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To Rear Admiral

I'd like to have something like That, just because it's cool. My dad had a lot of old tools that he restored. Over the years they vanished one by one. I have few (VERY few) that I managed to save, a Yankee drill and Yankee screwdriver, a massive block plane, and som lesser stuff.

Blue Ribbon-an earlier picture. You can see his color here.

I fixed it.

You can't ask for much more than that, c'mon, you know that smokeless nonsense is just a passing fad, come try the real thing! @Paparazzi Pahl, here's your chance to try the dark side!

That's a helluva good challenge! Who's it gonna be!?

There were eight brothers in my family that all fought for the Confederacy in various North Carolina Infantry divisions. Four died in battle or from battle wounds, two died in Yankee prison camps and two came back. One of the brothers that came back was my Great Great Grandfather. I still remember my Great Grandfather (born 1881) talking about his father and what his father told him about the War although I don't remember specifics now regretfully. He died in 1971.

Sort of, side matches at some cowboy events , like at EOT I think.

Similar to this: The Retrosexual Code A Retrosexual, no matter what the women insists, PAYS FOR THE DATE. A Retrosexual opens doors for a lady. Even for the ones that fit that term only because they are female. A Retrosexual DEALS with IT, be it a flat tire, break-in into your home, or a natural disaster, you DEAL WITH IT. A Retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himself. A Retrosexual doesn’t worry about living to be 90. It’s not how long you live, but how well. If you’re 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, I salute you. A Retrosexual does not use more hair or skin products than a woman. Women have several supermarket aisles of stuff. Retrosexuals need an endcap (possibly 2 endcaps if you include shaving goods). A Retrosexual does not dress in clothes from Hot Topic when he’s 30 years old. A Retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be. This falls under the “Dealing with IT” portion of The Code. A Retrosexual watches no TV show with “Queer” in the title. A Retrosexual does not let neighbors screw up rooms in his house on national TV. A Retrosexual should not give up excessive amounts of manliness for women. Some is inevitable, but major reinvention of yourself will only lead to you becoming a frou-frou little puss, and in the long run, she ain’t worth it. A Retrosexual is allowed to seek professional help for major mental stress such as drug/alcohol addiction, death of your entire family in a freak tree chipper accident, favorite sports team being moved to a different city, favorite bird dog expiring, etc. You are NOT allowed to see a shrink because Daddy didn’t pay you enough attention. Daddy was busy DEALING WITH IT. When you screwed up, he DEALT with you. A Retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey. A Retrosexual knows how to tie a Windsor knot when wearing a tie – and ONLY a Windsor knot. A Retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about getting. A Retrosexual knows how to use a basic set of tools. If you can’t hammer a nail, or drill a straight hole, practice in secret until you can – or be rightfully ridiculed for the wuss you be. A Retrosexual knows that owning a gun is not a sign that your are riddled with fear, guns are TOOLS and are often essential to DEAL WITH IT. Plus it’s just plain fun to shoot. Crying. There are very few reason that a Retrosexual may cry, and none of them have to do with TV commercials, movies, or soap operas. Sports teams are sometimes a reason to cry, but the preferred method of release is swearing or throwing the remote control. Some reasons a Retrosexual can cry include (but are not limited to) death of a loved one, death of a pet (fish do NOT count as pets in this case), loss of a major body part. A Retrosexual man’s favorite movie isn’t “Maid in Manhattan” (unless that refers to some foxy French maid sitting in a huge tub of brandy or whiskey), or “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.” Acceptable ones may include any of the Dirty Harry or Nameless Drifter movies (Clint in his better days), Rambo I or II, the Dirty Dozen, The Godfather trilogy, Scarface, The Road Warrior, The Die Hard series, Caddyshack, Rocky I, II, or III, Full Metal Jacket, any James Bond Movie, Raging Bull, Bullitt, any Bruce Lee movie, Apocalypse Now, Goodfellas, Reservoir Dogs, Fight Club, etc.etc. *When a Retrosexual is on a crowded bus and or a commuter train, and a pregnant woman, hell, any woman gets on, that Retrosexual stands up and offers his seat to that woman, then looks around at the other so-called men still in their seats with a disgusted “you punks” look on his face. A Retrosexual will have hobbies and habits his wife and mother do not understand, but that are essential to his manliness, in that they offset the acceptable manliness decline he suffers when married/engaged in a serious healthy relationship – i.e., hunting, boxing, shot putting, shooting, cigars, car maintenance. A Retrosexual knows how to sharpen his own knives and kitchen utensils. A Retrosexual man can drive in snow (hell, a blizzard) without sliding all over or driving under 20 mph, without anxiety, and without high-centering his ride on a plow berm. A Retrosexual man can chop down a tree and make it land where he wants. Wherever it lands is where he damn well wanted it to land. *A Retrosexual will give up his seat on a bus to not only any women but any elderly person or person in military dress (except officers above 2nd Lt) NOTE: The person in military dress may turn down the offer but the Retrosexual man will ALWAYS make the offer to them and thank them for serving their country. *A Retrosexual man doesn’t need a contract — a handshake is good enough. He will always stand by his word even if circumstances change or the other person deceived him. A Retrosexual man doesn’t immediately look to sue someone when he does something stupid and hurts himself. We understand that sometimes in the process of doing things we get hurt and we just DEAL WITH IT.

