By Rob Watson
Back in the day, August or so of 1994, I was in the gun business. I had a retail store and, for the first time in 3 years, was making a significant profit from it. The profit making would end in three months. The profit making began when President Bill Clinton proposed banning fire arms. This prompted good, law abiding, citizens, who had never owned a gun, and never seriously considered owning one, to go out and buy. Many bought more than one.
The profit making ended when 12% of gun owning democrats voted republican in the November congressional elections. After more than 40 years of dominating congress, Democrats lost a fair percentage of their seats in the House of Representatives and in the Senate. It would be 12 years before they regained control of Congress, and that by a vastly slimmer margin than previously. This last because the democratic "Solid South" started turning republican.
With political history behind us, lets turn to the guns and magazines that were "banned". (Careless people have taken up the habit of calling "magazines" "clips". I find this irritating but will pass on it for now) Any magazine that held more than 10 rounds of ammunition was banned. Any pistol that weighed more than 56 ounces (3.5 pounds or 1.5kg), was semiautomatic and had a removable magazine was banned. Any rifle that had more than three banned features was banned. Banned features? What are banned features you ask. Removable magazines, semiautomatic actions, fore grips that prevented the user from burning his hands on a hot barrel, flash hiders, muzzle breaks to reduce recoil, bayonet lugs or bayonets, and a few other features that I don't recall. So, let us look a little closer.
You may think of a magazine as a metal or plastic box, open at the top and enclosed on the four sides with a removable bottom. Inside is a false bottom forced upward by a spring. The open top is formed such that the contents, being forced upward by the false bottom (also called the follower) are held in place until pushed forward by some part of the firearm. The magazine is held in place inside the firearm by a spring loaded latch. Press the latch and Sir Isaac Newton removes this magazine for you. (or, more correctly, Sir Isaac Newton's Law of Gravity).
Banning these was silly because... First off, the removable bottom (and the cleverly crafted law banning high capacity magazines) allowed the original manufacturer to remove the bottom and install a spacer between the follower and the bottom that restricted the magazine capacity to 10 rounds of ammunition. The new owner needed only remove the bottom of the magazine, remove the spacer, and replace the bottom to return the magazine to it original capacity. (which may have been slightly illegal. But if one were to go murder a school full of kids, this slight infraction might get over looked) Or, secondly, one could just buy several of the millions of extra magazines manufactured between the proposal of the law and its passing and effective date. (predating bans being against the law here)
In fairness, many original manufacturers eventually redesigned their magazines to hold only 10 rounds. This resulted in some odd looking devices becoming even odder looking.
Of course, if one were to shoot up a theater full of people, one only needs a container full of 10 round magazines. The one or two seconds required to change magazines couldn't allow that many targets to escape. Shooting up a mall full of people could be more of a problem in that the shooter might have to aim to hit his targets instead of just spraying bullets indiscriminately.
Now, to the firearms themselves... A 56 ounce pistol... that is 3.5 pounds without ammunition. What perp in his warped mind would carry a pistol or two (most mass murderers bring more than one weapon) that heavy. After all, the gun ban is going to require him to carry a bunch of magazines.
The AR15 is now the ultimate assault weapon. Prior to August 1994 it had a semiautomatic action, a removable magazine, a foregrip that protected one from burning ones hands on a hot barrel, and a flash hider. After the gun ban you could no longer buy one with a flash hider. Or, if you really, really needed a flash hider, for shooting up darkened movies, you could buy one of the preban, Grandfathered AR15's. (after the previous gun ban expired a few years ago, manufacturers added the flash hiders to their new rifles)
So, a mental defective can now, and in the future, go into a legitimate gun dealer, purchase a preban (or not) weapon, and preban (or not) magazines, any amount of ammunition, pass a federal background check, and do as he pleases until 23 minutes after he shoots someone. (23 minutes is the average response time for 911 calls, or longer if the responding officer waits for backup)
The alternatives are an extra brave officer who does not wait for backup, as in Texas a few years back, an armed off duty deputy at a theater in Phoenix, AZ (The day after Sandy Hook Elementary) or an armed citizen. Unless you go into one of the places that ban law abiding gun toting citizens.
Research shows that prior to the 1994 gun ban about 20 mass killings occurred each year. During the gun ban, 1994 to 2004, about 20 mass shootings happened every year. After the gun ban expired in 2004, about 20 mass murders occurred every year. So much for gun bans. Research also showed, in the 38 shooting investigated, one or more people were told, in advance, by the perp, of the plan to shoot up a bunch of people.
Mental defectives, and those proposing gun violence, are not in the data base used for background checks. They need to be put there. There is a method for being removed from this database if one is a law abiding citizen, with proof of such. I have seen it. It is inconvenient but it works. And background checks need to be made universal. A little gun training wouldn't hurt either.
