An Unfortunate Event...

My old Mac has died. On February 13th (Monday not a Friday) it ceased to do its computery things.

Needless to say, its been rather difficult to post as I no longer have a computer to post from. However, I have been working on some things. Unfortunately it takes awhile as I have to do it "old school" with a paper and a pen.

I am working on getting something new, and in the meantime hopefully I'll get a post or two up, but perhaps not.

It sucks enough to have to write it all down and EDIT on paper. I don't know if I am motivated enough to transcribe it all in the computer.

We'll see...

The Problem with Talking About Yourself

On Wednesday I started what I hoped would be a fairly simple exercise. I began writing what was supposed to be an entry about my origins to be posted on my birthday. Needless to say it did not get posted. As of this moment it has been edited into two separate pieces, one concerning myself and the other discussing my family, each about 4 pages and still not finished. I have a feeling this project may take more effort and writing stamina then I have interest.
To be honest, my life’s story is really not all that interesting. Sure, it sucks worse then many out there, but at the same time, many have had much, much worse. What’s more those people with the really crappy origins are only truly interesting once they make something of themselves.
I certainly haven’t made anything of myself. Although, truth be told, those rags to riches stories get boring after awhile. It’s the same plot with different details. Person had crappy childhood, person worked hard and didn’t give up, even though someone is usually telling them to and viola, all their dreams come true. Of course, there is another version, which generally revolves around some dingbat that is absurdly beautiful and somehow lands in a pile of cash, but that’s not the one they try to teach you in school.
I am neither a hard worker nor an absurdly beautiful maiden (or whore), which pretty much puts me up shit creek without a paddle.
I think what most people can generally be pegged, not by who they are but by what they want and how close they’ve come to getting it. If their dreams have come true, most likely they cheated to get it. Occasionally they came by it honestly, but half the time they find it may have looked good from a distance, but it’s rotten at the core.
So what’s my dream come true? That’s easy. A husband that adores me, plenty of children, the means to be well supported with some nice perks now and then, and maybe a horse. Actually, I should probably be a little more specific about the guy, in the most honest I can be, he would be that white knight in shining armor that will save me from a life of penury and stress. Of course the likelihood of any of this coming true is slim to nil and at the moment, I’m almost o.k. with that.
Since I am no where close to having my particular dream come true, that tells you one of three possibilities. One is that such a dream is impossible, two is that I don’t know how to go from point a (current situation) to point b (dream) or three, I’m lazy as all get out and haven’t made the effort.
I tend to think, for myself, its either one or three, although sometimes I’ll let myself think its two for a little esteem perk.
As for writing about myself? Well, I suppose I’ll get there in the end. I’m still stressing over it and trying to figure it out. Maybe I’ll actually get annoyed enough with it to do some sort of outline and organize it into some semblance of order. Maybe I’ll get distracted by something shiny and new in the next few days and forget that it’s on my computer.
As for my 26th birthday…
I woke up in Aaron’s arms, I spent the day sleeping and writing the never ending, never published blog and then gathered up all my personal papers and memento’s and went back to Aaron’s. Instead of letting my favorite guy take me to dinner, I sat on his bed and looked at pictures and ate the pizza he ordered in defeat. Poor guy, I stumped him one on that day. I just couldn’t get over the question I think everyone should ask themselves on their birthday, “Where did I come from?” “Where am I going?” and the most important, “Who the hell am I?”
I probably won’t figure it out this year, but maybe one day…

Gun Love

So I have a thing for guns. If you asked me what I would buy if I won the lotto (which I won't because I don't play the lotto) first you'd get a list of nice things, like a new house, a new computer, a new car and so on, but once I got all the necessaries for improving my life to what I consider livable, then I would start buy all those firearms. I'd start with fleshing out the current collection, another 12 gauge combat style shotgun, a pair of sturdy accurate rifles in .308 and a couple more .45's, .40 S&W and one more 9mm. Then I would move on to complete the Eastern Block Collection (Takarov, Makarov, Mosin- Nagant, and another SKS) and perhaps then go off into a mil-serps tangent from there. After that? Who knows. Give me the money, and we'll find out.

