Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

Nope.

Was his name Pinocchio...?

Or ammo~!

Multiple someones, I'd suspect.

So somehow the bottles for one of my MEC reloaders went the way of all good things - gone, without a trace. Well, not the end of the world - replacement bottles can be had. But at close to thirty bucks for a pair. But I made a serendipitous discovery ~ empty Sriracha bottles fit perfectly! Just a tiny bit less capacity, and a heck of a lot cheaper... like, purty darned common around the Hardpan scatter. But they don't have a hole with a plug in the bottom. I can put holes in 'em... suggestions on "plugs?"

Good find, Sarge. For any not familiar with the model, here's a link to a decent article - I wish I had one! https://revolverguy.com/the-high-standard-sentinel-r-103/

Different author but similar is "Kohn's War," another good read about a P-38 jock.

'Tain't the ammo - it's stoopid stiff when it's empty. But starting to get better,though - the Kid sez it oughtta be right fine by the time he's my age.

Yup ~ no mo' pennies.

Good topic, Whitey! I can't exactly recall which was "first," 'cuz they were both about the same time. Nineteen seventy, at 19 years old, living in the Kappa Phi Delta fraternity house - mailed away something like $90 for a Belgian made Centennial brand copy of an 1860 Colt Army. And of course I still have it. For another ninety bucks, a Stevens 5100 12 ga side-by-side from the venerable San Francisco Gun Exchange. Hunted with it for many years before it became my main CAS shotgun some thirty+ years ago.

Back in the college days, ol' Hank had an English bulldog, named Sir Wintrhrop Ralston, or just "Butch" to most of us. That dawg was famouse for SBD's, 'specially when he was sleeping. He could rapidly clear a room with nary a word said. If he suddenly stood up and did a high-speed wobble toward the door, there would be a stampede past him - recognizing that "he who smelt it dealt it!" and we knew we were by seconds from a full olfactory frontal attack.

'Cuz I gots plenty of 12's. As I mentioned above, I gave my only other O/U (a 12) to my son; in the years I had it, it had only been out of the safe twice - the first time, he used it for doves and liked it quite a lot. The Kid also has a 12 ga CZ Woodcock, made in Turkey by Huglu for Česká zbrojovka a.s. That one he bought several years ago, and he does okay with it. It handles well, is a nice-enough looking gun, but it's always been a booger to open. Someone jokingly suggested that after a few hundred boxes through it he could expect it to loosen up to "normal." Maybe. So far it hasn't. Evidently the Stevens guns are built by another company (KOFS/Iber Arms) using state-of-the-art CNC equipment - hence, minimal hand-fitting required. My thinking was that a really light gun might be kinda nice for a change, and so the interest in a "sub-gauge." ,

Neither are Over/Unders....

I wonder what percent of the population that halftime program appealed to.

This goes back a ways: When Sassparilla Kid was about ten or so (23 years ago?), I bought him a new Henry .22 from a shop in Fresno. When we were finally able to pick it up (after this state's stoopid mandatory "cooling off" period) we took it to the range, and sadly it performed poorly. Would literally jam about every third of fourth shot. We took it back to the shop were we bought it, the proprietor said he'd have to send it back to Henry. Might take a week or two. Okay... so we left it with him and waited. And waited. A month or more passed, and I called the shop; "Dunno. Gonna have to wait for it." So, I called Henry. About the third ring and none other than Anthony Imperato himself answered! I explained why I was calling, and after expressing surprise and dismay at our experience, he said "hold on a minute, would you?" and put me on hold. A few minutes later, he came back on and said that they had no record of the gun's return. But, he said, that didn't matter - he was going to personally see to it that a new replacement was sent out immediately. And he did! Two days later I got a call from the gun shop - the replacement had arrived. Sadly, since it was a different gun with a different serial number, we had to do the stoopid waiting thing again. But it's served the Kid well for over two decades. And the Henry service was perfect! Heck... I even got to talk to the man hisself!

Dang... I didn't know Kim Komando was still alive! I used to listen to her radio shows back in the 90's. Gave "computer nerd" an entirely new meaning!

Not from me! Heck... I just popped into SW last night.

