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Not sure where you buy your .22's and/or how much you pay but I can load .38's for the same cost or slightly less.

Wow, talk about necromancy!

Left the house just after 7:00 this morning. Had a makeup appointment with the foot doctor and then stopped for a nice sit down breakfast with Schoolmarm. Called in and had some prescriptions made ready for me at the pharmacy, and by the time breakfast was finished they called to tell me they were ready. We picked ‘em up and the next stop was the liquor store for Schoolmarm some wine. Next stop was the Post Office! I had to mail a letter, grab some packing tape, seal up a box of stuff for Forty Rod, and another for a new shooter that needed a shotgun shell belt and then get those mailed off too. Then to the bank for some cash to pay for some laser ingraving on my new ‘92 stocks, and then out to the studio to pick them up! Add in a stop for gas and you have eight stops and over a hundred miles. We got home just after noon!! I took a short nap and then put the carbine back together. Now it’s almost time for supper and some of that banana pudding I made earlier this week!! Doc says I SHOULD be walking full time in a couple of weeks. For now, she says to take it slow and easy. I got a lot done! Don’t reckon I can GRUMP too much today! 🙄

THE ANGEL'S CHOICE Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller sat down. Actually she didn't as much sit, as she collapsed. It wasn't just a collapse. Once her terminal descent began, nothing in two worlds was going to stop her: Angela's skirted backside dropped onto the polished, varnished, waxed, absolutely spotless hardwood chair's seat, her arms flopped to the sides, her head dropped back: legs thrust awkwardly before her, head dropped back, eyes staring at the ceiling, she groaned, she sagged, she started to slide out of the chair. Her descent to the floor was just as awkward, just as undignified: when her backside hit the ancient, hand-fitted, varnished boards, when her weight jarred her spine and her teeth clicked together, she gave a little "Ow," sounding more like an unhappy little girl than the grown woman, than the commissioned Sheriff's deputy, than the veteran nurse, that she was. Sheriff Linn Keller never looked up from the report he was reading. "Rough day?" he asked unsympathetically. Angela rolled over on her side, pushed up off the floor: she got her white nurse's shoes under her, she stood, leaned heavily on the corner of the Sheriff's ancient desk and looked at her frowning Daddy with tired eyes. Linn leaned back, rubbed his eyes, opened the broad middle drawer of the antique Sheriff's desk: he drew the report across the blotter toward him, thrust it into the drawer, closed it and looked at his daughter. "You look awful," he said quietly. "Yeah, God loves you too," Angela groaned. Linn rose, came around the desk: Angela straightened, ran her hands around to the small of his back, gave him an absolutely exhausted look and mumbled, "It's been one of those days!" Linn hugged his little girl to him. He didn't hold the veteran nurse, his arms were not enveloping a trusted, veteran, effective Sheriff's deputy. In that moment, a father held his little girl, and both were content to let that happen. "Darlin'," Linn rumbled, working his face around the left-hand wing of her nursing uniform cap, "if you need to come home --" Angela's arms tightened around her Daddy and he felt her take a long, shivering breath, blow it out. "Victoria came home and I'm glad she did. Michael's like a fly in a barnyard, he's here and he's gone on another grand adventure." "I know," Angela mumbled. "He had to shoot some torpedoes." "Torpedoes." "Yeah. Brown furry ones." "Story at eleven?" Linn asked, drawing back a little and looking down at the top of his daughter's capped head. Angela drew her head back, looked up at her long tall Daddy. "I'm starved, I got paid, let's eat!" A father and daughter sat alone in the conference room, sharing the corner of one of the long tables. Angela admitted she would commit insecticide! for a double cheeseburger and fries: the Sheriff made a call, the meal was delivered, and after setting a go-order container in front of the surprised (but pleased!) dispatcher, the two retreated into the conference room and sat down to a companionable meal. "Darlin'," Linn mumbled through half a mouthful of well chewed sandwich, "if you need to come home, I haven't turned