The only way to stop a bad person with a gun is by a good person with a gun... NRA
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Friday, October 5, 2012
A Guide
By Rob Watson
The first things you see on opening my blog are three quotations. The first two are an apology of sorts for the style and content of my posts. The third is, I hope, a guide to happiness for any who would take it to heart. My description of myself is simply a warning about what you may find in these posts.
You will find, in these posts, very little to identify anyone. This is because I have a great distrust of a small fraction of the people which might be looking on. With one billion people on Facebook and the uncounted hundreds of millions more attached to the internet. It is possible not every one of them will seek the best interests of myself, my friends, and my family.
The name I chose to use, I hope, will keep my identity hidden by the vast number of Robert, Rob, and Bob Watsons in the world. I seek, and feel I shall find, neither fame nor fortune by this effort. Indeed, if lightning strikes, I shall be shocked, as many who know me might be. I write in the first person singular because the proper "one" leaves some doubt about who I am. It exposes a certainty about who did what, and gives, I am embarrassed to say, the indication that I may be an egotist. You should judge, but not harshly.
Writing has been passed to me in my genes, from my dear mother. Reading her early writing shows she had the urge. The inspiration for my style comes from my favorite writer, Mark Twain. I try to write the strictest truth but am sorely tempted by the admonition from O Henry: A tale belongs to the one who tells it best. Besides, on the internet, no one of sound mind expects to find the strictest truth.
If you divide the 1000 visits to this site by the 82 stories here, one comes up with the calculation that I have 12 faithful friends and the .5 accounts for souls lost, wandering around the internet who stumble upon it. For you, my faithful friends, I hope you find knowledge, inspiration, entertainment, and assurance that no mater how weird you fear yourself to be, there is Rob Watson who is weirder yet.
The first things you see on opening my blog are three quotations. The first two are an apology of sorts for the style and content of my posts. The third is, I hope, a guide to happiness for any who would take it to heart. My description of myself is simply a warning about what you may find in these posts.
You will find, in these posts, very little to identify anyone. This is because I have a great distrust of a small fraction of the people which might be looking on. With one billion people on Facebook and the uncounted hundreds of millions more attached to the internet. It is possible not every one of them will seek the best interests of myself, my friends, and my family.
The name I chose to use, I hope, will keep my identity hidden by the vast number of Robert, Rob, and Bob Watsons in the world. I seek, and feel I shall find, neither fame nor fortune by this effort. Indeed, if lightning strikes, I shall be shocked, as many who know me might be. I write in the first person singular because the proper "one" leaves some doubt about who I am. It exposes a certainty about who did what, and gives, I am embarrassed to say, the indication that I may be an egotist. You should judge, but not harshly.
Writing has been passed to me in my genes, from my dear mother. Reading her early writing shows she had the urge. The inspiration for my style comes from my favorite writer, Mark Twain. I try to write the strictest truth but am sorely tempted by the admonition from O Henry: A tale belongs to the one who tells it best. Besides, on the internet, no one of sound mind expects to find the strictest truth.
If you divide the 1000 visits to this site by the 82 stories here, one comes up with the calculation that I have 12 faithful friends and the .5 accounts for souls lost, wandering around the internet who stumble upon it. For you, my faithful friends, I hope you find knowledge, inspiration, entertainment, and assurance that no mater how weird you fear yourself to be, there is Rob Watson who is weirder yet.
I Shot Myself
By Rob Watson
Wife thinks this is a funny story. I think it is an embarrassing story, considering I have been safely using firearms of various types for 55 years or so. "But then," says I to myself, "I have revealed so many embarrassing things about myself in previous stories, this will likely not do much harm to my reputation." Pictures to follow...
Many firearm accident reports begin, "I was cleaning my gun..." Here I am pleased to claim I have never cleaned a loaded gun. I have, however, loaded and unloaded many guns, many times... therein lies the tale.
I have a new rifle. I have a fair amount of trouble making it operate properly in the Cowboy Shoot competitions that I recently entered. There, one dresses up like a cowboy in the old Saturday afternoon matinee movies. Adopts a cowboy alias. Takes pistols, rifle, and shotgun, designed before 1900, and runs around shooting at steel targets. The score is determined by the number of targets hit and the time it takes to do so. Low time = high score. A malfunctioning firearm adds considerably to the time. A competitor might, moving from target to target, draw and fire 10 rounds from his revolvers, holster those, pick up his rifle, fire ten more rounds, lay that down, then pick up and load his shotgun, and fire four to six rounds from that. Real competitors do this all in under 30 seconds. I usually score about 180 seconds plus several 5 second penalties for misses or misfired rounds. I always finish second out of two in the senior class.
