A Gift of Coffee

To my friend in Idaho....the coffee is wonderful. If I hadn't screwed the pooch by losing your email address I would have sent a personal thanks. Rest assured I'm stunned by your generosity and kindness. Zip me another email and I'll save it this time around.

If ever you need help, yell, I'm here for you.

Thank you, my friend.

Stephen

New Member In The Family

My good friend and yours, mmasse, has a new blog titled Nail Your Colours to the Mast.

Please, take a moment and run over and say hello.

Let's help get his new blog off to a good start. And, thank you...

Stephen

Bits & Pieces

It's cool and windy this morning, and quiet here at the shop. I haven't heard from my friend, Duke. I know, at this time, he has his plate full.

For those of you new to my humble little blog, Duke is one of my best friends. We live and work in the same city. He is a member of our support 'group.' When I say I know him....I do on a personal level. We have much in common - military careers, personal likes and dislikes, our mindsets on the country and world events.

When he suffers, I and all our friends suffer with him. I take this very personal. 'Nuff said.

It is, sadly, time for me to open the doors and begin my day. It is beautiful outside and I must remember to thank the Good Lord for all my (and your) blessings. I thank each of you from the bottom of my heart for the outpouring of kind wishes and prayers for my friend. Again, he is fine...and on his behalf, until he can personally do so, I thank you again.

I often write my 'thanks & welcomes' to new followers with the line - 'You Are Now Among Friends.'

How very true...

Stephen

Batfishing By Moonlight

The night of the great batfishing incident we were thirteen and rough fun loving country boys, Willy Lee and me.

Willy Lee lived down the road across the creek with his much older mother and father; a child of careless love when his parents were in their fifties. Supervision and discipline of Willy Lee was light to say the least. He had a pack a day cigarette habit before he was ten years old. He was my best buddy.

Our summers, those hot and lazy days of long ago, were spent in the pursuit of game and fish. In the heat of the day there were wild games of 'gator' in our swimming hole. Nights we'd camp in our palmetto huts and spend the night at poker by campfire and candle while the music of owls and the flickered dance of fireflies flowed over the tannin water of the creek.

"Got me an idea, " said Willy Lee one night.

"What."

"Let's go batfishing."

"Okay."

And that was that. So, one night I climbed from bed and out my window and we met at old man Logan's watermelon patch. Ten acres of sweet delight.

We took our canepoles, long and light pieces of bamboo, and tied short lengths of line to the tips with a bit of our mother's yarn and added a split lead sinker for weight. We fluffed the yarn to better snag the bat's wicked sharp needle like teeth.

Me, "Pack of smokes I get ten."

"You're on."

Willy Lee was dressed in his standard old worn and ragged Sears Roebuck overalls. Shirtless, and barefoot. He was a heavy kid yet light on his feet and before I had a chance to rig my pole I heard the whir of his line cut the night air. He twirled the tip in an arc of long and graceful moves and within seconds the bats honed in on his artificial insect and he'd jerk.

We'd play the 'hooked' bats like fish and then pull them in and jerk the lines until the bats dropped to the ground to scurry away in the darkness.

I remember the moonlight accompanied by the fresh scent of watermelons and cricket screams and warm summer breezes. Not a care in the world, young and healthy.

Willy Lee yelled, "Hey, watch this."

I glanced over to see him jerk, straight back, instead of his usual side spin. The bat hit him square in his shirtless chest. 

Two things happened in rapid sequence, as I recall. First, Willy Lee screamed, "Oh, God, Stephen, he's biting me." The second, I fell and laughed so hard I had a tears streaming down my face.

Willy Lee danced. He shook and slapped his overalls and continued to scream. The bat sought cover by climbing inside Willy Lee's pants. It went down, deep. It, was happy.

Finally I yelled, "Stand still you fool he's gonna bite your equipment off." Willy Lee stood still.

Between deep breaths he asked, "Well, help me man, what are we gonna do?"  Or, words to that effect. I replied I wasn't sure what we could do, and said, "Just stand still, man, let me think."

The owls and crickets, and it seemed to me, even the wind sat still and silent. Willy Lee wailed. Then I said, "Willy Lee, you know man, bat's have rabies."

He screamed, "Sonsabitchesmother*&^@#!$#," like that.

I was known to be a bit mean at times.

Rubbed it in a smidgen more with, "If that sucker bites your tallywacker - well, sure as shooting it's gonna rot off."

"No way, man, help me."

Using my higher power of thought and with general consideration for the inflicted, I asked, "Want me to shoot it?" I pulled my .22 revolver and took careful aim in the general area of his crouch.

Silence.

Me, "Willy Lee?"

He'd closed his eyes, tears or sweat dripped from his face, then, "Stephen."

"What is it, man."

"Oh, man, oh, man it hurts, man, please Mother Mary make it go away."

Forty odd years later and I still recall when it quit being funny for me.

"Stephen."

"What is it, Willy Lee."

"Its hanging on, man."

