And If They Should

…run out of cake?

 I’ll have the chicken then, please.

NOBODY Touches the Toys

NO. BODY.

The Claws Are Starting to Come Out

…but it will never be a frontal attack with these people.

And it begs the question whether the Sanders folks were just slow off the mark getting the shivs ready, and Fauxcahontas beat them to a leak.

Filed Under:

I’m DYING here…

Perhaps Sean King should just sit this one out…

Some Days

I had one of those days today. Started out with a couple vague objectives in mind – get the scruffy Scottie to the groomer, look for some ancient replacement Revere Ware at the local junk stores, drop a crying shame load of shoes, etc, off at the Waterfront Mission (check there for the pots, too). Wait for major dad to get home,so we could take a load of not-so-loved hardcovers to the local used bookstore. That kind of day.

Well, drop the shaggy dog off, check. Wandered up to an “antique” mall on Mobile Highway, and found a few treasures, including a cool kitteh for the Japanese Maple. (Doesn’t YOURS have one? What a pity.) Hit the donation drive through at the Mission, AND wandered through the store. What has become of 1950’s Revere Ware? A year ago I could name my pot, and VOILA! $7! Now, I can’t find the damn things! WHO. ARE. YOU. PEOPLE TAKING MY STUFF?!?!?!

Headed home, and unloaded my treasures, with major dad – back from the gym – making all the appropriate noises of approval.

Grabbed the 15 pound sack of hard covers, and off we went.

Now, I’ve sent him and Ebola over the years with boxes and bags full of books, but, sad to say, I’ve never actually even gotten as far as the parking lot, less mind INSIDE the store. Today, however, I was on a mission. I’ve got almost a complete set of Hornblowers, but damn if one volume from one publisher isn’t becoming a massive pain in the derriere getting ahold of. I figured I might just find it.

What a wonderous store. Lo and behold, my sack o’ offerings got me FIFTEEN DOLLARS AND CHANGE in credit! YOWSAHS!

And didn’t the lady-in-the-know drag me straight to the “Sea Stories” section. Well, hello. There WAS Lord Hornblower, but. Wrong publisher. Waah. Waah.

Never one to let a good chunk of change go to waste, I thought I’d check for one book I’d almost bought at another antique store, and check for work from yet another author, since I’d decided it’s time to burnish my “Southern” reading credentials. There she was – a paperback edition of “Cross Creek” by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. Okay, and…here’s a hardcover Eudora Welty! Only one, and that’s okay, because that’s all I need to get reading. I snatch it off the shelf, too. After making sure major dad hadn’t seen anything he simply must have (I AM willing to share my bounty, contrary to SOME opinions.), I trot up front happier than a clam, and am still – after settling accounts – $12.06 to the upside (They found another book for credit in the bottom of my bag as I was checking out – CHA CHING). #score

Get home, clean the dirt off the terra cotta cat…

…wonder why the Scottie wasn’t done at the groomers yet, and start to gently work the price stickers off the books. I don’t care if I paid $2 or $200 for a book, I don’t want ANY sticker, nor any sticker GOO, on my covers. GRRRR.

They cleaned up real good.

Then I opened the Welty.

And about dropped the damn thing.

Picked it up, and about dropped it again.

Then did a little Googling out of curiosity’s sake, to see if…well…yup.

That was her.

So a first edition, with a lovely personal note from the author. For, basically…free.

major dad thinks in terms of dollars and cents on this one, but, spook that I am, I see a sign.

A “You get writing, girl” kinda sign. Wouldn’t you say?

Messages from beyond. That’s pretty Southern, no?

I’m all about the signs.

What Kids SHOULD Be Doing

And I salute their parents.

I Hate Pajama Boys

Hateses them.

UPDATE: I see that the original poster has chosen to finally delete his tweet, after taking what could generously be described as a brutal pounding. Let me set the scene for you:

A video of the moving walkway at Atlanta airport. As travelers – including the poster – use the center conveyor, the sides are flanked with hundreds of American SOLDIERS, probably members of the 82d, awaiting transport to the latest flare-up in the always peaceful Middle East. Some are walking along the glass railing adjacent to the autowalk, but most are just patiently standing in line. A LONG line along the terminal walls.

The poster’s written comment on HIS video?

This is terrifying.

The tweet below was my answer.

After deleting his despicable commentary on America’s blood and treasure, “Danny Ocean” settled for this:

I assume we are all meant to worship at the altar of his profoundness.

UPDATE PART DEUX: Well, lookee here what I found when I opened the laptop. A “terrifying” moment in time, frozen for all eternity.

You be the judge…

I HATE these POS.