My alias is Cowboy Doc. I have actually spent time over several months thinking up an alias... even thinking of writing my friends for suggestions... One's real name is not acceptable. When challenged at my first competition, the lady doing the signups suggested a name from my past that had meaning to me. My parents had trouble calling me by name... usually my brother's name. As a crutch Mama called me Cowboy (because I frequently ran around with my cap pistols and holsters) and Daddy called me Doc (probably from the Buggs Bunny "What's up Doc?") Wife picked that up from Daddy and she calls me Doc. My teaching colleagues and frizbee golf companions call me Doc because I once explained hypothermia to the assistant principal, who wanted to know if you could "freeze to death" at 33 degrees F. (about +.5 C) . The name is OK but it lacks pnash... maybe Dorcheat Doc or Red River Cowboy...
This rifle has one safety defect that I find unsettling. It has no fail safe safety, in fact, no safety at all. You don't want it to shoot? Don't load it. Which makes investigating functional irregularities difficult.
This is a pump operated rifle. The original design is from the 1890's. The ammunition is carried in a under-the-barrel tube like the "Winchester" rifles in the movies, but, with a fore-and-aft slide instead of a lever. Think: pump shotgun, and you will get the picture. Inside the rifle a "carrier" moves the shell from the tube to the chamber. In my case the carrier tosses the shell completely out of the rifle, or doesn't properly align it for insertion into the chamber. I was investigating this by loading the firearm and ejecting the shells.
The only way to eject ammunition from the rifle is to operate the pump and load a shell into the chamber. This process also cocks the hammer. To fire, you just pull the trigger. To eject the ammunition you must hold the hammer, pull the trigger, and slowly let the hammer down, then operate the pump which ejects the first shell and inserts (sometimes) the next ammunition from the magazine.
I loaded the rifle with 10 rounds. It almost always tosses the first round completely out of the rifle, but not this time. After successfully getting the hold-the-hammer-pull-the-trigger routine nine times, I mused on the thought of what might happen if I got the order wrong. (It clearly does not pay to think of an outcome while doing a critical operation because...) In that instant I got the order wrong.
Whenever soft lead hits a hard, flat surface at a perpendicular angle it splatters, much like a drop of water would on dry cement. In this case, half an ounce (14g) of lead hit an 80 year old concrete floor at 1000 feet per second (304m/s). The results were remarkable: First surprise, but not much because I have become accustom to making silly mistakes. Next a stinging sensation as the splattered lead hit my bare legs (I chose to wear shorts for this operation) I looked at the floor first and saw no damage was done to it beyond a gray smudge and a powder burn. Then I looked at my legs... surprised beyond measure at the damage I had done to myself. (Remember, I felt no pain after the sting or at any time after.) My first thought was to clean it up, bandage it, and forget it. There are numerous cases of lead being left in a persons body with no real ill consequences.
It would be a bad plan to hide this from Wife. Besides, the wounds began to bulge and bleed significantly. Now I became concerned. I went upstairs, found Wife and declaired "Wife, I think I made a mistake" (how do you like that for subtle?) I was behind a desk so she could not see the bloody socks and bloody legs. At this time I still held out a faint hope of cleaning up, bandaging, and forgetting it. Wife insisted otherwise after she examined the wounds, which were still puffed out and bleeding profusely. When she said "We need to go to the emergency room and have those removed" I could see the dollar signs ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching.
In my own factual mind, calling this a "gunshot wound" was not accurate and gave an incorrect picture of the damage, (especially after telling the recording nurse it was done with a 45 colt rifle)... I didn't actually shoot myself. A fact that confounded every description of the event for the three other people who needed to know... Nurse, doctor, sheriff deputy (gunshot wounds have to be reported to the authorities). They all wanted to know "How am I suppose to write this down?"
During her initial examine, the nurse asked, "If you had been wearing jeans would the lead have penetrated the jeans and your legs?" To which I had to admit "No." When you look at the picture you will see numerous tiny pricks and only a few slightly larger wounds. X-rays (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) showed only a half dozen tiny bits of lead actually penetrated.
The doctor ((ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) came in and needed to hear the whole story all over again. She then looked at the x-rays and described removing the lead, but, she would not remove the bit very near my shin bone... too much danger of significant damage. While she was injecting the anesthesia (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) the deputy came in and needed his recounting of the events. He concluded his visit by showing me a recent picture of a girls ankle and foot where she had shot herself with a 22. No, I definitely did not have a bullet wound.
When the first wound had been deadened, (the five injections hurt far worse than the initial wounds) the nurse and doctor began probing for the bit of lead. As time ticked by (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) nothing could be found because fresh lead is bright and shinny, reflecting the lights, tissue, and blood. After about 20 or so minutes the first wound, becoming longer and deeper, I asked "What happens if we just clean it up, bandage it, and forget it?" The answer, "That may be the best idea" followed by a recount of lead remaining in people for years with no real ill effect.
So, after all the ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... that is what we did. The lowest left (your right) wound is six stitches closing the unsuccessful probe for lead.
