Instant Incapacitation

Apparently it’s not possible to tell a hunting story in under 1,000 words.  Something about the laws of rhetorical physics.  You’ve been warned.


 


I choose Late Muzzleloader season in Eastern Washington because it allows the harvest of almost any deer – three point minimum or antlerless.  We see few bucks around here, and since I hunt for the table I don’t care about old, tough bucks with big racks.  They’re chewy and don’t taste as good.  All that and there are very few other hunters out this late.  It’s win win.


 


Late Muzzleloader lasts one week, so I’ve been out twice a day since last Wednesday.  The below zero temp Wednesday morning was hard to take, but it was beautiful and I remember sitting up in the tree thinking, “This is definitely worth it even if I don’t get a deer.  Wow!”


 


The tree I sit in is on a steep slope, with deer tracks crisscrossing all below and behind me, with a few tracks in front along the top of the ridge overlooking the Palouse River.  I’ve seen at least six deer by Sunday (or two deer three times) but no clear shots.  Mostly I’ve seen them on the run or behind tens of yards of thick brush as I walk to the stand, or after legal hours.  One of them got stuck in a snow drift.  We usually think of deer as graceful and poised at all times, but this fellow was flailing all over the place, feet in the air even, trying to get away from me.  I was a little bit embarrassed for him.  By the time I’d stumbled out of the brush to get a clear shot though, he was gone.  That’s how it went for several days.  Several shots I could’ve taken, but no.


 


Sunday evening I was going to stay in and rest up, by my son convinced me go out again.  Good thing.  I see no deer on the way up to the tree.  That’s good.  Infiltration without detection means I have a better chance of sniping one unawares.


 


I’d been up there for no more than half an hour, mostly looking around behind me where most of the tracks were, trying to spot a deer before it got to me.  Therefore I failed to spot the nice three pointer walking casually along the ridge above, silent as a ghost in the powder snow, until he was right in front of me and already walking away.


 


It’s a sharp quartering away shot, 20 yards or less at eye level.  Good backstop with several miles of empty farm fields behind.  The time for the ideal shot was spent with my back turned.  Hurry with getting the mitten open so the trigger finger is exposed.  Silently cock the sidelock.  He’s oblivious.  He’s going to be out of view in a few seconds.  I have to duck so I can sight under some hanging pine boughs.  Aim for the heart.  That means hitting behind the rib cage at this angle.  Since I’m bending way down to see under the boughs, my glasses frame is in the way of the rifle sights.  Crap.  Have to dismount and push the glasses farther on.  Take aim again.  Time’s up.


 


Crack!  I hadn’t thought to worry about the powder charge that had been in the barrel for several days.  After that morning in below zero temperature, the barrel had frosted over when I came inside, and it had been snowing every time after, such that I’d take the barrel out of the stock to dry things out each day.  No problem.  120 grains of FFG under a patched soft lead 50 caliber ball with a #11 percussion cap.  Perfect ignition.  This newfangled percussion system you kids have been using just might catch on.


 


There’s always a moment of uncertainty for me, especially with black powder because you’re peering through a smoke cloud trying to see what happened to the target.


 


I’ve heard of “anchoring” the animal in its tracks, but was beginning to think the phenomenon a myth.  My son and I have killed around 9 deer and this has never happened, even with both lungs, and the heart, obliterated they always run some distance.  This time the ball must have upset the central nervous system because the fellow went straight down.  Zap! And he only twitched for a short while.


 


Some sense of reverence comes upon me when I approach the animal.  It’s happened every time.  They are very beautiful, strong, sleek, and delicious with new potatoes, turkey gravy, fresh fruit and red wine.


 


The ball had gone in at the back of the ribcage on the right side and exited through the base of the neck under the spine on the left.  ~21.5 inches of penetration, and though you could fit your thumb in the entry wound, I couldn’t get but the tip of my little finger through the skin at the exit wound.  The ball had just barely pooped out of the skin.  Though it’s what we would call a short range prospect, I’m beginning to trust the 50 caliber patched ball load.


 


It was a good day.  I’m happy, and the freezer will soon be full.


