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Ginex is quite cheap at Capital - the small primers anyway. And they they pay hazmat, so that knocks another 45 or $50 off the price.

I DO have afib, too, but the pacemaker seems to have calmed it down. Doc says it's not supposed to. I told him to leave it the hell alone and start a research program going, but leave me out of it.

Doesn't work any better than some of the others. Our best solution is to go into the gun room, put a pad and blanket under the desk and sit it out. I recommend a piddle pad and water, and a medium volume sound machine ( a gift from my daughter-in-law and borrowed for each occasion) and just sitting there where my dog knows Daddy will keep the monsters away.

Yup. Missed seeing you at ND/SD State but understand your long range passion! GW

I'll take seconds if they become available Fresno Area

Just Slow Poke No more gear at the end

Hey what have you changed your alias too?

I had heard of Seversky but really did not know his story. Glad he stayed in the U.S.A. in 1918.

I'm sure I would, but then again, why not?

OCTAVO Marnie Keller looked like a very proper librarian. Marnie Keller wore a tailored, emerald-green dress and a serious expression. Marnie Keller sat with her ankles crossed, her knees together, her lower legs angled to the side, the very image of beauty, of femininity, of propriety: in spite of her few years, she was a young woman who presented a genuine visual image of how a young woman should look, how she should sit, how she should present herself. Marnie Keller was also possessed of a remarkable focus. At the moment, her eyes were focused on a single sheet of paper with an intensity that suggested her pale eyes were going to burn a hole through it. She held the single sheet with curator's gloves; she had not fully unfolded the octavo, she'd opened it far enough to read it, and as she read, she frowned, her other hand floating to her chin, to her upper lip, the move of a thoughtful individual deep in consideration. The town librarian watched Marnie, and smiled: Willamina, just as well dressed, just as properly postured, seated at this selfsame desk in this very chair, looked at documents and materials with that same studious expression, that exact, concentrated focus. "Can I get you some oil?" the librarian called gently. Marnie blinked, lowered her gloved hand to the desk top, mentally swimming to the surface of the deep pool of contemplation in which she'd been immersed. "I'm sorry?" she asked, and the librarian laughed quietly. "Your mental gears were turning so quickly I thought you might want a drink of oil." Marnie laughed quietly, smiled -- the librarian felt the ache of an old friend gone, for Willamina had been a good friend, and her granddaughter here was her very image, especially that quiet smile. Especially that smile. "This just arrived from a shirt tail relative back in Cincinnati," Marnie explained. "It's a letter from our fire chief's wife, way back when." "Oh, how nice! -- which Chief?" "Sean Finnegan. The letter is from his wife Daisy." The librarian tilted her head, curious. "What does she say?" Marnie laughed. "She described how Old Pale Eyes was stirring trouble again!" Sheriff Linn Keller removed his cover as Daisy threw a washpan's payload over her back porch rail: she glared at the Sheriff, handed the pan to one of her barefoot young, bade him take it back inside and put a hand on her hip. She opened her mouth to scold the man, at least until she saw his mouth open, then she closed her jaw, not having come up with an appropriate insult for the man. "Daisy, might I counsel with you?" Sheriff Linn Keller asked. Daisy was not quite expecting that kind of a question. "Wha' wad ye want wi' a puir Irishwoman now?" she asked suspiciously, turning and walking toward the stairs. Linn paced over to the foot of the stairs, looked to where stones and planks waited, apparently a project mostly in the planning stage. He looked back. "Daisy, Sean is a strong and capable man." "Aye," Daisy replied carefully, "tha' he is." Linn took a long breath, looked back at the red-headed wife and mother, looked at grinning young Irishmen with big ears and here and there a missing tooth, peeking around the door frame's edge at him. Daisy saw the Sheriff's eyes shift, turned, shooed her young inside, drew the door to: immediately youthful curiosity swarmed to the nearest window, looked through wavy-glass panes, all red hair and bright blue eyes and healthy, apple-cheeked complexions. Linn took a step closer, lowered his voice. "Daisy," he said carefully, "Sean is many things and he does many things well, but he is not a carpenter." Daisy lifted her chin defensively and Linn saw the warning look in her eyes. He