My love affair with firearms started when I was about 7 and 1/2. Any guesses on why? That was right about the time we moved in with Kerry. He finally convinced my mother to allow it and taught me to shoot his AR-7 when I was 8. I've been addicted ever since.

At first it was something different, then it was something to do with my new Dad, and as time passed it became the tangible beginnings of a whole new way to think and do things. I learned self sufficiency, respect for tools and strength of ideals all because my dad had guns and shared his passion with me. This passion is now one of my own.

Collecting and shooting satisfies two of my major quirks. The enjoyment of having a collection and having something that does something all in one package. Added benefits is that its time consuming and you can never run out of things to learn and things to do, yet you can set it down at any point and come back to it later. A hobby that doesn't demand my time, yet can occupy a large portion of it. Perfection.

Yet explaining it completely is impossible. Only another bitten by the same bug can fully appreciate what I get out of the smell of solvent and gun smoke, or the sensation of hefting a rifle to my shoulder. Explaining it to someone with the modern dislike for firearms is even more impossible. Trying to get someone to see firearms in a positive light after a life time of believing the mantra they where taught in our society about guns being bad, is worse then pulling teeth. Sometimes you can break through the barrier, even to the point of conversion, but unfortunately, you usually end up in the never ending debate that never ends because they don't want to hear why the news is wrong and your right, even when you have the stats to back your point up. They just won't believe that those crazy shoot outs featured in the action flicks are actually impossible to do with any firearm. For these people guns obtain abilities that are on par with magical, never mind the fact that its simply mechanics and chemistry ruled by physics. They also want something easy to blame for societies ills. Why acknowledge that our educational, legal and bureaucratic systems are all flawed when you can blame it all on those crazy people that have guns?

So other then beating my head occasionally against that wall, I have taken to hanging out with the people that will, at the least, respect my love of guns. If someone comes to me a wants to learn, I'll gladly teach, but if their not asking, I'm not going to bother to get them interested. My head has just taken to many beatings to often.

Instead I concentrate on my passion and I share it with my friends. They understand when I make a Facebook post about being in a 'Glock mood' and affectionately referring to my 1911A1 as 'chupacabra'. I spend time talking to my Dad about technique, calibers and whats new at the local gun store. I read gun books and research what I want next. When I can afford to waste the ammo, I shoot. I pull out my personal guns periodically for inspections. I engage in my passion, my hobby and my sport.

Reflections on 2009

Last year I began again. I pulled myself out of the monotony of the past four years and started changing things. Much of my resolve was do to the fact that I had someone whom I thought was a friend. Pure chance gave me the impetus to do some of the things I had half heartedly wanted for the past years. I went on a diet and made the effort of trying to reconnect with the world. The results are not at all what I expected.
In some ways, my life is infinitely better then it was. In other ways, it has not really changed at all. I think that I have not changed, just learned, grown, and shed much of my past. Almost all of my resolutions have not come to pass. I have not gotten a new and better job, I do not look the way I thought I would, I have not gotten my teeth fixed or resolved the issues of my home. I did lose weight and a considerable amount at that, and I figured out how to get health care.
Yet, this New Year is so remarkably different that I cannot completely quantify what it means too me. Some of the differences are obvious and wonderful, some are difficult and painful, and many are still indefinable as good or bad.
The main difference and the best of the differences is Aaron. He wasn’t supposed to be what he has become. At first, he was just Mark’s neighbor, then someone who would be an acquaintance. Then he became, in quick succession, a lover, an annoyance and then an idiot in less then two weeks time.
And once he was done being that, he became one of the most important people in my life.
It is no stretch to say we are a mismatch. The age difference alone is enough for most to dismiss the possibilities, but I keep coming back to the most important thing. He makes me happy and I seem to make him happy. Its funny that something that started as so unimportant and, admittedly sordid, has become such a mellow and easy relationship. We don’t fight, rarely upset each other and, usually, just bop along happily together. I have learned a lot about myself through my interaction with Aaron. I have also confirmed a lot.
I may be a screw up at a lot of things, but, apparently, I make a damn good girlfriend.

