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Now that's a phone call I honestly never expected to get. I'm now a Great-Grandfather! Eight pound and change, 20 inches long, hair on his head and an appetite! They had a name picked out and I'm not sure but what they changed their minds on that, so not sure what to call him, but we'll figure it out!

You don’t have to turn on the red light…

Meet Rusty... He's a Springer Spaniel.

This is my hope ^^^^^

* Mandatory Text

Replaced the electric window mechanism in my 2005 Grand Cherokee today. This is how it went.

My old friend Mark and his missus hauled stakes from california's Central Valley summer before last, and headed to Tennessee. A good guy; one of those "salt of the Earth" types. Worked hard, raised two fine youngsters, helped us secede from a huge school district and form our own, served on the School Board for eight years - six as board president for a small district that started with one elementary and now has five award-winning schools. They bought a house and settled in a semi-rural area near Jackson. One day shortly after moving, Mark was walking his dog and came across a neighbor who was watering his lawn. Mark meandered over to the fella and introduced himself. The gentleman - who turned out to be a LEO - politely returned the introduction, but seemed a bit reserved. After a moment, he asked Mark where he was from. Mark sighed... and confessed to being from california. The neighbor maintained a blank expression. Mark then added "We're here now. We left california forever - and by God, we've moved back to America!" The fella slowly smiled, shook Mark's hand, and said "Welcome Home!"

Normally I wouldn't care what she did. But I just happened to see the headline. She and her group blocked a road in the Netherlands. And the cops arrested her along with a few other protesters. Then they let her go. And she rejoined the road blockage. And they arrested her again. https://amp.dw.com/en/climate-activist-greta-thunberg-arrested-in-the-netherlands/a-68757799

NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND "Tell me you didn't." "Hell, it was a simple unplug this and plug in that!" "Yeah, right, what if we get a run?" "It's Monday, ya dip, nothing ever happens the first of the week --" BLAAAAAAAA-- "Fireland Emergency Squad, woman in labor, Firelands grade school, second floor office, time out ten-oh-three." The German Irishman looked at the Welsh Irishman, clapped the lid on the siren box, wound in one screw, slid it back into the dash, wound in one screw and dropped back, sliding out of the squad's cab. He pulled back as the Captain and his daughter swarmed into the squad -- shoreline was grabbed, turned, pulled free -- the door hummed and rattled open and bright mountain sunlight roared into the shadowed bay. The Welsh Irishman grabbed the breakaway on the exhaust, twisted pulled: they saw the brake lights come on, just before high powered lights began to flash, just before the squad rolled out, turned, started up the street. Two Irishmen looked at one another, uncertain, then grinning, then laughing like two schoolboys. The door was halfway shut by the time the Captain reached for the siren switch. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of his inner office, frowning a little, pencil crosswise between even white teeth: he held a folder, turned a page over, another, clearly studying the material he carried. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up, his frown going from study to puzzled, one eyebrow raised as the squad accelerated past the Sheriff's office, all lights and swift response and bagpipes. The folder, forgotten, was snapped closed, laid on the sidetable beside the coffee pot. Sharon looked up, looked at the Sheriff: Linn looked back, and two voices said, "What was that?" Captain Crane jerked his hand back from the siren box like it was hot. Then the drums started: deep, commanding, punctuating the warpipes' screaming "Scotland the Brave": he was too busy driving, to worry about what was coming out of the siren speakers, only that something was, and it was loud, and it was working! Crane swung the wheel left, came down on the throttle, around two suddenly-stopped cars, up the street and over the rise, braked, turned right, accelerated uphill, toward the schoolhouse. Shelly looked over at her father, as surprised at her father's reaction as she was at what was coming out of two, 100 watt, waxed, polished, chromed Federal siren speakers: "PLAY IT, DAMN YOU!" the Captain yelled cheerfully: he killed the siren and they pulled up right in front of the grade school's front door. Sheriff Linn Keller braked hard, skidding a little: he ran up the front steps of his own house, tapped quickly at the panel on the door frame, shoved his key into the lock, twisted: burnished Wellington boot heels were loud on spotless wood as he strode for the stairs, as he sprinted up to the bedroom: a slam, another, as he got into one dresser drawer, then another, muttering "Dammit Mama, you had it in here!" -- he ran downstairs, heedless of the racket he was making in the silent house. The Bear Killer was dancing at the foot of the stairs, then galloped out the front door ahead of the Sheriff, hit the ground, took one bounding leap and sailed across the driver's seat and into the passenger side. Linn held a bundle clamped tight under his left arm: he slammed and locked the front door, re-armed the system, turned and jumped off the front steps, grinning like he did when he jumped the steps as a boy: he got in, slammed the Jeep's door, set the precious bundle between himself and The Bear Killer. Linn grinned, pulled ahead, turned around quickly: he stopped, closed his eyes, took a long breath, laughed at himself. "Old habit," she said aloud. "You're not delivering this baby. Relax, Linn!" He laughed again, reached over, rubbed the grinning Bear Killer, then came off the brake and proceeded down the driveway in considerably less of a hurry. "Firelands ER, Firelands Squad One." "Firelands ER, go." "Firelands ER, we are on scene with a woman in labor, para three gravida four, active labor, mother states child is a month early. Mother is three fingers and fully effaced, preparing to transport." Linn frowned when he heard this: his jaw slid out as he considered, then he reached over, wiped his finger across three rocker switches, horizontally mounted so they could be turned on by running a finger from far to near. Blue indicators glowed on the switches as Linn's Jeep lit up with blue-white-and-red LEDs. "Showtime," Linn said seriously. "Cap better have his ball glove. They'll never make the hospital." A woman's scream echoed down the hallway, down the stairs. Two medics stopped, lowered the cot, swung it to the side. "Aren't you going to do something?" a teacher demanded. The Captain stifled the desire to backhand her. "Keep this hall empty," he said firmly, tearing the plastic wrap off the box they hoped they'd really, really not have to use: Shelly murmured to the laboring woman, brought the laboring mother's knees up, lowered the head of the cot: she raised her talkie. "Dispatch, Firelands Squad One. Active delivery, water just broke. We are not yet loaded. Send lifting assistance." "Dispatch, Firelands Actual on scene." "Firelands Squad One, sending lifting assistance. Firelands Actual, I roger your on-scene. Break, break. Firelands Fire Department second squad, lifting assistance, Firelands Grade School, the stork is landing." The Captain thrust one hand, then the other, into the sterile gloves, bent, reached in, looked at his daughter, nodded. Shelly gripped the laboring teacher's hands: "Squeeze if it hurts," she said quietly, looked at her father. "Para three, gravida four," Shelly said in a worried voice. "Whatta we got?" "IN THE BUILDING!" a man's voice boomed from below. Linn turned: "UP HERE! FOUR MAN LIFT!" Irishmen assaulted the stairs at a dead run, their commanding shout preceding their charge: "WHATTAYA NEED, CAP!" Boots pounded up the stairs, a mountain Mastiff gave a happy whuff! as he crested the stairs with the running Irishmen. "Mother, deep breath," the Captain said, his voice deep, reassuring. "Blow out, deep breath again, OKAY, MOTHER, PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH!" Linn stopped, looked at his wife. "Whattaya need?" "CROWNING!" the Captain grinned, glanced over. "Linn, keep this hallway clear!" Linn looked up: the principal was coming toward him, looking big-eyed from the cot to the Sheriff and back. Linn powered forward, gripped the principal by her shoulder. "Get on the PA," he said quietly. "Until I say otherwise, nobody leaves their room, tell them the stork is landing and we have to keep the runway clear. This is not a lockdown, this is --" "IT'S A BOY!" the Captain yelled. Irishmen swarmed the cot, pounded one another on the back, looked approvingly at the Captain: "WILLY MAYS DOES IT AGAIN!" came the delighted shout. The principal turned pale, swallowed hard: the Sheriff took her by the elbows to steady her. Linn looked at the principal. "Do you need to sit down?" She nodded: Linn eased her down, patted her hand: "Just sit here for a minute," he said quietly. The Captain looked up: "Mother," he said in a gentle voice, "do you plan to breastfeed?" The teacher nodded, biting her bottom lip, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Give me a minute," he said softly. "I need to cut the cord. Afterbirth should come right after, then we'll change the sheet under you." The Captain wrapped the infant in the fluffy receiving blanket, then the Sheriff sidled in close. "Here," he said. "Wrap him in this." When the newest member of the community arrived at their hospital, when he was examined and pronounced healthy and perfect, he was again wrapped in the Sheriff's gift, and formally presented to his father and his family. Sheriff Linn Keller stood back and watched, grinning, as this youngest Maxwell of the Clan Maxwell, was presented to Clan and Kin, wrapped in the correct Clan Maxwell plaid. For some odd reason, the next time the siren was used, it sounded like a siren, and no official mention was made of what two of the Irish Brigade swore privately was just a joke, it was sheer and fantastic coincidence that bagpipes heralded the birth of another Maxwell, but someone with a steady hand and a rotten sense of humor, painted a blue stork beside the yellow storks on the squad's fender ... this newest stork did not carry a blue sling for a boy, or pink sling for a girl. The stork itself was blue, and its sling was Clan Maxwell plaid.