raised a forestalling palm. "He has also been a good friend for many years, and I would do him a kindness, but I wanted to ask your advice first." Daisy was a proud woman. Daisy was a fierce woman. Daisy was very much enamored with that big, blacksmith-muscled Irishman of a husband of hers, but Daisy was also a woman, and women are curious, and the Sheriff's careful indirectness piqued her curiosity. "My ... advice?" she asked skeptically. "Ye're th' Sheriff, an' ye would ask ... my advice?" This time Linn looked very directly at her -- almost defiantly so. "Daisy," he said, "Sean intends to put up a work shed and he intends to build onto the house. He can do this, yes, but I'll be honest, he's ..." Linn considered his words, choosing to tread carefully. "Sean is not a carpenter." Daisy lifted her chin, slowly, her jaw hardening. "Here's where I need your advice, Daisy. Was I to have the Daine boys come in and put up that shed, would the man take offense?" "Th' Daine boys." Linn nodded. "An' why would ye ha'e th' Daine boys come an' build my husband's shed?" she asked, her voice taking an edge. Linn's jaw took on its own stubborn thrust. "Because he is my friend," he said bluntly, "and I would do him a kindness." "An' who is payin' f'r this kindness?" Daisy asked, suspicion in her voice, uncertainty in her expression. "Me." Daisy blinked a few times, brought her hands in front, gathered her apron a little: she frowned, she took a step forward, another, she came down two of the four back porch steps and sat, slowly, eyes wide and unseeing, staring at the ground halfway between the bottom step and the Sheriff's boot toes. "You would do this?" she asked, her voice suddenly quiet. Linn nodded. Daisy blinked again, brought her knuckles to her lips, looked off to the side, then planted her elbows on her knees and dropped her forehead into her hands, the move of a tired woman. She looked up at the Sheriff, and her expression was entirely different now. Daisy looked exhausted. "I'd like that, Sheriff," she admitted. "What about Sean?" Linn asked quietly. Daisy rubbed her closed eyes, then looked back up at the Sheriff. "Sean told me a priest back in Cincinnati was gi'en a gift, unexpected-like, an' th' priest laughed an' said 'All donations cheerfully accepted!' " -- she nodded, slowly, the way a woman will when she is remembering something, then she looked back at the Sheriff. "He'd be pleased ye did this f'r him," she said softly, "an' so would I." Marnie Keller read the letter, written in the careful hand of a woman who seldom wrote letters. It was addressed to family back in Cincinnati, where she'd lived, where she'd met Sean, where she'd thought him dead, fallen from a riverboat and drowned, the place from whence she took her broken heart and headed West: the letter described a conversation about a kindness one man did for another, for no reason other than they were friends. Marnie let the letter close along its original crease -- she'd opened the folded sheet just enough to read its contents, but no more -- she slipped it back into the envelope in which it arrived, and placed it in a drawer, locked the drawer. She would have it carefully preserved for archival display, but not today. After Marnie and the librarian drove back into town, Marnie drove up Graveyard Hill and stopped in the family section of the Firelands cemetery. A beautiful daughter of the mountains gathered her skirts and knelt before a tombstone, traced gentle fingers over the laser engraved portrait of a woman in heels and a suit dress, a woman who looked out of Eternity with eyes that challenged the viewer. "Gammaw," she whispered, turning a fresh-cut rose in her fingers, "you'd like what I got in the mail today!"

GOOD WHISKEY!!

Leftovers!!

for several days

BAD WHISKEY ? 🤣

200 pcs - NEW Starline 10 mm auto brass. - $45 shipped conus

Thank all!!! --D--

Planetary Inversion!

Lunch too!!

And people wonder why I’m becoming more antisocial every day.

An iced tea would fine!!

And he giggled like a little girl the whole time Imis

I have a set. Lasiter did the short stroke action job, part of the frame was bead blasted and several parts were jeweled. Factory plastic grips were replaced with buffalo horn and pearl grips. Then I used them in matches for the past 2 years. They aren't pristine safe queens but I like them. Shoot good too. Toys are made to be enjoyed.

Fortunately or Unfortunately, I no longer drink, but who needs booze to have a good time? Too bad we don’t live closer. As it is, meeting for lunch would be a bit of a journey.

I was just talking to a guy the other day that told me that he had very good luck - no failures - with MagTech (Brazil) and Unis “Ginex” (Bosnia) small pistol & small rifle primers. No Failures to Fire.