 


I’m still puzzled.  That pure lead ball leaves the muzzle at around 1920 fps according to my CED chronograph, or a little more ’cause that’s averaged at 15 feet.  Last year I shot a deer at 85 yards and the ball penetrated 25 inches with almost no deformation.  We here concluded that the velocity at impact had been subsonic due to the very poor BC, hence a lower pressure at impact, hence the pristine ball (I recovered it from just under the skin and thought it was probably good enough to load again).  This shot Sunday was at no more than 20 yards, maybe more like 15, yet I see no sign of ball deformation so far (I’ll check it out more closely upon butchering in a few days).  You’d think with all the talk about bullet integrity, hard alloys and such, that a pure lead ball at that velocity would obliterate, giving shallow penetration.  So what gives?

The view from north central Idaho

I knew the big snow storm was coming and rather than make a trip back to the Seattle area last Sunday I stayed in Idaho and worked from home the first part of this week. This saved me two trips over Snoqualmie Pass and 600 miles of travel on slick roads.

This was the view from my “office” on Tuesday:

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These are from Thanksgiving day at my parents and brother’s place (they live a couple hundred feet from each other):

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The picture below is also from Thanksgiving day on the farm and is to supplement this post. This is the old pull type combine parked behind the barn I was talking about:

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Quote of the day–Xenia

Why did he marry his dead wife’s brother-in-law’s sister?

Daughter Xenia
November 25, 2010
[I wanted to answer, “Because there was a shortage of women, this is cattle country, and there were no sheep.” But there were too many relatives around listening in and I just said there was a shortage of women.

This came about because while at my brother’s place for Thanksgiving Xenia wanted to know how she was related to some guy that looked and acted kind of like a caricature of some inbred from West Virginia. It was complicated and we couldn’t help but amuse ourselves by giving her all the details of the two sisters marrying the two brothers from another family, the brother and sister marrying the sister and brother from another family (one was married in ‘45 and the other in ‘54), and the double cousins that lived in the same house. Even though she was drawing and labeling a graph she said her head was about to explode so we stopped before trying to put the lines on the tree to show that if you go back far enough her mother and I are cousins from…West Virginia.—Joe]

Quote of the day—Doug Huffman

When they left this afternoon, Randy said Dan insisted on being the last one out out of the house. He locked the door behind him ending 62 years of residence on the place.

Doug Huffman
October 30, 2010
[In the spring of 1927 our Dad was not quite four years old but he remembers coming back to Idaho with his Aunt Pet and Uncle Walt. His mother had died two years earlier from T.B. and his aunt and uncle took him to California for the winter while his Dad, Cecil, stayed in Idaho to complete the purchase of a new home and farm land. When they drove by his Uncle Frank’s home he asked why they didn’t stop because that was where they had lived before they went to California. His Aunt, Frank’s and his mother’s sister, told him they had a new home. They drove on for almost another mile and as they went around a bend in the road his aunt pointed out a house on the hill above them. “That’s our new home”, she told him. Although none of the original buildings from 1927 are still standing there are newer building visible in the map image below. On the left side of the image is the location of my Great Uncle Frank’s home. On the right side of the image there is sort of a ghost road that makes a bend through some trees to the east of some buildings. That bend in the road was the site of the county road until the early 1970’s and is the bend in the road where Dad first saw the place that was to be his home for 18 years when he was growing up.

Cecil, Walt, Pet, and Ollie (first a hired assistant and later Cecil’s wife), dad and his three cousins lived there from 1927 until 1945. The land was in another family’s hands until 1949 when Dan (Randy’s father—see the quote above) bought the land.

It’s bit off topic for this post, but Dan was a Jeep driver for General George Patten during much of WW II. I sometimes wanted to ask him about that but it always seems like there wasn’t the time to do that.

My brothers and I heard stories of the dogs, cats, cows, horses, pigs, crops, trucks, cars, and tractors of when Dad grew up on the farm. We lived about two miles west on another piece of property that Mom and Dad bought when I was five years old. A few times Dan asked Dad to come over and help fix or inspect the windmill or ask a question about the granary or another of the original structures that my grandfather and great uncle built.

In the late 1960’s Mom and Dad bought the land to the north of Great Uncle Frank’s place. It is on the northern end of this land that I build the Taj Mahal to manufacture and store the explosives for Boomershoot. The participants at Boomershoot park their vehicles and set up their shelters and shooting positions on the land adjoining the NE corner. This piece of land was given to my Grandmother Huffman, Aunt Pet, and Aunt Ada (sisters) by their father (and my Great Grandfather Carey) in about 1916.