So I'm considering treating myself to a new shotgun. Something not expensive. Specifically an O/U in a smaller gauge. Which brings up the first question: 20 or 28 gauge? Opinions? The second question is, naturally, which gun. I'm looking at the lower priced models - it'll get fairly limited use, and at my age (and budget) I can't justify being extravagant. That said, I was in a Sportsman's Warehouse yesterday and checked out a Stevens 555. With just handling it in the store, I was surprised - it was light, smooth, shouldered well, had good fit and finish, and in fact compared quite favorably with my Franchi Instinct at less than half the price. (Actually, "former" Franchi - I passed that one on to my son, as it deserved more use and enjoyment than it would ever get from me). Not surprisingly, it's Turkish made; seems to be one of the better products from that country that I've handled in the last few years. Anyone have any experience with or exposure to these imports? Thankee! Oh - one last note: The Kid and I have other 20 gauge shotguns, but no reloader. Yet! However, I DO have a 28 ga Mec that I picked up some time back on a "just in case" whim. The standard and "enhanced" models:

A Trip North Another Hank of the KRR tale Lessee… I think it was 1983 or -4, and I was a Free Agent. After I had spent the better part of the last week of every month on Jury Doody for a year and a half, my superiors at work somewhat wisely decided that they could save a decent chunk of money by merging my department with another. Doing so would allow ‘em to eliminate one department head position. Mine. Now gainfully unemployed, I was enjoying a life of modified leisure. While unambitiously seeking gainful employment, I enjoyed my time off. With ample savings supplemented by “Unny-Money” and otherwise frugal spending, life was good - even after investing part of my severance pay in a new Univega bicycle and a Ruger Mark II .22 pistol (which would not be available for my possession for a couple of weeks, a time frame deemed by the State of California to be necessary to determine I was not a danger to myself or others). My time was spent fishing, taking road trips, sometimes driving to Reedley to play “farmer” and drive a tractor for Hank, and visiting folks up and down the state. Anyway, I was home on one Wednesday afternoon, and thought I’d call up ol’ Hank. With a mug o’ coffee in hand and feet propped on the ottoman, I dialed up the lad. Half a dozen rings, then a disconsolate “Hullo.” “Hey, Hank! Hey – howcum you sound down?” “Aw damn, man. I’m bummed.” “I can tell! Howcum?” “Well,” sez Hank, “remember how Stanley and I went up to Siskiyou County last year antelope hunting?” Of course I did – both Hank and Stan Jantzen had entered the State lottery for antelope tags, and had miraculously been drawn. They’d had a terrific time, met some good people, and came home with typically enthralling tales of adventure. And a couple of antelope! I told him that indeed I did remember. “Well blanket-blank it, Hardpan! Stan and I were invited back up for deer season. We were gonna leave tomorrow. But now Stan can’t go! His dad won’t let ‘im! And I don’t wanna drive all the way to the Oregon border by myownself. Just not as much fun.” Now, before you begin to imagine Stan as a big kid being grounded by Dad, you have to understand that they were farmers, and harvest was just beginning. Stan could NOT go. I had a flash of inspiration, and after about four seconds of mentally analyzing my calendar, blurted “Well Hell, man – I’ll go wit’cha!” “What?” Hank came back. “You will? You can? No ‘bleep?’” “Yup!” I replied. “Tell ya what – let’s meet up at Lurch’s place in Mo-Town. I’ll leave my car there, and we can head north. But we’ll have to stop in Sacramento at the Department of Fish and Game so I can buy deer tags. It’ll work!” So the plan was set – we’d meet up in Modesto the next day; head to Sacramento and spend the night, then hit the DFG on Friday morning and jet on up to the ranch managed by Ryan Farnam, one of the folks Hank had met the last year. I disconnected, and began gathering up my gear and clothes, and packed up the trunk of my li’l “Batmobile Blue” ’74 Fiat Spider roadster, ready for an early morning departure. I’d leave fairly early, stop in Livermore and let my dear Aunt Sharon cook breakfast for her favorite nephew, visit for a while, then hit Lurch’s house early afternoon. And that’s exactly what happened. About mid-afternoon the next day - after a nice breakfast with Sharon and a pleasant visit with the Lurch family, Hank and I were on our way in Blue Dog – Hank’s baby-blue 1966 Ford pickup truck; I left Lurch the keys to the Fiat in case he had to move it. Our immediate objective was to reach Sacramento and find a cheap motel, spend the night, visit the Department of Fish and Game early then head north to Siskiyou County. The first part worked. We found cheap lodging, dined regally on Big Macs, and hit the sack early. This let us find ourselves at the DFG’s front door at opening time the next morning. I bought my license and tags, and all was good. Um… up to that point, anyway. From then on the plan sorta went pear-shaped for a while. You see, making our way north to Siskiyou required accessing highway Interstate 5. This highway begins at the Mexican Border, and continues north until it becomes British Columbia Highway 99. And we needed to follow this route from Sacramento to Macdoel, in Siskiyou County. Which should be simple! Except for one thing: We could not get onto Highway I-5. We could see I-5. We drove under I-5. We drove over I-5. Multiple times. There it was – but we could not get onto the freeway. Thanks to a not-so-wonderfully typical lack of coordination between the local road department and CalTrans, every on-ramp to the northbound lanes was either closed or inaccessible. Windows down, we rambled along. We went under that freeway. We went over that freeway. We went down roads that should have gotten us there but didn’t. Eventually, we were stuck at a red light. Second vehicle in line, behind an older, light-colored Plymouth. I was a mite bemused; Hank, on the other hand, was beyond grumpy. Beyond peeved. Like, borderline furious. I glanced at him, and was not surprised to see the steering wheel actually flexing in his hands as he struggled to maintain some shred of composure. The light changed. But the Plymouth just sat there. After an interminable ten seconds, the driver seemed to finally notice the green and started to move forward. Slowly. Too slowly. Something started to rumble in Hank’s chest, and the steering wheel