your bedroom into a pool hall!" "I just over-extended myself," Angela shook her head, sprinkling salt on her fries: she bit into a corrugated-crispy-brown fry, closed her mouth, chewed, hummed with pleasure. "Oh, God," she mumbled happily, thrusting another one after the first, "you can't get these offworld!" "You could do like Marnie and make a fortune at it." Angela shook her head. "I know she has," Angela mumbled. "I'm ... I don't want to go there." "You over-extended yourself," Linn said, his voice Daddy-deep, Daddy-reassuring. "Financially?" She shook her head. "No, no. I have currency for each world I work on. Gold is useful but common on one world, it's scarce and valuable on another. One world doesn't have aluminum, another has it coming out its ears. Each currency is different, there is no standard financial system Confederacy-wide." "Did that answer my question?" Angela gave her Daddy a grateful look, then took a bite of her sandwich, her eyes closing with pleasure. "Onion," she mumbled as she chewed. "Earth is the only onion" -- she coughed, swallowed, turned her head and coughed again. Linn waited. Eyes watering, Angela chewed quickly, swallowed, coughed, coughed again. "Never saw anyone get worked up over onion before," Linn said quietly. Angela pinched up a napkin, wiped her eyes: the Sheriff's eyes followed her fingers, remembered seeing nurses in ER pinch up tissues or bandages or gauze in that selfsame manner. "Daddy, I've had some really good meals, out there." Linn nodded. "I've had spices Earth never heard of, but so far I've not found onions." She looked at her sandwich, at the white strata that started it all. "You could introduce onions and make a mint --" "I'll let Marnie handle that," Angela said, turning her head and coughing again. " 'Scuse me." They finished their meal, tossed used napkins into the open cardboard containers, slid them back. Linn leaned over the table a little. "Darlin', you said you over extended yourself. What happened?" "I worked a double shift. It was crazy" -- she fluttered a hand -- "the world has two moons and I think both of them were full moons, and I didn't get any sleep when I went to teach a wound ballistics class." "How did the class go?" "It was good. I geared it to their weaponry level. I didn't see any sense in discussing things like the hyper-velocity bottleneck-case pistol rounds when they don't have self-loading actions yet. "The class I taught ... their technology is just starting on expanding bullet technology." Linn nodded carefully, his eyes never leaving her fatigued expression. "I told them from the start I'm a commissioned Sheriff's deputy, but I just came from work and that's why I'm teaching in my nursing whites. "I gave them my experience with actual shootings, I used a simulated hog to show how a .32 pistol round will penetrate to an unexpected depth. I showed them -- holographic visual aids are wonderful in a classroom -- gel tests for the calibers they usually encounter. "One of them casually speculated that I'm a nurse and I don't carry a gun." Angela saw amusement in her Daddy's eyes. "I unclasped my blue nurse's cape to show my holstered .44 Bulldog and said that the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna carried a bulldog .44, and I did too. I told them I believe there is no substitute for momentum, and what I carried, has kept me alive, and I took off my blue nurse's cape and revealed my pretty white gunbelt with a pretty white holster and tapped the handle of my holstered Bulldog with the pretty white checkered ivory grips and my fingers went to the six point star on the badge holder just ahead of the holster, and I told them -- I warned them -- nobody will ever ask them how many lives they've saved, when they look at your sidearm, they'll always ask if you've killed anybody. "I told them I'm a nurse and I keep people alive, but if I have to keep one person alive by killing someone that's trying to kill them, I've done it before and I'll do it again. "Then I spun my blue nurse's cape back around my shoulders and fast the gold chain across the neck again. "It drapes just right to hide the hardware. "I concluded the class. Good class, by the way." "Were they surprised when you whipped off your cape and showed 'em you carry a .44?" Angela laughed tiredly, chased the last salt crystals with the last half of her last crispy-brown fry. "Daddy," she sighed, "eyebrows disappeared under wig lines all over that room when I did!"