Longer than that, it's just more out in the open and it's going to get worse before it gets better, if it ever does. Both parties are drifting farther and farther apart and both sides are increasingly unwilling to compromise with each other.

There has been a civil war going on since 2016.

There are 100's of opportunities to question an action or a result during a match. There is no shame or issue with doing so. Ever. The only thing that matters is that we take every one of these opportunities - every one of these questions and hold them up against the stage instructions, the rulebook and the objective result of the shooters actions and do our very best to arrive at the correct answer. Sometimes these answers seem easy and other times difficult - and sometimes a single word added or omitted can change the outcome. But as stage writers, match directors, timer operators, spotters and posse members - our duty above everything is to advocate for the shooter and record the correct outcome. You were correct to decide as you did during the match. You were correct to bring it to the wire to ensure you were on the right path. You did good. And I would be thrilled if I were ever to get the chance to shoot with you and your club.

After flying the first successful powered flight for 12 seconds, Orville Wright was asked if he was scared. ”Scared? There wasn’t time.”

Orville taught my great grandfather (John C. Henning) how to fly in 1911. He is standing to the left of Naval officer (Captain Kenneth Whiting) in the second row. Orville is front row center with his hand in his pocket. Photo was taken in 1940.

Ain’t that the truth. People are so….peoplish

Widder's bunkhouse boss caught him doing something he shouldn't have been doing and won't let him get on the Wire or even write an email. He's grounded until some time Monday. He wouldn't tell me what it was he got caught doing, but getting grounded might be better than going blind.

You may have done this but I always had better luck loosening the main spring screw, tightening down the tension screw some and then tighten back the main spring screw. Randy

She got exactly what she was supposed to get - more worldwide publicity and and form of martyrdom. And guess what, conservatives, myself included by even commenting here, are giving her that publicity. "Lookit her! She got herself arrested for her her cause!" As with mass murderers, we're better off letting them slide into obscurity rather than keeping them in the forefront.

If written that way, you'd want to make absolutely certain the rifle targets COULDN'T be hit with an errant pistol round.

What are you smoking that generates all these fun questions? When I was a 2LT I was told that rank among "shavetails" is like virtue among prostitutes: it doesn't exist.

I suppose robotic vehicles have been around for a while. First time I've seen the term ground drone. I don't know if everyone can see this.

nice part is no one got shot delivering it to the target ,

The sun is riz, the sun iz set, and here I iz in Texas yet. Done that trip the other way.

The Marines are changing their marksmanship standards. Good! https://www.shootingillustrated.com/content/marines-ditch-100-year-old-marksmanship-standards/

McDonalds DC-3 Restaurant

NSW Police Ford Paddy Wagon from back in the day

I thought it looked more like this…but we all know they both say the same thing.