In the map image below the shooters berm for Boomershoot is just under the “ce’ in “Nez Perce”. Shooters face almost directly south and shoot into a hillside that isn’t clearly a hillside in this image:

The pictures below are from about two weeks ago when my brothers and I walked around the farm where my Dad grew up:

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This windmill was assembled and erected by my grandfather Huffman and Great Uncle Walt in 1940. It supplied the water to the farm until about 1972. Dad plans to restore it to functional condition.

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This is part of the concrete foundation for the windmill.

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This is the grain elevator Dad, Grandpa, and Uncle Walt built in the granary which they also built.

We found old books in the original carpenter shop which had copyright dates in the 1930’s. One book that I opened had the names of my Dad’s cousins in it. Dad frequently told us stories of some of  the things his Dad and Uncle Walt built in the shop. Things like Christmas gifts and a bobsled. Dad built a carpenter shop on our farm and when I climbed the ladder for the first time, a little over two weeks ago, into the shop my grandfather built, I knew my Dad had modeled his carpenter shop on the older one. And I recalled the bobsled Dad had built for my brothers and I.

Grandpa Huffman and Uncle Walt sold the farm because my Grandpa had heart problems caused by Scarlet Fever from much earlier and he wasn’t able to do the work the farm required. Grandpa spent the remainder of his life in California working as a carpenter, in a furniture store owned by one of his brothers, and was retired for several years before dying of a heart attack when I was about 8 years old.

Last Friday brother Doug and his wife Julie purchased the land with the buildings from Dan and his wife. The land on the south side of the road, also belonging to Dan and his wife, was purchased by my other brother Gary. This morning wife Barbara and I purchased the land from on the NW corner of South Road and Meridian Road from Randy and his wife. This land is directly south of the Boomershoot site and is part of the potential impact zone if stray bullets go over the hillside we shoot into.

This land deal is another reason for the light blog posting the last month or so.

It actually makes me as much sad as it does happy to have the land back in the family again. As Dan, Randy, and the rest of their family cleaned out the buildings and auctioned off the belongings they wouldn’t have a place to keep in their homes in town I imagined what it would feel like to do the same to the farm where I grew up. I could imagine what it would feel like to have Dad walk through the house we built when I was growing up. To have him lock the door and give the keys to someone else would be very, very painful. I know it was painful for Dan, Randy and their families. They put a lot of thought into it and rationally it was the proper decision to sell the place—Dan and his wife are at an age they can’t maintain the place anymore and have lived in town for the last few years.

They said it made it a little easier for them that it was a farm family and neighbors they had known for many decades but it was still a very hard and sad decision. They plan to come back in the spring and take pictures of the crops growing and I expect they will come back near harvest time to see that too. I know I would. And they will be welcome anytime.—Joe]

Neighbors

My son and a neighbor kid got into some trouble last Spring.  A minor property crime against the local grange– a stupid, boyish stunt.  That’s the first big mistake in this series.


John Law got involved and came down HARD on the two kids.  Really serious shit, as if they were career, hard-core gang leaders or something.  Second big mistake.  No one’s really responsible either– things go largely according to a pre-ordained plan in a largely manditory system.  I would have thought this could be settled better, more efficiently and with more focus on restitution and correction, by neighbors talking to neighbors, but John Law has to get his piece of the action or he feels all left out and stuff.  Instead, my first news of this came after the kids had been arrested.  Watching the excitement on Hawaii 5-O and hardly ever even getting to slap the cuffs on some kids in a small town can be a bitch I guess.  Maybe we’re all bitches now.  Some people seem to think so, or wish it were so.


Fast-forward several months.  My son’s “partner in crime” from last Spring was found dead this Saturday morning.  Someone spotted his body near a bridge a few blocks away and made an anonymous call (who does that?) to 911.  I still don’t know the cause of death and it would be irresponsible to speculate.  All we know right now is; it has been reported that foul play is not suspected.


While making a huge pot of soup from our garden vegetables, duck eggs and yearling elk heart (which is tender and wonderful– thank you, Chris) this weekend, I thought back to 1977 which is when my sister and niece were killed.  Some of our neighbors brought over prepared food for us, and it was very well received.  It’s so simple, yet it makes a lot of sense.  When you’re tragedy-struck, you probably have less, or no, appetite and you sure don’t want to fix meals or go shopping when you have all the aftermath to deal with, and the grief.  But you have to eat, so I thought of bringing the parents and surviving son some of the soup and some other things this last Sunday.