Knocked off the giant pile of snow from roof clearing. It was on the shelf that will hold the window A/C unit for my bedroom. That was way too much weight for that shelf.

Nashville Laser Studio!! He’s over in Cheatham County, just off River Road. 7 to 10 days lead time.

MARTIAN CAVALRY Sheriff Jacob Keller rose at the summoning knock at his office door. "Come." The door hissed open and a smile came in, with a pale eyed Ambassador attached. Jacob grinned and strode for the door, Marnie laughed and skipped across the floor like a happy little girl: brother and sister embraced, Jacob lifted her a little and shook her and Marnie gasped with pain, then with relief as three or four somethings in her back gave up their accumulated tension with a quick ripple of muted *pop!* sounds. Marnie gave Jacob a warm, affectionate look: "Jacob," she whispered, "whatever have you been up to now?" Jacob laughed, took a long breath, sighed it out, looked at her again. "Sis," he said, "I've been causing trouble!" "So I understand!" "Coffee? I've got a new blend, it just hit the market. McKenna's Blend." "You don't say!" Sarah's voice was as innocent as her wide eyes, which fooled her grinning brother not at all. "Sis," he said, "I have no idea whatever possessed you to start growing coffee, but please" -- he keyed in a command, the coffee maker began to hiss and gurgle -- "keep it up!" "What was it Daddy told us?" Sarah smiled. Jacob turned to her, planted one set of knuckles on his gunbelt, thrust a declarative finger toward the ceiling and quoted, " 'The Navy runs on coffee, and so do I!' " Brother and sister high-fived one another and declared "Shipmate!" -- it was something they started in childhood, and it seemed fitting in the moment. Jacob spun a chair around, waited until Sarah was seated before resuming his own comfortably upholstered, armless chair. "I see where the most popular Simulator is 'Horseback,' " Sarah murmured as she accepted a sizable, steaming mug of Hot and Fragrant. "Eeeyep," Jacob affirmed. "Full gravity horseback." "Eeeyep." "What's this about cavalry?" Jacob sighed, shook his head. "You mind all those Western movies that's so popular throughout the Confederacy?" "Oh Lord, do I," Sarah groaned. "We've thirteen star systems' worth of little boys who want to grow up to be Old West characters!" "Our bunch here saw whatever-it-was ... it was well-shot cinematography, it showed a Cavalry charge." "And?" "And probably twenty are good enough horseback that I took them on a field trip." "A ... field trip," Marnie echoed. "What kind of ... field trip?" "I asked Michael to introduce us to Confederate cavalry of his acquaintance." "And...?" "And now we have a formal request for Martian cavalry." "Jacob!" Sarah exclaimed, lowering her mug in surprise. "I know," he grinned, holding up a forestalling palm: "there's nowhere near enough here on Mars to field a decent cavalry, but somehow our boys are good enough horseback they're all hot to recruit them!" "We can slip between realities without pushing through light speed, we've regrown Michael's spine and Juliette's eyes, we have Interceptor Starfighters that make the combined firepower of every saltwater battleship look puny, and the hot Interstellar commodity is horse cavalry," Marnie said softly, shaking her head. "I don't think it's because they're from Mars," Jacob speculated. "I think it's ... they've also read account of American fighting men. A Frenchman once wrote that you want an American in the trench with you, he'll give you the last drink from his canteen, split the last of his rations, the last of his ammo, he'll go from undressed and sound asleep to dressed and ready for war in a tenth of a second or less, he'll charge through Hell itself to get a wounded man to safety, and this is their way of accepting ... Earthers ... without accepting Yankees." "So they're Martians and not damned Yankees." "I think that's it." "Well, it's nice to have options." "What about you, Sis?" Sarah emptied her mug. "Good coffee, thank you." Jacob's grin was quick, boyish, spontaneous, the way she remembered from their childhood. "Thought you'd like it." "As soon as I get rid of some second hand coffee, I'm going to try that simulator. They need to know how to swing a cavalry saber at a gallop!" Quote Linn Keller, SASS 27332 Warrior, poet and hopeless romantic Additional free advice upon request † Prayer Posse †