Wife wants me to buy one of the Winchester model 1894's in 45 colt because it is much safer. What she doesn't know is that it will cost about twice what the emergency room bill will be. (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... )
Wife thinks this is a funny story. I think it is an embarrassing story, considering I have been safely using firearms of various types for 55 years or so. "But then," says I to myself, "I have revealed so many embarrassing things about myself in previous stories, this will likely not do much harm to my reputation." Pictures to follow...
Many firearm accident reports begin, "I was cleaning my gun..." Here I am pleased to claim I have never cleaned a loaded gun. I have, however, loaded and unloaded many guns, many times... therein lies the tale.
I have a new rifle. I have a fair amount of trouble making it operate properly in the Cowboy Shoot competitions that I recently entered. There, one dresses up like a cowboy in the old Saturday afternoon matinee movies. Adopts a cowboy alias. Takes pistols, rifle, and shotgun, designed before 1900, and runs around shooting at steel targets. The score is determined by the number of targets hit and the time it takes to do so. Low time = high score. A malfunctioning firearm adds considerably to the time. A competitor might, moving from target to target, draw and fire 10 rounds from his revolvers, holster those, pick up his rifle, fire ten more rounds, lay that down, then pick up and load his shotgun, and fire four to six rounds from that. Real competitors do this all in under 30 seconds. I usually score about 180 seconds plus several 5 second penalties for misses or misfired rounds. I always finish second out of two in the senior class.
My alias is Cowboy Doc. I have actually spent time over several months thinking up an alias... even thinking of writing my friends for suggestions... One's real name is not acceptable. When challenged at my first competition, the lady doing the signups suggested a name from my past that had meaning to me. My parents had trouble calling me by name... usually my brother's name. As a crutch Mama called me Cowboy (because I frequently ran around with my cap pistols and holsters) and Daddy called me Doc (probably from the Buggs Bunny "What's up Doc?") Wife picked that up from Daddy and she calls me Doc. My teaching colleagues and frizbee golf companions call me Doc because I once explained hypothermia to the assistant principal, who wanted to know if you could "freeze to death" at 33 degrees F. (about +.5 C) . The name is OK but it lacks pnash... maybe Dorcheat Doc or Red River Cowboy...
This rifle has one safety defect that I find unsettling. It has no fail safe safety, in fact, no safety at all. You don't want it to shoot? Don't load it. Which makes investigating functional irregularities difficult.
This is a pump operated rifle. The original design is from the 1890's. The ammunition is carried in a under-the-barrel tube like the "Winchester" rifles in the movies, but, with a fore-and-aft slide instead of a lever. Think: pump shotgun, and you will get the picture. Inside the rifle a "carrier" moves the shell from the tube to the chamber. In my case the carrier tosses the shell completely out of the rifle, or doesn't properly align it for insertion into the chamber. I was investigating this by loading the firearm and ejecting the shells.
The only way to eject ammunition from the rifle is to operate the pump and load a shell into the chamber. This process also cocks the hammer. To fire, you just pull the trigger. To eject the ammunition you must hold the hammer, pull the trigger, and slowly let the hammer down, then operate the pump which ejects the first shell and inserts (sometimes) the next ammunition from the magazine.
I loaded the rifle with 10 rounds. It almost always tosses the first round completely out of the rifle, but not this time. After successfully getting the hold-the-hammer-pull-the-trigger routine nine times, I mused on the thought of what might happen if I got the order wrong. (It clearly does not pay to think of an outcome while doing a critical operation because...) In that instant I got the order wrong.
Whenever soft lead hits a hard, flat surface at a perpendicular angle it splatters, much like a drop of water would on dry cement. In this case, half an ounce (14g) of lead hit an 80 year old concrete floor at 1000 feet per second (304m/s). The results were remarkable: First surprise, but not much because I have become accustom to making silly mistakes. Next a stinging sensation as the splattered lead hit my bare legs (I chose to wear shorts for this operation) I looked at the floor first and saw no damage was done to it beyond a gray smudge and a powder burn. Then I looked at my legs... surprised beyond measure at the damage I had done to myself. (Remember, I felt no pain after the sting or at any time after.) My first thought was to clean it up, bandage it, and forget it. There are numerous cases of lead being left in a persons body with no real ill consequences.
It would be a bad plan to hide this from Wife. Besides, the wounds began to bulge and bleed significantly. Now I became concerned. I went upstairs, found Wife and declaired "Wife, I think I made a mistake" (how do you like that for subtle?) I was behind a desk so she could not see the bloody socks and bloody legs. At this time I still held out a faint hope of cleaning up, bandaging, and forgetting it. Wife insisted otherwise after she examined the wounds, which were still puffed out and bleeding profusely. When she said "We need to go to the emergency room and have those removed" I could see the dollar signs ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching.