The other major change is my estrangement from my mother. I haven’t spoken to her since August. The day after Christmas, she and Eric came to the trailer to drop off Christmas presents from the Gatewood’s and I was surprised to find presents from them to me in the pile. I didn’t see them. I stayed in my room and acted like I was asleep. Dad was able to avoid calling me out by telling the truth, I was sick. In the past I would have gone to investigate my Christmas loot regardless of the fact that I was hacking my lungs up and snotting all over the place, but this year I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her. I can’t stand that she is acting like this is nothing and, at the same time, I won’t lie and give her the easy way out. I can’t ignore the elephant in the room and I’m too stubborn to let her see me cry, and see how much it hurts to not have her, even superficially, in my life.
It’s getting worse as time progresses and the knowledge that I won’t be having dinner at Red Lobster with her and Eric the week of my birthday is killing me. It’s been a tradition for a long time now. For the first time since I was in my early teens there won’t be a bouquet of roses on my Birthday.
It seems that every time Aaron and I go out with Scotty, I end up talking about the nachos at Random Row and the battle over the melted cheese. And I want to tell her that I still haven’t found good nachos since, although the ones at Miller’s are pretty good.
So this year, instead of being a fixture lazing around the little house on Albavanna Spring, I am sitting here, missing my mother and I’m not even sure if she misses me.
So this year, instead of brimming with ideas and plans, I am just trying to figure out what this past year has meant. I told Aaron that I want something to mark my birthday this year, something different and special. I think I do have some things to celebrate as I turn 26. I also have many new things to figure out. Maybe that will be my resolution for 2010.

"He's not your dad, he's your best friend."