PERMISSION TO CAUSE TROUBLE, MA'AM! WJ Garrisson, the Mercantile's irascible old proprietor, regarded Jacob's labors with skepticism. "You're gonna get all this, clear out there." "Yes, sir." Jacob hoist a flour sack over his shoulder, turned, headed for the door. WJ quick-stepped ahead, got the door for him, watched as Jacob stepped down onto the packed snow, eased the precious cargo into the wagon bed, turned and stepped easily back up onto the boardwalk. "With that horse you're goin' all the way out there." "No, sir." Jacob pushed past him, went back inside, gripped a crate of canned goods, brought it out. "Well whatinell are you doin' this for anyhow? You sweet on their girl or somethin'?" WJ demanded. Jacob turned quickly, shoved up hard against the Mercantile's proprietor, his eyes pale and unsmiling. "Sir," he said quietly, "I have bought and paid for a stack of goods. Be pleased if you'd let me load up and head out." Mrs. Garrison watched silently from behind the counter. When Jacob made his one last pass to make sure he'd loaded everything, she glided out and pressed a small parcel into his hands. "Peppermint sticks for the children," she whispered, then gripped his gloved hands and whispered, "Thank you." Jacob winked -- she saw the smile he was trying to keep hidden behind those solemn pale eyes -- he turned, closed the door quietly behind him. WJ reached into the cracker barrel to caress the store cat, sighed. "Best sale I've made this week." Jacob unhitched the rented gelding, led the nag back into Shorty's livery: he looked over at the scowling proprietor and grinned, reached into his coat. "I saw your supply of rheumatiz medicine was gettin' low," he said quietly as he handed Shorty a glass pint of something amber and potent: "that's the good stuff, not the cheap store bought kind!" "Kentucky?" Shorty asked hopefully, thrusting the glass treasure into his own coat. "Not over thirty days old," Jacob replied, handed Shorty a coin: "Appreciate your kindness." As usual, Jacob over paid by a significant margin: Shorty nodded, thanked him quietly, watched as Jacob stepped outside, reached up to caress Sarah's Snowflake-horse as she arrived. Sarah was astride the big black Frisian, riding as regal as the Queen herself -- Shorty laughed to see this sweet, diminutive and genuinely beautiful girl in a blue-velvet riding skirt and an enveloping cloak, furl her parasol and expertly back Snowflake into position. Jacob hitched onto the thick, padded collar she already wore; he climbed into the sled's upholstered seat, looked over at Shorty and said "I'm not used to this! She's doin' all the work!" -- to which Sarah retorted, "Isn't that the way of it! We women do all the work and the men get all the credit!" -- she tapped Snowflake's hinder, delicately, with her furled parasol and said "Yup now," and Snowflake stepped out, towing the sled over packed snow as easily as if she were pulling a postage stamp. Shorty nodded, one hand going to the bottle in his inside pocket as he murmured, "Now that is one sizable horse!" -- then he turned, went back into his office where it was warm. "Pa," a boy called from the barn loft, "company!" A man squinted up at his son, watchful at the haymow window. "Who is it?" His son's expression was genuine, shining with delight. "Sir, it's Miz Sarah and that big horse of hers!" By the time Snowflake labored through unbroken snow between the nearest road and the ranch, the family was turned out to receive these unexpected visitors. Jacob swung down from the driver's seat, landed easily, removed his Stetson -- he looked at it, surprised, swatted it against his leg to remove a dusting of snow -- "Mrs. Simpson," he said, addressing the rancher's wife, "with your permission, ma'am, I'd like to cause some trouble." Without waiting for an answer, he went to the back of the sled, dropped the tail gate, seized a flour sack and dragged it back, then brought it over his shoulder. "Ma'am," Jacob grinned, "where should I set this?" Sarah whispered to Snowflake, caressed her long jaw as men and boys unloaded the wagon: Jacob squatted on the front porch, opened the paper poke Mrs. Garrison gave him, handed out peppermint sticks to the rancher's several children. The rancher stood with him, uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Sarah glided up to him, handed him a flat, wrapped package. "Open it," she said quietly. He pulled off a dirty glove, plucked clumsily at the string, untied the bow-knot: he rolled up the string, unfolded the paper, grinned. "McGuffey's Readers," Sarah said. "You said you were short on reading material. This is a Shakespeare, there are newspapers -- they are yours." His mouth opened in surprise at this unexpected wealth. "I didn't," he began, blinked. "I ... I can't pay for all this." "Mr. Simpson," Sarah said quietly, gripping his work-callused hand, "please. Let us do this. Penance for past misdeeds, payment for our sins, let us do this!" "My boys didn't tell you we were runnin' short, now, did they?" Simpson asked sternly. "They have said not one word," Sarah assured him, patting his hand reassuringly: "and they are perfect gentlemen." "Mr. Simpson," Jacob said, "children learn by watching their elders. Sarah is right, your sons are gentlemen, and there's only one place they could've learned that." They heard the door open; Sarah glanced over, smiled as Mrs. Simpson came out on the porch with them, drawing her shawl about her, for it was cold out. Jacob looked the man very directly in the eye as he added, "Thank you, sir, for caring enough about being a gentleman, to be the example your sons are become!" "Besides" -- Jacob grinned -- "I'm causin' trouble bringin' this out unannounced!" He turned, looked at Mrs. Simpson. "With your permission, ma'am!" Mrs. Simpson looked at her husband, looked back at Jacob. "Permission granted!"

Scorning hits with a .22 on our steel targets is a PITA, and many times the timer doesn't 'read' the shot. BTDT OLG

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

My friend Sarah left her can of Pepsi at a rest stop in Florida about 60 miles south of Tampa. That's where Sarah's Soda is...

How do you make an artichoke? You strangle it.

None better.

My pull ups are way below par. I'm really bad at push ups. But my screw ups are Olympic class!

Undoubtedly a california PG&E customer.

We run some electric heat. But mostly we heat with wood. Hopefully, this will be next winters firewood. It's stacked under roof now.

It would be nice to have a list of those who have filed these complaints. I, for one, would devoutly avoid doing business with them!!

Nope, lots of categories right now. If ammo cost is holding you back, reload your own cast bullets. Pards in the old west did not go to gunfights armed with 22s. The game is what it is, and probably will stay there for a while. We would welcome you, and as stated above, local matches will probably carve out a special category to let you shoot as you start up in the game. Good luck, GJ

There is nothing stopping a local club from offering a sub category like you propose. But in my experience of match directing even the most casual of competitors will not like placing below a adult shooter be it a man or woman who is shooting .22's when they are shooting centerfires.