OK, this is my final bump back to the top. Will give it another day or so. If you want to make a serious offer on this one, drop me a PM.

Short barrels were fairly common. Also most gun makers allowed buyers to customize their orders. The "questionable" creation of ATF was not dune until 1933/34 when Roosevelt followed Germany's lead on restricting private rights.

Don't have to type...... Just need to say "Hey Google" and ask your question.

EVO

gone fishin'

Couldn't even put Carol Burnett or any other show from that era one...and that Is a crying shame.

Here's a little trick (tool) that saved me some time and kept some rifle ammo out of my "practice box". I loaded about 600 rounds of .38 rifle rounds with a seating die that had moved out of adjustment. The 1.455 COAL rounds just wouldn't work through my 1873. I re-seated the rounds to shorter length, but because they had already been crimped, re-seating left a thin collar of shaved lead around the crimp on each round. I was concerned the collars would be dislodged in clambering, fouling the chamber and feeding. I did the following, which has worked very well, so I thought I'd share it here for others with similar situations. First I took an empty, unprimed .38 case and belled the end, using a cheap 3/8" HFT drift punch (any 3/8" rod of hard dowel would work), ground to a slight taper at the tip 1/4". (I first tried using the powder die belling feature, but it didn't bell the end deeply enough down the case) I filed four shallow notches in the end, leaving them rough, as teeth. I chucked the belled round in a screw gun and inserted the re-seated rounds tip first, running at very low speed (wear good gloves). The rough brass easily removed the shaved lead collars, leaving me 600 perfect rounds of correct length. When it wears or stretches too much, I can cheaply make another or roll the edge against a hard surface to restore it. Occasionally, someone here posts about re-seating cartridges, so I thought I would share. This works better than grinding the tips off of bullets, and I once discharged a round in my hand from the heat of that kind of grinding.

PM sent

I like number one. Everyone should know how to swim at least a mile. I know how to swim a mile. I can't do it, but I know how to. It's like running a marathon. I know how to run a marathon. I can't do it, but I know how. On the first episode of Bones, Zack says that he is halfway through two doctorates, so that should count as having a full doctorate. Using that thinking, since I know words and phrases in well over a dozen different languages, I should be considered fluent in a foreign language. Right?

It shot well. Randy

I believe it was THE GANG THAT COULDN'T SHOOT STRAIGHT. Italian gangster. Mafioso. Big fat guy. And whenever he would go to a restaurant and order spaghetti, he would take off his suit coat, and then his neck tie, and then his shirt. And he would sit there at the table wearing his undershirt which had red stains all over the front of it. Apparently it liked to taste his dinner too.