Katie said that, and its true. My dad and I do not have a typical relationship that most fathers and daughters have. We have that and then some. Early on, when I was first getting to know Aaron, he was disturbed by how much I told my dad about what went on at the cabins. I told him to try to think of us more as roommates then a father and daughter. I don’t think it really helped Aaron’s peace of mind, but then, he also knew that my dad was into guns and very protective of me.
The protectiveness comes from the fact that I am my daddy’s little girl. This is purely from the fact that he is my dad, and I am his daughter. I think it’s a prerogative of parents to be that protective. It comes from the days when their child was small and helpless, and they were solely responsible for their child’s safety and wellbeing.
I will admit, that at times, that protectiveness comes into odds with Dad’s ability to treat me as an adult, especially when it comes to things we don’t’ see eye to eye on. For the most part, I don’t buck the system, but sometimes I have to, and it’s those times that cause the some of the most strife. Yet, I credit our friendship to the fact that those times are worked through, rather then cause permanent distance. Yes, there are certain things a daughter should not tell her dad, but those rules never really held sway around here.
Maybe part of the reason I didn’t get in much trouble in High School was because it’s really impossible to not get caught by a dad who has been there and done that a thousand times over. Or it could have been that those things were never really a mystery to me. Dad did ten time worse then most of my friends, back in his day, and I heard all the stories. There is some saying about the wise learning from other’s mistakes, and while I will not claim to be wise, I’d like to think I’m at least smart enough not to get into that kind of trouble.
Maybe a part of it was also that there was no point. It has all been done before. To me, it really wasn’t worth doing, if dad had already done it. Unless I could one up him doing something I wanted to do, there was no reason.
The reason I know all these things about my dad, is because he told me. Not in the “back in my day…” stories that bore the crap out of everyone because they are incredible pompous and not even remotely close to the truth, but through conversation. I shit you not, the reason I know that one should shower immediately after using whip cream for certain activities is because of my dad. It came up, don’t ask how, cause I can’t tell you (don’t remember), but it did.
Dad doesn’t always have a filter, plus he’s honest and he just likes to talk a lot, which has resulted in some pretty odd conversations over the years. Add that to the fact that I don’t really have a filter, am incredibly blunt and overly curious and you have the makings of a really bizarre conversation.
The other reason for our closeness is the fact that there have been horrible times when all we had were each other. It started when my mother went off the deep end. At the time, he had no one else to talk to, so he talked to me. Much of these things I shouldn’t have been told and shouldn’t have known about. When mom caught wind, she raised hell. Luckily, she only caught wind of the fact that dad told me about financial matters. If she had known the true depth of information I was privy too, both then and forever after, she would blow a fuse. In those times, I was there for him, and he was there for me. We had a common enemy and we trusted only each other with the true extent of pain she dealt.
Once she moved out, and it was just us, we had ample opportunity to bond in ways beyond what had been. We had a chance to just hang out and talk whenever we wanted too. These were the good times, sitting on the front steps and bitching about the latest movies, going somewhere in the car blasting the radio and talking about the latest rock gods on the scene or comparing one artist with another. We had ongoing battles about one fictional character vs. another. We would pour over the latest gun rag and rail that we couldn’t buy something because of all those damn gun laws. Politics, guns, philosophy, music, movies, books, and dogs were, and still are, only a small fraction of our never-ending conversations.
We get it. We get each other well enough to understand how our minds travel. We both are fine with sidetracks and conversational back roads. We can sense when one topic has been finished and move to the next seamlessly. Plus, we never run out of crap to talk about, since we’ll talk about pretty much anything. There are times, especially now a day, when certain conversations are tricky. There are topics that are taboo unless we are in the mood to tread carefully. Yet, even the taboo topics get discussed and usually without verbal bloodshed.
An oddity that sometimes appears is my protectiveness of him. I don’t think most daughters are as protective of their dads, as their dads are of them. This is my own quirk. In some ways, it is because I don’t think I would know what to do without him. I almost lost him once, and due to the nature of the disease could still lose him. Cancer is a word that in our culture is never viewed lightly, and in this family, is always there. When dad was diagnosed with an inner ocular melanoma, my world fell apart for weeks. I had always been protective of him, but this was the cause of the new emphasis.
He, in many ways, saved my life. I owe him, and it is not a burden. Too almost lose him before I even get a chance to give him the life I want him to have is something I cannot chance again. I want him to see his daughter do well in her life, to give him things like a nice home to grow old in, lots of guns, all the books, movies and music in the world, present him with grandchildren to spoil and love and come up with crazy new ways to entertain. I want him to be able to look back at his life and be proud of what he did for me.
We are an odd family. I have never known anything else, but I often see how odd it is when I talk to others, even more so when an outsider misunderstands the dynamic. I tell my dad most everything, for many reasons, because I value his insight, because I need to talk, because I figure he’ll think its funny or, sometimes, because I know it will get him started on a very funny rant. He does the same to me. We respect each other when it counts and unapologetically swipe each other’s food at the same time (his nighttime scavenging got a large portion of my double stuff Oreos the other day). We have our inside jokes and odd habits in dealing with each other. So, yes, we are best friends, as well as family.
How could I not be best friends with the man who taught me what a friend is?

Christmas Party on Slate Hill

(Co Written with Dad)



The Old Tradition:
It is said that all domesticated animals can speak on Christmas Eve. This was their gift on the night that Jesus was born. In the legends, the animals celebrate the birth of Christ by speaking of his arrival, for they where there, in the manger. The animals do not fight on this night, for it is a night of peace and wonder.

