or the  IND Gun Show).

It was a great weekend.  Mr. B. made the drive down, though Midwest Chick had to work and couldn't make it (we missed you).  His company and knowledge of historical machinery always makes for a great addition to the group. The camera got passed around, so there were lots of shots.

As it was last year, it was quite hot, (definitely t shirt and denim shorts weather) and the crowd was big, the event, the largest of its kind in the country.  This year, Mr. B. brought walkie talkies, so we didn't get separated. (you have to watch it, one minute you've got a redhead in the group, the next you hear "mmm, SNO CONE . . .  and she disappears).

We had some fun with the walkie talkies especially after we figured several others were using the same frequency.

"The subject is in sight.  Team Six, go to the left."

"We'll do the exchange by the 110 pound bucket of lard, make sure the bills are unmarked."

"go left, no really, go left".

There will be photos tomorrow.

 I am  sorry to have missed the IND gun show and the Indy BlogMeet! with Tam and Roberta X  and the rest of the Indy gang. But the Tri State show is just too much fun to miss, especially when it's just once a year.

A day of steam, machinery, tractors and antique fire engines, all  those little things that take you back to your childhood and days gone by. Good days.  Good people.

Leatherbound- Gun Bloggers Rendezvous and a Ruger

Going to Gun Bloggers Rendezvous?

Engineering Johnson  has a post up with some great GBR news and the story behind it.  Ruger has very generously donated a very dandy wheel gun, the Single Ten, to the GBR fund raising raffle.

If you haven't sent in your registration, get thee to Gunbloggers and send it in now. If you participate in the raffle you'll be helping Project Valour-IT and you might just get a Single Ten as your reward!

If you're really lucky, you might also get a donated hand crafted gun belt to go with it. (It's not finished in these first two  photos, taken a couple weeks ago, but it's going to be a dandy when it's all done.)

I've never watched anyone make a belt and holster from raw materials before. There was the pattern, an expanse of leather, some Fieblings dye and some tools.  He'd never tried it before, but he had the tools, and he wanted to do something for the fundraise.

 One evening, when I'm in the study writing sonnets of butterflies, kittens and violets (OK, I was online looking at a new Dillon press and bacon porn),  there comes this WHACK! from the other room.  Barkley jumped up and woofed.  WHACK!  Another woof.  It sounded like a pile driver.  Ahh, so THAT's how the letters are put on there, stamps and brute force.  Cool! 

I wish I was going to GBR for all the fun and fund raising.  But vacation was spent with my Dad,and I won't have any extra days off til, well, it's time to spend more time with him. Every day is precious, and sometimes doing a little something, be it a donation of your labor, your time or your heart for a good reason, makes it all worth it.  If you can work in a Ruger wheel gun in there, even better.

Go check out EJ's post on the firearm and then go show some appreciation to the folks over at Ruger for making this all  possible!  (Lori, you're the best!)

Update: There is still a little stiching work to be done but it's 80% finished -

The World As It Is - Never Forget

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

- Edmund Burke

I'm constantly amazed at the ignorance of man, not just in those situations which can get one killed, through acts of mental complacency generally fueled by alcohol or gasoline, but the seemingly willful ignorance of events that are occurring around them. I know people who have never left their home town, but what is more incomprehensible to me, is people who have never thought outside their home town.  I've heard as I keep tabs on the world on my days off, "Why do you CARE what's going on in the China Sea, in Iran?  The new Twilight movie is almost out!

I've come to the conclusion that there are simply some people who won't grasp the truth of the world until they see the truth of themselves.  Knowing yourself is a lifelong and sometimes acutely painful process, with your biggest lessons often emerging from your biggest mistakes. Truth about the nature of man and the world isn't always pleasant, some things we don't want to know  - what's really in a hot dog, how many calories there are in a piece of pie, and anything at all about anyone named Kardashian. Some things we cannot bear to know. But that knowledge of some things, no matter how hurtful to ones' spirit, is absolutely essential to our well being, for only with truth do we have the resilience, the capacity to continue on, alive in the moment, unbound by regret and willing to fight.

In disaster, in threat, to we as individuals, to we as a nation, the nature of truth, and how we face it, asserts itself.