I do remember the lightning out over the Gulf, how it colored the world in shades of blue and green and how the rumble of thunder was lost in the distance. I remember the fear of a thirteen year old boy with a bat dug deep in his pants.

"Where is the bat, Willy Lee?" I stood with my handgun, ready and willing.

"Oh, man, Stephen. Its down there."

"I know that, but where?"

"Its hanging from my Johnson." I took aim. Hey, this is serious business now.

Willy Lee lost it. He screamed, "Don't you dare shoot me, you butthole."

"Stand still," I screamed, "I'm a good shot, besides man, if that thing bites you on your Johnson, it'll rot off for sure."

Me again, "Just point to it, show me where its located. Then, spread your legs wide."

"Ain't no way, man. Please, reach in and grab this creature, please man, help me."

There comes a time in every person's life when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt who your friends are, this was such an occasion.

"Not gonna happen, man. I will not put my hands down the front of your pants. Bye."  I turned to walk away, holstered my gun. Fed up with the tears and mosquitoes and screams of fear. There is a limit, and my hand down another kids pants, even my best friends, was it.

Behind me I hear a very soft, "Stephen."

"What."

"Please man, kill it." Change of plans. I turn and bend and take my canepole in hand, reverse it to the butt, the thicker larger section, and in one smooth (I like to think) movement, drove it directly into Willy Lee's crouch.

Screams filled the night and the lightning flashed as the thunderstorm moved inland and I ran.

Willy Lee walked funny for a few days, but he remained my friend. I never asked him what became of the bat.

Stephen

Survival Buckets and The Great Three Year Experiment, part 3

Shall we continue.

On our first failed attempt to find our buckets we had taken two metal probes. Unknown to us we had at one point been standing atop our stash. We only discovered this small but important fact the day we actually found our buckets and had opened them for the first time in three years. One was damaged, slightly. The bucket belonged to Senior Chief.
When he opened his bucket he found water. After careful examination he found three small puncture holes in the lid of his bucket where someone had indeed probed his bucket and had not felt the probe puncture the plastic lid. The probe cut a hole in one of Senior Chief's plastic water bottles. It dripped water for a month. The only damage was to one previously vacuum sealed package of AR15 magazines, a small tear from the probe, that allowed a bit of water to enter the package.

Above, Senior Chief's water soaked magazines which were fine when dried. Notice his ammo packs.

Above, again from Senior Chief's bucket; bug repellent, energy bars and clothing, I think.

ShooterSteve even included a wrap of tools in his bucket...note, no damage.


We all agree our three year experiment was a success. These buckets were buried on a high sandy slope that had excellent drainage. We selected this site with the full knowledge it would not be disturbed for at least twenty (20) years. Why? It was a fairly young tree farm located miles from the nearest city. Act accordingly if you decide to preposition supplies for your situation.

In part one I mentioned we as a group had a retreat under construction. The day of our road trip we returned to our retreat location to continue our work. Our building, a combination bunk house, kitchen, storage building has been under monthly construction for over a year. We're presently adding small finishing touches to the building. Our plumbing, (we have a well) most of the electrical (generator powered) other than the 12 volt system is finished. We will be adding solar panels down the road when expenses allow. Cash is king in our world.
Last Saturday ShooterSteve, a master electrician, had plans to continue wiring. Duke, Rebel, Senior Chief, Austin and yours truly would drill, paint, and screen ventilation holes in the eves of our metal roof. Sounds easy doesn't it. Took hours. Let's have show and tell.

Pictured above is our retreat building. It has a kitchen, wood cook/heating stove, and a sleeping area. This is the rear of the building. We constructed the building under a grove of trees.  We used construction methods to limit as little damage to the trees as possible, not for environmental reasons, we  just wanted the canopy as thick as possible.

Above, our kitchen cabinets. We've yet to hang the upper portion.

Above is Iraqi Freedom War vet, Duke, at work on the vent screens.

See that sink, we found it in a tangle of brush. It is enameled cast iron. On the back is a metal tag dated September 1929. It took three grown men, a Cub Scot troop, and six donkeys to carry and lift it in place. We hung it just off the edge of our deck and plumbed it with a hose bib. Notice our work station for outdoor cookouts attached to its side. It drains onto the soil underneath.

 

Above we have Senior Chief and Rebel. Rebel is our resident former hippy. He was once upon a time a long-haired, van driving, weed chomping gnome. We changed him. His intellect is spooky. We're lucky to have him as a member. One of our counsel members, Pirate, is on an extended leave of absence for business reasons. Pirate is our medic. We miss him.

Lunch. My knee, and from left to right, Duke, Rebel, ShooterSteve, Austin, Senior Chief (aka Joey) - all are my best friends.

Above we have ShooterSteve on smoke break. He's standing on our front deck. Notice the elevation...we built the 'Boar's Nest' on pilings. Old telephone poles...our location is prone to the occasional one hundred year flood.

My good friends I must leave you now, work awaits. I hope you've enjoyed this little look into my life.

Have a great day.


Stephen