In my own factual mind, calling this a "gunshot wound" was not accurate and gave an incorrect picture of the damage, (especially after telling the recording nurse it was done with a 45 colt rifle)... I didn't actually shoot myself. A fact that confounded every description of the event for the three other people who needed to know... Nurse, doctor, sheriff deputy (gunshot wounds have to be reported to the authorities). They all wanted to know "How am I suppose to write this down?"
During her initial examine, the nurse asked, "If you had been wearing jeans would the lead have penetrated the jeans and your legs?" To which I had to admit "No." When you look at the picture you will see numerous tiny pricks and only a few slightly larger wounds. X-rays (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) showed only a half dozen tiny bits of lead actually penetrated.
The doctor ((ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) came in and needed to hear the whole story all over again. She then looked at the x-rays and described removing the lead, but, she would not remove the bit very near my shin bone... too much danger of significant damage. While she was injecting the anesthesia (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) the deputy came in and needed his recounting of the events. He concluded his visit by showing me a recent picture of a girls ankle and foot where she had shot herself with a 22. No, I definitely did not have a bullet wound.
When the first wound had been deadened, (the five injections hurt far worse than the initial wounds) the nurse and doctor began probing for the bit of lead. As time ticked by (ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... ) nothing could be found because fresh lead is bright and shinny, reflecting the lights, tissue, and blood. After about 20 or so minutes the first wound, becoming longer and deeper, I asked "What happens if we just clean it up, bandage it, and forget it?" The answer, "That may be the best idea" followed by a recount of lead remaining in people for years with no real ill effect.
So, after all the ka-ching... ka-ching... ka-ching... that is what we did. The lowest left (your right) wound is six stitches closing the unsuccessful probe for lead.
Monday, September 10, 2012
The Great Northfield Pumpkin Raid
After all had been settled, the better of the county deputies called and offered to "handle" things for me. I told him that it had already been handled and thanked him for his time. No names were reported.By Rob Watson
On the last of my pumpkin growing years, Friend allowed me to use about a acre of ground for which he was caretaker. A year or so before, we had dug a well nearby. He used his tractor to break the ground and prepare it for planting. I purchased some 200 hybred pumpkin seeds for $ .33 each. The variety promised 75 to 150 pound (34 to 68 KG) fruit.
I further broke the ground with my tiller, spread fertilizer, installed a drip irrigation system, and planted the seed. As the pumpkins came up, so also came the weeds. Near the plants I weeded by hand, The tiller worked the ground further away. My friend, a farmer of many years experience, oversaw all my efforts with a critical eye.
In time pumpkins began to appear. More time revealed one was much larger than the rest. Every day, when I went out to weed and water, it got special attention. A few others showed potential to be large as well. Most of the other 200 plants seemed destined to produce the smaller fruit.
I got it into my head that I should enter our pumpkins into the state fair. I looked up the application on line, filled it in, and sent it along with the required entry fee. I had chosen the 'Large Field Pumpkin' category. I was sure my big boy would win first place.
Three weeks or so before the fair, on my daily work detail to the pumpkin patch, I strolled out to admire my pride and joy. It was not there. All that remained was a large bare patch of ground where it had been. The vine had been moved and the stem had been broken.
I looked around, hoping I was at the wrong plant. All evidence showed my big boy had been stolen. My dismay flashed into anger.
As I stalked angrily around the patch, I could see where a few other pumpkins had been taken. This observation struck me and I hurried to check out the other larger fruits. They were unharmed. When I reported to my friend and partner, he was as angry as I was. This surprised me as he is usually a kind and forgiving man.
Controlling my anger is one of my few useful skills. I redirect the excess energy into more acceptable actions. In this case, everything pointed to finding the thieves. Less than a block from the pumpkin patch, I found a teenage boy cleaning a busted pumpkin from his driveway. He suggested a name as a possible vandal. Casual observation showed he was picking up the remains of my big boy. I helped him clean up and took the pieces of pumpkin into my truck. Driving around town, I found the remains of three other of my produce. My determination to find the wrong doers grew. Hope at finding them slacked. I called the sheriff.
The plan that formed never had my confidence. I would go out at night and watch my patch from my friend's storage shed which was near by. I would dress in dark clothes, carry a camera (because I have a terrible memory for faces and names). I would lie in wait and photograph them in the act. The thought that dragged down my hopes and confidence was: Only really stupid vandals would do the same thing two nights in a row.
Skip back in time a year or so. I supplemented my income by substitute teaching. A local family had three distinctive looking children. One day, in an english class, one of them was mildly misbehaving. "Mr. FamilyName, you should never be caught making trouble. You are very recognizable."
Skip forward to the night after my pumpkins were stolen. I decided a two hour watch from full dark to midnight would have the most chance for success. As I sat in the dark, hiding between the storage shed and a trash barrel, I felt like a silly fool. Not two nights in a row, nobody is that dumb. I realized I would have to be there every night for a month to stand any chance at all of catching the troublemakers. Then, if I did catch someone, it might not be the same ones who stole the big boy.