actually squeaked a mite under his ham-fisted flexes. Finally, when a suitable gap opened between us and the car in front, Hank kicked the clutch in and his right hand slapped the shift – knocking it directly into second gear. He mashed a boot into the accelerator and that powerful V-8 responded to the demand, and the rear tires spun with puffs of smoke. Blue Dog snarled and leapt forward; Hank guided the beast around the other car. As we passed it, he let loose with a blast of profanity that was not only colorful, it surpassed the known spectrum. And he was LOUD! As we passed, I looked at the other car’s occupants – an early middle-aged “gentleman,” and a woman. I looked at ‘em as we zoomed past in that brilliantly sparkling cloud of blue language; they both looked back, with eyes locked on mine (they couldn’t see Hank); theirs were really wide and their mouths opened into astounded, equally round “O’s” as we roared past. I continued looking back until we were well ahead of them. After a block and a half, Hank had mellowed to a relatively minor state of vocal grumbling – but he was still really, really pissed. So I looked at him, and said… “Jerry Brown.” “Well *BLEEP* him too! Bring that sonafabitch out and I’ll tell him EXACTLY what I think about him AND his town!” “Uh… Hank? You just did.” Hank continued to glare through the windshield, then finally said, “Hunh?” “Jim – that dude you just cussed out in that Plymouth? That was Jerry Brown!” Well, he contemplated for a moment as he drove along. His features softened, then he finally asked, “Really…? That was Jerry Brown in that car?” “Yup.” A slight pause, then “Are ya sure?” “Oh, HELL yeah, I’m sure! And I’ll forever remember that image of the shock on his face when you cussed him out!” Hank’s expression continued to soften. His eyebrows crawled up on his forehead as he considered the last moment. As I watched, his tension melted away. At last, he finally leaned back and relaxed. The fury on his face dissolved, replaced by a serendipitous and a gratified look of contentment. His lips twitched as they curled slightly, and he asked, “Really? No *bleep*? I just cussed out Jerry Brown?” “Yep. You did indeed.” Well, in a matter of moments the atmosphere in Blue Dog changed from being so tense you could smell ozone to downright mellow. Somehow, it seemed that ol’ Hank just didn’t hold the now former governor in deep regard. Something I knew well. A couple of blocks later, I pointed out a gas station and suggested we pull in and ask for directions. The now good-humored driver steered the Ford into the fillin’ station. As he slowed to a stop, a fella came waking out of the shop, wiping his hands on a red rag and wearing a wide grin. “Say, I s’pose you fellas are trying to get on the freeway, ain’tcha?” “Well, yeah, we are,” said Hank. “How’d you know?” The attendant chuckled and said “Easy! You’ve driven by four times so far and still ain’t got where yer goin’!” Hank explained our plight, and added “Ya know, this same thing happened when I was a kid. Driving from Reedley to up North, Dad and I stopped for gas – but we couldn’t get back to the highway! Finally, we stopped at another gas station and the helpful guy there said ‘yeah, construction’s got stuff screwed up. So what ya gotta do is keep going another three blocks, turn right, and in twenty-three miles you can get back on the highway’” Our helper laughed and said “I remember that mess! Well, this time it’ll be easier. Just go up two blocks, turn left, and in a couple more blocks you’ll find an on-ramp. Need any gas?” We tanked up and hit the road. “Let’s get the hell outta this town! We’ll find breakfast up the road a ways!” Two and a half hours later, we spotted a Denny’s sign near the highway. Redding. Good place to stop! And after breakfast, only about two more hours to Macdoel. So we pulled in, stretched our legs, moseyed inside and found a table. A pleasant waitress a bit older than us almost immediately plopped down menus and coffee mugs, which she filled from a pot she somehow managed to juggle along. “Sweeties, I’m Millie – and I’ll be back to take your order shortly!” We gratefully returned her smile and dived into those mugs of seriously needed coffee – hot and black. Not quite as strong as we’d like it (strong enough to float a horseshoe), not quite as hot as we’d like it (hot enough to make that horseshoe wilt), and in clean mugs (no crumbs of road apples clinging to that horseshoe for flavor). But it would do – and it actually was good and muchly appreciated. Eventually, Millie did come back with her order pad at the ready, and plucked a pencil from behind an ear. “Okay, Boys! What’ll it be?” I led off. “Millie, I’d like ham and eggs and hash browns, eggs over easy, and do you have rye toast?” “We do!” “Oh, cool! And rye toast, then!” Turning to Hank, “and what’ll it be for you, dearie?” “Wellll….” Hank started off, still studying his menu. “Well, lessee. I think I’ll start off with eggs and bacon. Hash browns. Biscuits and gravy. Make that three eggs! Aaaand… okay, and can I also have a stack of hotcakes?” “Nope. No hotcakes for you.” I glanced up at that. “Huh?” Hank asked. “Are ya outta hotcakes?” I suspect that Millie had a husband at home who possibly needed and likely received a goodly bit of “wifely counseling.” Still scribbling on her pad and not looking up, she retorted, “No, we’re not outta pancakes. You do NOT need a stack of pancakes on top of eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and biscuits and gravy! Look at you!” Well, Hank was a bit of a stout lad. And truly, he really did NOT “need” a stack of pancakes on top of the rest the ballast he’d ordered. But suddenly, Millie seemed to realize that this was a customer, and not her husband. She snapped back to the reality of the moment, and her eyes widened and she gasped. “OH! Mister! I am SO sorry! I didn’t mean that! Honest! I apologize! Sir, of COURSE you can have pancakes! NO CHARGE! Please forgive me…!” The instantly astonished “stout lad” looked at Millie. “Ma’am, you’re right. Of course – you’re absolutely right – I dunno what I was thinking! I truly don’t need them hotcakes. Thank you for reminding me!” Poor Millie was devastated; but after a moment of she and Hank exchanging apologies and weak smiles, she finally went off to order and fetch our breakfast. Sans “hotcakes!” Boy, was that meal enjoyable! After our morning, it was a relaxing and much-needed break. We finally finished up, cleaned our plates, and headed out. And we left poor Millie a very generous tip. Two hours later, we rolled in to Macdoel. To be continued....