The History:
It was a couple weeks before Christmas; we’re not sure which year, when we found out about it. The original cast was the three Davis dogs, Beauty, Cha Cha, and Gus, our three dogs Northwest, Bandit and Raisin, as well as Richard the rat. Over the years, the tradition grew as new animals came and others passed on. I will say that these are, as best as we can deduce, the happenings on Christmas Eve, here on Slate Hill.

Every year on Christmas Eve, when all the humans are sleeping, dreaming of sugarplums and other nonsense, the creatures of the neighborhood gather in the buildings behind the Davis’s house for a little party.
Now I am sure that there was always a little neighborhood get-together on that night, yet this was beginning of a real party. The addition of two more dogs, plus a rat made the Slate Hill gang decide to go all out. That first Christmas was one of welcome and good spirit. Well, maybe not all good spirit. The great black German Shepard, Beauty, perhaps put a little too much into her rendition of “Santa, Baby”, but then Northwest was eyeing Bandit a little too closely. The evening of song, dance and food began with a heartfelt and sweetly sung “Feliz Navida” preformed by a festively attired Cha-cha (the Chihuahua) and led into the rocking styling of Northwest, complete in his black leather jacket, with a rather punk version of “Jingle Bell Rock”. The miniature poodle Gus, with his version of “The First Noel”, which was not as well received, as he would have liked, completed the original set. Cha-cha pulled him aside later and told him to lose the fake French accent and try not to get so high pitch.
Soon the Huskies got into the spirit, and blew their host away with a joyful duet of the ever so popular “Let It Snow!” and Richard completed the solo performances with a wonderful “Silent Night”. The rest of the evening was spent in good cheer and happy caroling until dawn.
The Christmas Eve party stayed pretty tame for those first few years. Buster’s arrival added “Little Drummer Boy” to the line up. Yet, in 1996, things started getting a little wilder. This was the first year that Pharaoh, the black cat attended. His sister, Dustball fit right in, singing duets with the others and enjoying the jovial atmosphere, but Pharaoh was a little trouble-maker. His opening salvo was to spike the punch bowl, which got Gus drunk. He also, loudly, told his sister that the rat would make a lovely appetizer.
Pharaoh hasn’t changed much over the years. A little more gray and grizzled, he also knows that now, no one can really reprimand him, as they did in those early years. I foresee this Christmas to be one of his worst ever. He will most likely get drunk, harass the others and be a general pest, but that’s Christmas with family. We all have that obnoxious uncle who we really just wish would skip this year.
Sadie’s first performance was “Jesus, Jesus, Rest Your Head” and brought tears to the eyes of the old dogs with her youthful voice and sweet manner. In later years, she and Buster did hound dog duets of “Deck The Halls” and “A Holly Jolly Christmas”. She still manages to travel over to Slate Hill every year for the party, and always tells the Christmas Story.
The latest crowd grew up with the traditions that are now firmly in place. Performances are still at the heart of the party, with each animal bringing his or her own flare. Pharaoh’s “Mr. Grinch” and “The Twelve Pains Of Christmas “ have become staples, as has the chorus of felines singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”. Pearl and Diamond, the two redneck girls, blew everyone away with “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” one year and it is now a standard performance along with Southwest’s “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth”. Despite her snobbish comments towards the others, everyone looks forward to Chestnut’s “The Huron Indian Carol”, since she sings it so well. Graham always sings “Nuttin’ For Christmas” and Shaft always follows with “Hooray For Santa Claus”. Captain Wow will be premiering with Graham in a version of “Santa Claus And His Old Lady” this year, although they may end up giggling to much as they munch through the snacks. Butterfly and Skippy are scheduled to perform a new song this year as well, being last years “O Holy Night” didn’t work out so great. Hopefully, “The Holly and Ivy” will work better.
As the evening winds down, the performances of the past are remembered, with a toast to those who have passed on. They celebrate the dawn of Christmas with a rousing chorus of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” as they pack up and head back to their homes for another year.

This is the Christmas of Slate Hill and the party in the Davis’s garage.