Feelings of being very foolish grew with every tick of the clock. Only anger and determination kept me in place. Then, out of the blue, lightning struck. A car with a very distinctive sounding engine (It must have been missing on three of its 8 cylinders) drove up to my patch and stopped. Jackpot! A number of adolescent boy voices chatted excitedly as they walked across the field and into the pumpkins.
Nothing could be seen in the dark. I waited for some of the voices to return to the car, while others remained in the field. I had the camera out and ready as I approached. A streetlight some distance to my rear gave a minimum light on the action before me. The camera gave a beep and a preliminary flash before taking the picture. The boy nearest to me was the very one I had told to never be caught causing trouble. I almost laughed out loud as I said, "Mr. FamilyName, didn't I tell you not to be caught causing trouble?"
The car trunk was slammed and denials of wrong doing came from all around. Fortunately the photo showed four young men with their faces averted, a pumpkin in the trunk, and the license plate. Daylight showed five pumpkins had been picked and dropped in open ground near the car.
Friend was pleased and excited when he saw the picture. I intended to speak to the known parents and find the remaining thieves. Friend wanted to come along. These parents expected us.
Wife, who supervised a number of people doing community service, in a former job, suggested these young men clean up a lot covered with rocks and weeds, that was an eyesore and an irritation to the community fathers. (they planed to clean it up and charge the owners $300) It belonged to a non-profit group. The father of Mr. FamilyName agreed to organize the effort and a time was set.
Men are usually hard to read, but it was clear this father (as opposed to the attitude I frequently encounter) was determined to make right the actions of his child. Movies always have a sympathetic figure, drawn into the action as a victim, but who stands tall in the face of adversity. In this movie that would be the mother. Friend expressed a conviction that she was a good person and a good parent. This was repeated in later discussions as well. Her actions in support of her husband bear this out. When I showed the picture of the boys, faces averted, and began to identify, she interrupted saying, "Don't you think I can recognize my own son."
Later I learned, the rules for entering the fair competition required two pumpkins. The loss of Big Boy, neither harmed or helped... I won second place in the state fair... second out of two.
Friend and I discussed what would allow kids from a good family, with good parents, to do troublesome things. His contention is that everyone has a conscience to tell them right from wrong. After a time I was caused to recall my own youth. I was involved in an incident, that even though I actually used the word "stealing" to describe it, it never occurred to me that I was doing something wrong. I contend the thought that they were doing something wrong never occurred to these boys... until they were caught. And, so it was with me in my youth. This mother reminded me greatly of my own. A mother's love, Tough Love, Half a century before someone made a fortune writing about it.
Under the Right Cloud
By Rob Watson
My best friend, here in State, is an older gentleman, farmer, and mechanic. One of his goals over his 86 years has been to make things better, for his family, his friends, and the world in general. He seems to have a soft spot in his heart for most everyone, even those he regards with caution.
We spend a lot of time "checking things out" around his modest farm. During the last few years, State has endured a severe drought. Friend's 14 acre lake declined, all the fish died, and it finally went completely dry. The death of the fish, which we frequently fed, struck friend to his very soul. Ever the optimist, Friend enlisted my help in anchoring a float in the deepest part of the dry bed. The goal was, should the rains ever return, the lake fill, and the fish be reintroduced, the solar powered lights on the float would attract bugs for the fish.
Friend, in one of his restorative moods, spent a pile of money (well, to me it was a pile) rebuilding a dam, that for many years, retained a duck hunting pond for the former owners. The dam had been washed out many years before by one of those infrequent gully washer, toad strangler, rain storms.
On this day we surveyed the dry lake and the to-be-pond. Friend voiced his often expressed fear that he would not live to see water in either of them again. We also visited the several fields planted by his participating tenant. (more correctly described as partner and friend) Most of what we saw was rather sad looking crops, retarded by the lack of water. The last fields to be examined brought us to a seldom used path between two fields. At the top we could view everything for many miles in every direction. The crops on our right and left were milo and sunflowers, both of which looked healthy, vigorous, and productive. The beautiful, extended view and the appearance of the crops left us both in an elevated mood. We went off to the casino for lunch and a spot of blackjack. (I broke even, Friend won $5, and it was not the end of our good fortune)
That night the weatherman reported that moderate rains were expected, but not for everyone. "To get rain", he said, "you have to be under the right cloud." That evening and night, huge dark clouds formed north of Town. They produced continuous flashes of lightning and rolling thunder. I concluded we were not under the right cloud. But, Friend's farm, dry lake and future pond might be. Daylight showed less than a inch (2.5 cm) of rain had fallen in town.