GET OUTTA HERE NOW The Sheriff was not a trusting man. He’d been lied to often enough and badly enough that he trusted very few individuals: those of his inner circle were trusted implicitly and without hesitation, but those who were not part of that inner circle … weren’t. When word came to him that three men with lready stained reputations wished him harm, he considered the information was probably correct … though it could be just hot air, bluster, bragging, the way men will in careless moments. When two of those men came riding toward him, the Sheriff looked at the lay of the land, gigged his stallion in the ribs, ran on ahead to where he’d have the advantage of terrain. The pair saw him and reacted, and the three ended up a mile or so distant, playing cat-and-mouse with each other, until one disappeared and the Sheriff had no idea where he was. His stallion stood, sleepy-looking as was his habit: the Sheriff knew his golden Palomino was anything but drowsy, and when an ear swung to the right, horse and rider both spun and surged forward. “DON’T!” the Sheriff yelled as his left hand Colt came to full cock. One of the men he was after had his rifle in hand, and halfway raised: the stallion’s head started to move. Linn never remembered drawing his right hand revolver, only that his left hand Colt fired, his stallion spun under him and he fired a second round from the engraved, gold-inlaid, left-hand Colt. Part of his mind, sitting well behind his eyes, stood on the quarterdeck of a sailing-ship, wearing a Captain’s hat and watching the enemy’s ship: he heard his own voice, distant and faint, “Fire as they come to bear!” – and his left-hand Colt did just that as his stallion completed his surging turn. Linn gigged his stallion into a gallop, he dropped into a gully, stopped, turned. They’ll expect me to ride downhill, under cover, he thought. Yonder’s where they’ll expect me to come up. He turned the Palomino’s head upstream, walked him quickly, then gigged him into a jump and he was back up on the flat, a revolver in each hand, ready – One horse stood looking at him, ears swinging, the other was a quarter mile distant and still moving. Two men lay on the ground, face down. Linn holstered his unfired, right-hand revolver, kicked out the fired hulls and reloaded the other: he holstered, walked his stallion over to the watching horse, looked down. As there was a bloody hole out the back of the man’s head, he concluded there was little threat to be had from this one, and walked Rey del Sol over to the other unmoving form. The saddled gelding followed him, apparently anxious for the company. Linn swung down. Don’t see any holes out his back. “You alive?” he asked uncharitably. The other outlaw made no reply. The Sheriff squatted, picked up the dropped pistol. “Be damned,” he muttered as he checked the loads, then sniffed the muzzle: “You got a shot off!” Part of his mind reminded him his earlobe was stinging just a little. He reached up, brushed it with the back of his finger, and it came away wet and red. Well, hell, he thought, I’m gettin’ my coat bloody! He grabbed the outlaw, rolled him over, ready for an arm to punch up, ready for a close-held pistol to come to bear – The Sheriff grunted. The man’s life was soaked out into the sandy ground. One hole in, no holes out. He looked up, looked around, squinting a little against the sun’s glaring brightness. He put two fingers to his lips, whistled, a high, shimmering note, the kind that carried well in the thin, high air. He reached into a pocket and drew out a plug of molasses twist tobacker and shaved off several generous curls, bribed the dead outlaw’s horse into coming closer: once he had hands on its reins, the horse followed docilely. His whistle brought the departing equine’s head up: the Sheriff saw it coming back toward him, as he’d hoped it would. “Daddy,” Angela said, her big blue eyes wide and innocent, “did you get hurt?” Linn smiled at his little girl, squatted. “No, Princess, why would you ask that?” “Your ear’s bloody.” “Yeah, I kinda scraped it on something.” “Ow,” Angela grimaced sympathetically, then turned and looked at two carcasses bent over their saddles. She looked at her pale eyed Daddy and said skeptically, “Daddy, are you sure you’re not hurt?” Linn’s voice was gentle as he nodded. “I’m sure, Princess.” Five year old Angela Keller drew herself up to her full frilly frocked height and shook her little pink Mommy-finger at her Daddy and scolded, “Daddy, if you gets hurted real bad an’ killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” Hard men remain hard men when they are faced with danger, with enemies, with confrontation. Hard men will not infrequently melt like butter on a hot skillet when a pretty little girl shakes her little pink Mommy-finger and admonishes her Daddy in a high, sincere, little-girl voice: Sheriff Linn Keller laughed quietly, went to one knee, wrapped his little girl in a big comforting Daddy-hug and murmured gently in her little pink ear, “I’ll keep that in mind, Princess,” then she felt him change and he released her, leaned back. The Sheriff rose, his eyes hard and his voice matched his eyes. “Get out of here, now,” he said, his voice low, urgent. Angela was Daddy’s Little Girl. Angela was a blue-eyed child of the Kentucky mountains, orphaned in a train wreck. Angela had been Linn and Esther’s daughter for just over one year, and in that one year, as children often do, she was a highly observant, extremely attentive, sponge. Angela knew her Daddy’s voice and her Daddy’s hands and she knew when her Daddy said to scoot, it was time to scoot! – and she did. Her Daddy stood and her Daddy’s coat was open and Angela twisted between her Daddy and the front of the Sheriff’s office, she ran a-scamper to the end of the boardwalk and jumped, landed flat footed and ducked to the right. She was halfway down the alley before she realized she’d just heard two gunshots, sudden, shocking, slapping at her as they echoed down the alley between Digger’s funeral parlor and the Sheriff’s log fortress. Angela kept running, turned right again, skidded a little as she came to her Daddy’s little bitty stable behind the Sheriff’s office. Angela stopped, looked down the alley. A man was just falling off his horse – limp, boneless, he fell and hit the ground like a sack of sawdust and just laid there, his foot falling from the stirrup as his horse danced sideways, eyes walling. Angela ran to the mouth of the alley, looked around, then she strutted out in the middle of the street, her little pink hand extended: “Come here, horsie,” she cooed in her little-girl’s voice: “ ’Mere, horsie.” The horse’s nostrils were flared, its ears laid back, but at the approach of this little frilly creature with a gentle voice, the horse stretched its neck, snuffing loudly at the little pink hand. Angela giggled and gathered the reins in her hands, reached up and stroked the horsie’s damp pink nose, chattering quietly to it the way a fearless little girl will do. Angela was enamored with the snuffy horsie, so much so that she honestly did not see running men, curious onlookers: it wasn’t until she heard the clatter of Digger’s dead wagon that she looked up and realized the fellow who fell from the horsie was picked up from behind her, and loaded into the dead wagon. Angela looked up, all bright eyes and white teeth, smiled as Esther dipped her knees, gripped her daughter’s shoulders with motherly hands, regarded her with wide, frightened eyes. “Hi, Mommy,” Angela laughed. “I founded me a horsie!” An empty brass hull fell to the boardwalk. The Sheriff did not hear it hit through the red ringing in his ears, but he felt the impact of the brass rim hitting the weathered, warped, dusty board through his bootsole. He replaced the fired round and holstered his engraved Colt. He looked at his wife and at his little girl, and he was flat forevermore grateful that when he told her to get out of here ... she did.

If I recall, back in the day, folks from outside of the particular unit in question using those terms often suffered consequences.