Then the doubt kicked in.  Third big mistake.  “I don’t even really know these people, and for all I know they might hate the very idea of elk heart (Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies offering ‘possum-n-grits, chicken fried skunk, or some such, comes to mind), they might be offended, or maybe they’d blame my son for what happened or something.  Maybe they don’t eat meat or these other things.”  All this stupid, inane garbage prevented me from going down there straight away.  The wife was out of town at a rehearsal, the kids need to stay on their homework—all the regular stuff adds up too.


An offer of help can always be refused, but at least you’re giving them the option and asking nothing, which is the whole point.  Isn’t it?  I’ve gone stupid and wobbly in my old age.  Yakkity yacking more and doing less, maybe.


A few days later I finally got around to going over there with some home-made sweet cider and some fresh duck eggs.  The grandmother answered the door, and I spoke to her and the mother.  They were extremely gracious, appreciative and talkative, almost fawning, but that’s not the point.  I’d decided in advance that if they slammed the door in my face I’d be OK with that.  They informed me that the kids’ father is now in the hospital in intensive care for, among other things, not eating. (sigh)


If you think someone might need a little gesture of help, and even if you think your offer is dumb, maybe you should just offer the damn help.  Git ‘er done.  But I’m not finished here;


A community social network of some kind can be a precious thing, and whether you’re an atheist, agnostic, or haven’t thought much about it, your local church organizations can and do offer that sort of network.  So long as they don’t go all hell-fire and brimstone on people, they are potentially a great value to society.  I’ve harshly questioned organized religion, and I think with good reason.  Some of them are downright evil, some have fallen in with the Tides Foundation or other global leftist organizations, but the argument isn’t all one-sided.


Time was when churches, the Rotary Club, Elks, Moose Lodge, Eagles, Granges and so on were THE centers of local community action.  Now it’s a coercive, increasingly centralized government in concert with what can only be described as communist agitators and punks (such that now even the very term “community action” connotes leftist agitation).  Which would you rather?

I am a direct descendent of God

Sometimes when Barbara disagrees with me over something I remind her that I am a direct descendent of God and she should not be questioning my wisdom. Yeah. That goes over about as well as you think it would.

So what is the justification for my claim?

My Great Great Grandfather (on my mothers, mothers side) was William W. Davies. Read the article.

What isn’t in the article is that his two sons (reincarnated Jesus Christ and God the Father) were very, very bright and could quote large portions of the Bible verbatim. Also W. W. believed himself to be “The Holy Spirit”. Together they were The Trinity.

Hence my claim of being a direct descendent of God isn’t totally baseless and often serves as a tension breaker.

I bring this up because of a discussion in the comments here. Also of possible interest is that a portion of W. W.’s cabin is on display in a museum in Walla Walla Washington.

Barbara Ann Scott

[This post is primarily for my amusement and for my children who will be far less confused that my average reader. Please note portions of this post are very carefully worded.]


If you read my blog frequently enough you will figure out that I married Barbara Scott and that she kept her maiden name.


What you might not know is that her full name is Barbara Ann Scott and that Barbara Ann Scott used to be very famous. Here are some videos of her when she won the gold medal in ice skating:








And when she was on the TV show, “What’s My Line”:





Yes. Wife Barbara is a little bit older than I am but she doesn’t show it. Dr. Joe’s Cure for Everything does help you live longer you know. Here is a picture from earlier this month:


Warehouse fire near Royal City

As I was driving across central Washington on my way back to Idaho tonight I stopped to take pictures of a warehouse fire just east of Royal City on the south side of Highway 26. I’m pretty sure this is the warehouse.


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Click on the pictures to enlarge.


I’m nearly certain the warehouse contained some sort of agricultural products. It smelled like burning grass or grain.

Extremes

Barb and I independently came to the conclusion that we should get married and didn’t really have a discussion about it until the details of the execution of said event became important. To the best of our recollection, even 35+ years ago (we were married 34 years ago) we couldn’t say that one person or the other made the suggestion to the other. “Proposal”? What’s that?

This morning son James proposed marriage to his girlfriend Kelsey. While in Paris. While at the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral.

She said yes.

I suspect someone will remember.

More fun with statistics

From xkcd, of course. The title is “Conditional Risk” which is a morphing of “Conditional Probability” into the current situation.