8 AM sharp brought a phone call from Friend suggesting we go "check things out", as he had heard enough rain had fallen to have "Running" water. (necessary to raise the water in the ponds). Off we went in bright sunshine and cool winds, with high expectations. Travel along the ten miles of dirt roads to the farm, revealed many places where the ditches were full of water and the roads themselves had been flooded... more excellent evidence to promote hope for the dry ponds. The rain gauge at the lake read 3.5 inches (8.7 cm).
Either of us would have been pleased to see so much as a puddle in the lake bottom, from the road we could see the 14 acre lake had recovered half its area and 1/3 of its volume. The float we had anchored the day before floated quietly in the center.
The road to the restored pond was too muddy to travel. Water was still running off the fields and into the drainage that would feed that pond. We decided to wait to see it at it "full" height.
The next day things were dryer and firmer so Friend decided to risk driving to the restored pond. We were required to walk across a field to get to the pond. Friend, minding his heart condition took it slow and easy. I, not being so hampered, walked on ahead. Being a former resident of Big State, I was familiar with ponds and dams and associated possibilities. I could see from a closer look that the new dam had washed away. The gap was 30 feet (10 meters) wide... a good 1/3 of its length. A quarter acre of water was all that remained behind the destroyed dam. As Friend walked up to the dam, disappointment shown on his face. "Friend", I said, "I don't think this is what you came out to see."
I took a series of pictures and surveyed the area. As I walked over the overflow bypass, formed to protect the dam from high water flow, it was clear, the water in the overflow was more than 3 ft (1 meter) deep and several feet wide before water topped the dam and began to wash it out. A local rain gauge showed 4.1 inches (10.3 cm) had fallen near the restored pond.
We walked slowly back toward the truck, not much was said. As we got to the truck, Friend said "Rob, you are right. That is not what I came out to see."
Dead or In Prison
By Rob Watson
The other day I had cause to recall a number of the bullies I encountered as a child and teenager. If you are sensitive about the use of mildly foul language, the punch line of this story includes one such phrase.The first bully I encountered was the brother of a friend. At the tender age of six years I had gone to the friends house to play. It was decided to play a game of baseball and we enlisted First Bully, a neighbor friend, and his sister. More than 60 years later, all I recall is that I developed a life long loathing for Big Bully, that he took every occasion to refresh. He seemed to prefer an audience and took great pleasure in embarrassing me if the two of us were part of a group.
The one vivid memory occurred when I was a freshman in high school. I was a tall skinny kid from puberty until about the age of 20 and may have weighed 120 pounds at this time. I was "water boy" for the football team. Big Bully was two years older than me and quite large. The incident took place in the locker room as the team dressed for a game. Big Bully stopped me as I walked past and placed his hands around my thigh. He pointed out to all present that his arm was larger than my leg. The team got a big laugh from that. Me, not so much.
Medium Bully and Last Bully were players in a later incident. Three friends and I, myself being small and the others smaller, dug a "fishing camp" into the side of a creek. It was no more than a dirt dugout for sitting and fishing. The fish were much too small to eat but catching one created significant excitement for a handful of little kids.
One day, as we were fishing, Medium Bully and Last Bully came walking down the creek. They saw our "fishing camp" and decided they liked it. They declared they liked it and told us to go away as it was now their "fishing camp". They, being older and larger, we complied. A couple of days after this, we smaller boys returned, in the absence of the two bullies, with shovels and picks and destroyed the place.
In later years I read of the demise of Medium bully and then First Bully. To quote Mark Twain... "I never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction."
It happens that one of my faults is that when taken by surprise, my mouth, and the heir of my mother's sharp tongue, may show themselves at their quickest and sharpest.
The other day, Wife and I were driving into HomeTown. Beside the road Two men were selling watermelons. We had been looking for such and stopped. After engaging the two in conversation I introduced myself. In surprise one of the men said "Do you remember me? I am Last Bully." (using his real name of course)
Taken by deep and complete surprise, my fault surfaced. From deep within my soul, my honest opinion of the boy-become-man sprang... " Son... of... a... Bitch" I exclaimed. "I thought you would be dead or in prison by now." (by 'dead' I ment murdered. Here again I reference Mark Twain: "The difference between a good word and the right word is the difference between a lightning bug and lightning.")
Fortunately, though visibly taken aback, he took it as a joke and returned... "I have to say the same about you."
I bought two watermelons and went along my way.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Wheat Harvest Report, Southwest Kansas
By Rob Watson
:::: dateline early June :::::
Disclaimer: Most of what I know about judging the wheat harvest, was learned yesterday. My teacher was a friend who has been planting and harvesting dry land wheat for 60 years or so. Taking my opinion as anything of value would be exceedingly hazardous to your financial conditions.