Those who take charge do, those who choose to hide from things do, be it disaster, heartbreak, the economy, crime or a terrorist attack. After 9-11, I had one acquaintance who refused to watch the news, heading out on a planned vacation and pretending it never happened. Another watched sitcom TV non stop, staying home from work with a bowl of popcorn. Both of these individuals were in denial, afraid to accept the truth.

On the shelf, packed from the trip to my Dad's, is a stone, full of fossilized seashells.  When I was home last, Big Bro told me about it.  It came from the quarry we did our target shooting at as kids. He squirreled it away when it was unearthed, knowing what a find it was, so many miles from the sea.  He told me he wanted me to have it.  He then quietly took me to Dad's garage and opened a drawer where he had hidden it as a child, picked it up carefully and gave it to me.  We've both seen a lot in our careers, that we can't discuss, even with one another. We don't discuss it now, we won't discuss it after we retire, we won't write a book about it.  There's an oath we took and we honor that. The rock was his way of acknowledging that what I do is important, that no matter how many years pass, he is still there.

It sits now in my office..

On another shelf, behind a desk, is another stone, one that many don't look it, it's just another rock to be collected to most observers,  displayed along with other artifacts of memory. 

It's been a very long couple of weeks, with time on the road, and fitful sleep. This is not quite the life I expected when I hung up my wings for another four years of education on top of two previous degrees and a return to service. But it's the life that fits what strengths I have. I've come home with brain matter on my shoes. I've come home with images a person should never see, playing in my head like a bad film, until sleep comes fitfully. Yet I come home with purpose. With resolution.  I've collected those moments of lives, of loved ones, in the minutes before they leave us. I collect what is left, carefully, gently and with reverence, cataloging the bare bones of all that is truly important, so that we can learn from it, so that it doesn't happen again. Then I usually go back to an empty room.

After 9/11 while flags waved on cars, and taps played,  I thought, now people have to see, finally see that truth is  fierce and unrelenting. But soon, most forgot. Truth  We cannot ignore it or change it, but we can change the way we live with it. The truth of 9-11 is that the world IS a dangerous place and being politically correct to the point of ignoring the facts of who hates us and who is quietly amassing nuclear readiness while we make nice and look good for the cameras, isn't going to end well.

I finished at the Academy in 2001 and September 11 occurred when I was still wet behind the ears, assigned some mundane tasks until "something happened".  It did. Looking at the images on TV of Ground Zero, we sat, stunned, waiting travel orders while I tried to not let it out that I had a brother who spent a lot of time at the Pentagon, there smoking on TV. There was no talk, just a breathing that bordered on keening, looking at one another, our team leader, with an alert, profound justice as though we had already seen through the flames to where we would be, the shape of the disaster of which we could not speak. That day was trial by fire.

When I look at that stone behind the desk, I can't help but connected to the event from which it came, vowing never to forget.  There is something about a physical remnant of such places, those hallowed spots in which the innocent died, that bears with it the same quality of  perspective as those who stood in its shadow, as though the object itself is speaking to us. It speaks to us in silent and profound significance, whispering its own truths.

When I'm out in the field I remember as well.  Around me there is only musing sound, as shadows hang aloft, as if from invisible wire, hovering above what remains for eyes to see. A place severed from the living, spectral shadow among that place of circumscribed desolation, filled with the voice of wasted lives and murmuring regret. There, only those left here, who remember history, who will gather what remains, cataloging it for infinity.

As I turn off the lights, the last to leave, I take one last look at a chunk of stone.

It sits in a small office, on a flat surface in bitten shadow. It sits near a place where work is done to keep many safe. Most don't see it. It simply sits, in dense stillness, filling the room, the dawn, the dusk, with silent voices. I don't hear the voices but I know they exist. Each morning to start the day in its shadow, warm and safe, we remember that no matter what heartache comes our way, it is nothing compared to what this piece of stone bears witness to.

Those that see it don't look at it closely. But it speaks of so much that our generation, and most of our leaders, will never, ever fathom.

In  the quiet of a shadowed facility where honor stands watch and oaths are kept, a small stone weeps.

Never forget.

- Brigid