I love watching lightening storms. But the most adventuresome I get while doing that is setting on my front step.

I think I have some work to do

It is claimed that women who marry young become more in touch with their needs as they get older. Typically this awareness occurs by about age 30. Those needs are:

  1. Feel special and appreciated
  2. Feel a deep emotional connection
  3. Feel feminine, beautiful, and sexy
  4. Get hot passionate sex

If they don’t get all of their needs met with their husband they will get those particular needs met with someone else.

Barb and I were married fairly young. Perhaps I should work harder on some of those items before she reaches 30.

Back when I was a boy growing up on the farm

Via an email from Ry I just watched a video made up of clips from a farm on the Palouse (this particular farm was near Colton Washington) in the late 1940s.

I grew up about 40 miles directly east of there. Many of the pieces of equipment were very similar to what we had on the farm about 10 years later. We still have the old pull type combine parked behind the barn. Ours was a John-Deere model 35 instead of the one with the red paint on it. I still remember riding on it. And the D-4 Caterpillar tractor we used to pull it is still in use today. It was nearly identical to the one shown in the video at the time of the pull combine days. It the mid 1960s Dad put on a bigger fuel tank, a wider seat, and the dozer blade. We still use it several times a year even though it is coming up on 70 years old. I use it to move dirt for the Boomershoot site and my brothers use it for other things as well such as clearing snow out of the driveway during the winter. During harvest the tracks would become so clean and polished by the grain stubble that you could barely look at them if the sun was shining.

We even had an old Willy’s Jeep similar to the one in the video.

Mom and Dad have some old video of some of their farming too. We used to watch the videos once or twice a year when we were growing up. I should get that digitized before it falls apart.

Our weekend

On Saturday morning Barb and I had breakfast with our kids and their SOs. James doesn’t like his picture being taken but we managed to get a few without his his outstretched middle finger being too obvious.

IMG_1979Web2010Clockwise from the left, Joe, Barb, Xenia, John, Caleb, Kim, Kelsey, James.

And yes, we finished up the bacon before leaving.

The kids all went to PAX but Barb and I continued on to our slasher flick cabin and then we went for a hike in the woods. In the pictures below the bridge and large tree (a Douglas Fir) were here.

IMG_2001Web2010Barb wore her Boomershoot shirt and I wore a Blackwater shirt and hat. No comments or stares from anyone we saw.

IMG_2022Web2010IMG_2024Web2010Notice that I’m packing in the park? No hippies ran away in terror and no trail rage incidents broke out into gunfire.

IMG_2034Web2010It was peaceful and nice.

I’m your huckleberry

Barb and I went “out into the wilderness” this weekend. We stayed in a cabin along Highway 20 and then made excursions into the mountains. On Sunday we went here. After driving 10 miles or so off the paved road we were surprised to see so many cars at the trailhead:


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Of course this meant we saw far more people than we expected on the trail too.


And after a mile or so in there were wooden stairs on the trail:


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Stairs? Out in the woods? They must have been put there for the people with the California license plates we saw in the parking lot.


Side note: Boomershoot coat, Blackwater hat, Blackhawk gloves, STI patch on the shoulder, STI Eagle in .40 S&W behind the right hip, spare magazine of 18 rounds and a SureFire 6P on the left hip. None of it seemed to scare the hippies.


It was sprinkling a little bit but not enough that we needed rain gear. And despite having more people than we care to see when we are out in the woods we had a nice hike and ate a few huckleberries:


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Quote of the day—James Huffman-Scott

So you are going on vacation to a slasher flick.

James Huffman-Scott
September 4, 2010
[This was after verifying we were going to a secluded cabin in the woods for the weekend. After I acknowledged it could be expressed that way Kelsey chimed in with “I know what you did last summer.”

The place we went to was here.

Here is a picture of our cabin:IMG_2127Web2010

We heard a few gunshots on our first night which probably was the end of the slasher’s reign of terror. I brought 237 rounds of .40 S&W but didn’t get a chance to use any of it.—Joe]

Al Gore, you’ve doomed us all!

Over the last few months on my twice monthly visits to Idaho there has been a bunch of wind turbines being erected near the Rye Grass rest area on I-90. When Barb came west on Tuesday of this week to visit me in my bunker she told me she stopped and took pictures of the turbines. “They look like something out of a science fiction movie”, she said.