The time for harvesting wheat here in southwest Kansas is drawing near. It should probably start in two or three weeks. My own plot of 1/4 acre is looking pretty good except where the deer and local kids have trampled it down. (I irrigated mine with a water hose)
Friend (and teacher) invited me to lunch in a nearby town. On the way we passed a number of wheat fields. Friend began to shake his head and bemoan the condition of the crops as we passed. After lunch Friend wanted to take the "Scenic" route home to look at more fields. All of the fields we passed were judged to be in poor condition.
"Say, Friend" says I, "in church today we prayed for rain. Won't that help these fields some?"
"No, not much. The flag leaf is dried up" (The flag leaf provides the plant with the starches it stores in the grain.)
"The grain heads are mostly big and golden tan. How can you tell they are in poor condition?"
"See how all the heads stand straight up on the end of the stalk. They are empty. If they had grain in them, they would start to tilt over to the side from the weight."
Mine was the last patch we passed before going home. Lots of the grain heads were tilted over where water had been generously applied. Other parts of the patch did not look so good.
::: Dateline Labor Day :::
My friend imposed upon a friend of his to harvest my 1/4 acre (160ft by 60 ft) or (50 meters by 20 meters). Unfortunately I was out of town at the time and did not get to see how the harvester maneuvered his huge machine about my tiny patch in order to accomplish the harvest. The yield was about 6 bushels (180KG).
My grain cleaner was made from a 2x4, two pieces of peg board, an exhaust fan from an old oven hood, and 9 small cardboard boxes. I pour the grain in the top. The fan blows the materials out the side. Heavy items, grain, fall in the nearest boxes. Lighter items fall progressively farther away. The first box is almost pure, clean grain. The last box is almost pure chaff. Everything in between is some mixture of both and needs to be rerun. The last step is to pour the cleaned grain, by half-cup fulls into a pan, shake it around and pick out the remaining chaff.
One of the byproducts, in the lighter material, seems to be several pounds of immature grain. Each of these grains appears to be the seed germ with almost no starch. Wild guessing leads me to think this is very high in wheat germ oil, wheat protein, and bran. It was probably formed in the dryer areas of my patch and is the product of the wheat plant's valiant effort to reproduce.
In any case, I now have lots of my own, home-grown, Hard Red Winter wheat to be ground into flour and used in my almost famous "Whole Wheat cinnamon pecan pumpkin waffles.
:::: dateline early June :::::
Disclaimer: Most of what I know about judging the wheat harvest, was learned yesterday. My teacher was a friend who has been planting and harvesting dry land wheat for 60 years or so. Taking my opinion as anything of value would be exceedingly hazardous to your financial conditions.
The time for harvesting wheat here in southwest Kansas is drawing near. It should probably start in two or three weeks. My own plot of 1/4 acre is looking pretty good except where the deer and local kids have trampled it down. (I irrigated mine with a water hose)
Friend (and teacher) invited me to lunch in a nearby town. On the way we passed a number of wheat fields. Friend began to shake his head and bemoan the condition of the crops as we passed. After lunch Friend wanted to take the "Scenic" route home to look at more fields. All of the fields we passed were judged to be in poor condition.
"Say, Friend" says I, "in church today we prayed for rain. Won't that help these fields some?"
"No, not much. The flag leaf is dried up" (The flag leaf provides the plant with the starches it stores in the grain.)
"The grain heads are mostly big and golden tan. How can you tell they are in poor condition?"
"See how all the heads stand straight up on the end of the stalk. They are empty. If they had grain in them, they would start to tilt over to the side from the weight."
Mine was the last patch we passed before going home. Lots of the grain heads were tilted over where water had been generously applied. Other parts of the patch did not look so good.
::: Dateline Labor Day :::
My friend imposed upon a friend of his to harvest my 1/4 acre (160ft by 60 ft) or (50 meters by 20 meters). Unfortunately I was out of town at the time and did not get to see how the harvester maneuvered his huge machine about my tiny patch in order to accomplish the harvest. The yield was about 6 bushels (180KG).
My grain cleaner was made from a 2x4, two pieces of peg board, an exhaust fan from an old oven hood, and 9 small cardboard boxes. I pour the grain in the top. The fan blows the materials out the side. Heavy items, grain, fall in the nearest boxes. Lighter items fall progressively farther away. The first box is almost pure, clean grain. The last box is almost pure chaff. Everything in between is some mixture of both and needs to be rerun. The last step is to pour the cleaned grain, by half-cup fulls into a pan, shake it around and pick out the remaining chaff.
One of the byproducts, in the lighter material, seems to be several pounds of immature grain. Each of these grains appears to be the seed germ with almost no starch. Wild guessing leads me to think this is very high in wheat germ oil, wheat protein, and bran. It was probably formed in the dryer areas of my patch and is the product of the wheat plant's valiant effort to reproduce.
In any case, I now have lots of my own, home-grown, Hard Red Winter wheat to be ground into flour and used in my almost famous "Whole Wheat cinnamon pecan pumpkin waffles.
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