And coming in Easter, the story of how the Easter Bunny rides a moter-mo-mo and Northwest chased him away from Slate Hill.

My Dad

So he’s not really my dad. Technically, he’s not even a step dad. However, if I say ‘Dad’, this is whom I am talking about. His name is Kerry.
Kerry met my mom when I was just a little squirt. My mother was living in Troy and dating a guy named Jimmy, known to all as ‘Bubba’ and Kerry was his best bud. So one day, when Bubba came over, he brought Kerry with him. I don’t’ remember this first meeting, but Dad does. He says that the first thing I did was insisting on showing him my room, which was carpeted with floor-to-floor toys. The second interaction was later in the evening, when I spilled whatever it was I was eating all down my front. He said “little girl, you have food on your shirt.” and then I ran off screaming and had a nice little hissy fit.
I wouldn’t say it was a very good indicator of the future.
A few years later, he came across my mother again, and asked her out. Or maybe she asked him out, I don’t know. All I know is that I was about 6 years old when Kerry started to occasionally baby-sit me when mom went out to contra dances and jams. He’d come over in his old beater of a car, with his dog and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and we would hang out on the porch. Northwest befriended the dog across the street, a playful lady White German Shepard named Timber. A few memories from this time jump out at me, like the night I wanted to blast my one cassette of Disney TV show theme songs, specifically the theme song to Rescue Rangers. Or how, whenever Kerry went inside, I would get Northwest all worked up by saying over and over “where’s Kerry?!?!”
After awhile, due to a raise in rent at the house in Batesville, my mother decided to move us in to the small trailer out towards Scottsville that Kerry lived in for free, because it was owned by one of his best buds and business partner. I was in Connecticut for the move, and when I came home to Virginia at the end of summer, it was too a new room and the beginning of a new school year at a new school, but the biggest change was now I lived in a home with an adult male for the first time since I was 3. Best of all, Kerry didn’t drink, and was perfectly willing to play with me. He read me bedtime stories, he listened to my childish blathering, and on rainy days, he would come up with brilliant new ways to dress up the dogs.
Kerry is a creative guy. When he was a preteen, his buds and him actually made a full-length film about Doc Savage, plus short films, everything from horror to Batman spoofs. In his 20’s he was in a punk rock band, in which he wrote much of the lyrics. I think this is where I get my own creative sensibilities. He didn’t just read stories, he would make up funny voices and brought them to life, he made up songs about the dogs and we would sing them, and he always encouraged me to add in.
One of the best nights ever, he had both my mother and me in stitches. It was nearing Christmas and I had a children’s book about how on Christmas Eve all animals could talk and would get together and have a party. Kerry made up our own version. It centers around all of our dogs and the animals from the neighborhood who where given roles in the Slate Hill Christmas party in our neighbors Bill’s shed.
To this day, our odd little family has its own language. I suppose every family has its version, but I like to think ours is a bit crazier and a bit more elaborate then most. This was Kerry’s influence.
He influences much of my life. Most of the things I like or I believe can be traced back to him. I already liked Rock and Roll when I came to the Trailer, but it was Kerry that refined my taste and introduced me to bands like King Crimson, The Ramones, X-Ray Spex, T-Rex and Deep Purple. Kerry was the one that taught me how to defend myself, both with and without firearms. His concern over my safety is still obvious. He still goes and checks my house gun every so often. He likes to know where I am, although, he often try’s to act like that’s not what he’s doing now that I’m in my 20’s. He is the reason I believe so strongly in the Bill of Rights and a limited federal government. With me he shared the stories of his life, the lesson’s he learned.
He told me once that one reason he gravitated to my mother was because he wanted a child. I was perfect, because I needed a father. His first inkling that I would be his child was one night when we went to the Circus. During the performance, I leaned back against his knee. I remember asking my mother if I could call him ‘Dad’, she told me to ask him and he said yes.
Now I don’t really remember not thinking of him as ‘Dad’.