A Sunday run around the top of my blog list shows Roberta's going shooting, Tam's trying to figure out what the Hell Ruger is up to (me too); Xavier is shooting more than respectable Black and White, one of Abby's sergeants won a promotion to staff.
Me? A nearby auction this afternoon offers to escalate my lethality potential handsomely. The stunningly pretty (and stupendously ignorant and disorganized) girl who writes up the auction ads promises
"...military bayonet; 36x50 Bushnell scope; British Enfield 303 gun w/sling; 12 ga. shells; gun books; dog tapestry; hunting clothes; 2 tanned deer hides; pheasant afghan; Arctic Cat ladies jacket sz. medium; camp stove; rods & reels; manual ice auger; deer tree stand; deer decoy; life jackets; skiis..."
There's more gunny stuff in other paragraphs -- Mec. 600, lots of 7 1/2 shot. Not to mention several largish tools I might covet. The conclusion is that I need to take the old F150 to this one, not the wimpy little van.
I love small-town auctions. I might buy the Lee-Enfield, but more likely I just enjoy watching a couple of clowns bid it up into the high three figures.
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