Can I have yours...?

I have an occasional visitor whose long-time stance is that it's just as easy for a woman to put the seat down as it is for a man to lift it up. Not to mention the lid. Well... sometimes the cat likes to bounce off the lid to the top of the tank and look out the window. Someone - this same visitor? - left the seat and lid up once. Poor cat came bounding through and *ker-SPLASH!* Poor cat was mortified. Poor me was also mortified; I got to do the cleanup. I very clearly impressed upon my visitor the house rule, "Seat and Lid DOWN!"

My last rhubarb pie ~ this past Thanksgiving.

Easy and Delicious Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie (From "Half-Breed Pete And the Rhubarb Pie") Pie crust for double crust pie 2 cups rhubarb, diced 2 cups strawberries, cut up 1 ¼ cups sugar ¼ tsp salt ¼ cup tapioca 2 tsp butter Put the bottom pie crust in a 10 in pie pan. Mix up the strawberries, rhubarb, sugar, tapioca, and salt Scrape it into crust, then dot it with butter. Pinch on the top crust, poke a few steam holes and bake at 425 degrees for about 10 - 15 minutes, then back off to 375 for the next half hour or so or until crust is golden. Serve with vanilla ice cream or strawberry daiquiris. Use extreme caution if served with daiquiris. Deep-Dish Pie Pie crust for double crust pie + 3 cups rhubarb, diced 3 cups strawberries, cut up 1 7/8 cups sugar (Just under 2 cups) 3/8 tsp salt 1/3 cup tapioca 3 tsp butter