Open carry?

A good discussion over at Caleb's place got me thinking about open carry.

Not counting hunting and backwoods hiking, I believe the last time I strapped visibly on was in the 80s during a long sojourn at Tortilla Flat in the Superstitions. Even there where open carry was common, it was mostly a matter of forgetting to take the damned thing off when I came in from a hike.

A gun on my belt just tends to make me feel a little on the foolish side. I say that meaning no disrespect to the good guys who feel differently, although I still question the political and public relations wisdom of making a big point of carrying at meetings, demonstrations, and the like.

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Boats have been a large feature of my life, and a man working around line is a man who better have a good knife very handy, and that means a fixed blade carried outside of everything else -- trousers, jacket, so'wester. And so I did, usually the beauty pictured.* But, again, it resonated with me as the toy of a little boy playing Mike Nelson. I usually stuck it in a drawer immediately on arriving back at the slip. I admit it may be flawed thinking.

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*It is the happy result of an embarrassing mistake. As a newly acquired pristine USN deck knife (Mark I, the RH Pal 35) it went camping with us near a fur trade rendezvous. Some of mountain men were contesting their knife-throwing skills. I couldn't resist and joined the game. What you see is what fell to the dirt immediately after the first hard hit on the log end. As far as I know the front inch and a half of the blade is still buried in the stump.

Judicious grinding left me with a sturdy and entirely satisfactory little hunter which holds an admirable edge. It's is the companion of decades, but I still feel half silly every time I slip the belt trough the sheath.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

Thomas Jefferson, born April 13, 1743.

I'm never amazed that people steal, but I am often amazed at what they steal. Local radio reports:

The public is asked to be on the lookout for two dogs reported missing following a break-in (at a nearby animal shelter. The missing dogs were) a male Australian Shepherd, black and tan in color, and a six month-old un-neutered brown and white pit bull...".

The Wonderful and Talented Me

The '94 SRC has nothing to do with this tale, and the tube full of 170-grain jacketed RNs was not meant for pesky inspectors coming around to see if I rehabbed my deck to current building code whims. I just put it there for the picture because I think it looks pretty leaning against the rustic seat framed with old-growth redwood four-by-fours.

It rests on the brand new planking which, in turn, is spiked to three railroad ties which have been underfoot for years. The project and the cleanup occupied a very long Saturday. It is a measure of my stalwart character that I decided to do the deck rather than attend a nearby auction of 200 guns and lots of ammo and accouterments.

Visiting here never actually put you in jeopardy of crashing through the old deck as you waited for my orderly to grant admittance to my quarters. But you could be forgiven for entertaining the fear. It was getting a little wobbly. A few observations:

--Wrestling railroad ties is, ideally, a job for husky young privates, but mine are all on leave.

--Tearing out the old planks exposed some teary nostalgia triggers. I'd forgotten that JJ, the tri-lingual black lab (RIP), would occasionally lose tennis balls and Frisbees under there, further back than I could retrieve with the rake. And then there was Dad's blaze orange practice golf ball.

--After a certain point, hammering large nails requires arm-muscle endurance beyond what I have. You lose that little snap at the end of the stroke. So you go to the shop and retrieve a two-pound ball peen hammer, and that gets you through the project.

You should all come and visit. I'll bask in the knowledge that you will return to your own commands and make me famous throughout the Service: "Wow. That TMR fellow really has a solid deck now! What a guy!"