Wow! It just so happens that on my return trip last Sunday I also took some pictures:

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Of course all this reminded me of something else:

Times up

Last week Kevin posted My New Favorite Flag. I went over to have dinner and watch a DVD with son James recently. The Gadsden Flag on his living room wall reminded me of Kevin’s post so I told him, “There is a variation of that flag now. I saw it on a blog yesterday.”


“Oh?”, James said. James has a strong tendency toward cynicism and I could hear it in his voice this time.


I figured I would be able to put a little bit of a crack that cynical wall he puts up sometimes and so I described the flag to him, “Instead of the snake just being coiled it’s in the middle of a strike with the fangs bared. And instead of ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ it says, ‘Times Up'”. I’m sure I had a smirk on my face. That should break through I thought.


He didn’t even look at me. He just sighed and asked, “And where is there any evidence of anyone doing something about it being ‘times up’?”


“Let’s watch our show now”, I told him.

Our mission is to defend the homeland

Chet came by my office today and started talking about “When we were kids.” We are about double the age of most of our co-workers and have a little more in common with each other than we do some of the other people. We both grew up on farms. He in Kansas. And, of course, me in Idaho. It gives us a perspective that “some of the younger folk” don’t really appreciate. We remember when most of the homes had outhouses instead of indoor toilets. And our parents lived through the “Great Depression”. We remember what our parents told us about what they and others had to do to make it through. I keep wondering if that will someday be referred to as “GD I” and this go around “GD II” but that is another story.

We talk about economics quite a bit. “What is it going to be like this time?”, we ask each other. Back then it was a world-wide thing too. That was what enabled Hitler to gain power.

This time it wasn’t economics that Chet wanted to talk about.

“Remember those old movies about WW II when the Germans would stop someone on the train and demand their papers?”, he asked.

My officemate had stepped out for bit and I knew we were going to have “a session”. I leaned my chair back and put my feet up on my desk and said, “Yeah. I remember.”

He continued, “We used to think how scary that was. How terrible it was they would do something like that. Right?”

“Absolutely!”, I agreed.

“There is an article in the New York Times today about how our government is doing that today on trains that run between New York City and Detroit”, he said.

I told him I had just read a blog post about that same sort of thing this morning. We chatted a while about it. Neither of us knowing what we could really do about it. “But it sure ain’t right.” we agreed. We always used to believe it couldn’t happen here. We were “special”. We were a free country and that sort of thing just didn’t happen here. It couldn’t happen here.

But it is. It is happening here, right now. And as Roberta X said this morning, Getting Used To It Doesn’t Make It Right.

My officemate returned and Chet left with us both shaking our heads in sadness.

I found the New York Times article and after I read it I went over the Chet’s office. “The government is claiming that if they are within 100 miles of an international border or the three mile limit off the coast they don’t need warrant or anything. They can just grab people they think are ‘of interest’ and demand they prove they are citizens”, I told him. “Right here in this office we are within 100 miles of the Canadian border.” I let it sink in for a couple seconds then continued, “Think of what 100 miles inland from both coasts, the Gulf, and both the north and south borders cover. I’ll bet 50% of the U.S. population is covered by that.”

Chet and I didn’t have much to say after that you wouldn’t have already concluded. We could be headed for some scary times. We talked about it for a couple minutes and went back to work. I think we just got used to it.

If it makes you feel any better about the whole thing–the agent in charge of the Rochester station told the New York Times, “Our mission is to defend the homeland.”

Yeah, I’m sure it is. I think I heard that line in a movie when I was a kid.

Live blogging from the Boomershoot site

The nearest houses are at least 500 yards away and I hear just the crackle of the high voltage power line, some birds and a distant combine. I have WiFi and my Windows Phone 7 to blog with. I like it here.


I dropped some stuff off and am straightening some things up. Then I have to drive back to my underground bunker near Seattle. I wish I could stay longer.

Overheard at the buffet

Woman at cashier of dinner buffet to her companion: Oh! I forgot my money. You will have to pay for my dinner.

Companion: Okay. No problem.

Woman to cashier: He has to pay before he can f**k me.

Cashier (shocked): That isn’t the way it is supposed to work here.

Woman: Oh!

[pause]

Woman (with perplexed look on her face) to her companion: Does this mean I’m supposed to pay you?

Cashier: [closes eyes and shakes her head]

I heard enough more to verify the woman wasn’t some bimbo. She was playing a mind game for sport with the cashier and the people listening in.