************************************************************************

And I hope you all don’t mind my dropping the tweets in here. It’s a prelude to being about to post on a regular basis like I used to years ago, as I am now a member of the great unwashed and unemployed, which is VERY MUCH to my liking.

Here’s fair warning…gird yer loins.

They Didn’t Really Need a Whole Plane

Could have just sent a Fedex cooler.

I LOVE the Sound of Exploding Lefty Heads

…in the morning.

Sounds like…oh, I dunno…

VICTORY!

The Savior of South Bend

…opines.

Good Guy With a Gun

Who also had tremendous presence of mind and marksmanship skills.

God bless him. As well as the other folks carrying, who come up shortly thereafter, providing additional security. No one is wigging out. No one is rushing, everyone is looking to the situation.

Our deepest sympathies to the victim, who merely answered a question before being murdered.

Bad guys will find a way, regardless. Good guys need to be there, ready to answer evil.

They always will be – if they are allowed to.

Merry Christmas

The Nativity” by Giotto, 1305

– part of the magnificent Scrovegni Chapel frescoes, in Padua, Italy. I had to try to get a shot of Mary’s beautiful face before I left the chapel that night. I have Ebola, and especially his wonderful lady, to thank for that magical experience.

A medieval chapel, at night, with colors that defy description in spite of the gloom, and ethereal figures on every surface. I was the first person of the tour group in, thanks to her. Had it to myself for a few precious moments.

And I kept being drawn back to Mary’s face, looking at her baby boy.

Merry Christmas, my darlings. May you all be healthy, and happy.

God bless you, every one.

UPDATE: Via aelfheld in the comments, and we thank him.

The Heart of a Lion

He was so excited about being a pilot,” his mother told me.

The pictures on her phone, one after another, scrolled slowly as she savored them. Held her finger over his face, rubbed his shoulder in the frame. Here he was last weekend, just glowing with happiness, playing with the little ones during a visit. Here he was with his dad – ALL the men in this family are big guys, happy guys. There’s the pictures at his Naval Academy graduation, him and his father, both so proud, with an arm around each other. She has his official Annapolis portrait, too.

 Joshua Kaleb Watson

He was shot five times, they told us.” Oh, dear. God.

To hear a mother say that. I had my arm around her, like moms do to other moms – especially service moms, when they are speaking the unspeakable and unthinkable about their babies.

They said he climbed over the partition and charged the shooter. Went crazy on him. And then still managed to get outside to the first responders. Tell them what he looked like, who was doing the shooting.

“Oh, ” I said. “Oh, he had the heart of a lion!”

Oh, yes. He did.

Joshua would succumb to those bullet wounds shortly thereafter at Baptist Hospital.

I would meet his parents and two brothers the next day, as they tried to find a short order funeral suit for the eldest one. They are lovely people, rightfully proud of their hero, and devastated at his loss.

This couple has raised some awesome young men. Somehow, some way, they are handling this horrific, unfathomable event with such dignity and grace, you sense where the tremendous power of determination to charge an armed terrorist sprang from.

I held Joshua’s mom tight before she left, and told her, “I want you to know, please know, we are ALL with you in this. Every one of us has you all, and your son in our hearts. Thank you for your boy.”

Their magnificent lion of a son.

God bless you, brave boy.

Thank you.

God Bless Them

Every one.

#NeverForget

When the Bag Fights Back

I’m figuring he forgot the “don’t eat food on camera/fuck with a speed bag” rule for doddering old man candidates.

Dammit. Forgot.

– Bernie Sanders probably

Thought so.

Dear Pennsylvania Residents

Were you aware the state treasury thinks they’re so much smarter than you? And REALLY socialist in tenor?

I don’t want to alarm anyone, and if you’re okay with it…


…then never mind.

Fly Me to the Moon

Let me play among the stars,

Let me tap into your checking,

See if you’re shagging chicks in bars.

In other words, please be true.

In other words, I’ll know if you do.

It’s a brave, new world.

UPDATE: So far, the female astronauts at NASA have not covered themselves in glory, and it’s worse if you look at it from a percentage aspect! I can’t name a single male astronaut with an assault case or attempted murder off the top of my head.

Okay. Quick search says 50 women have qualified as US “astronauts,” in space or waiting to go. So far one certified homicidal maniac, and now this whack job felon. There have been 336 guys. Hmmm…what am I missing here?

Happy Birthday

…to THIS guy.

Ebola and I loveses ya like CRAZY, you know.

This Morning

…a couple years ago.

Happy Birthday, AMERICA!!!

The Fourth of July is the GREATEST HOLIDAY on the FACE OF THE EARTH.

Period.

Filed Under: Don’t Change a Thing, Kids


In this week’s Democratic debates, it wasn’t just individual candidates who presented themselves to the public. It was also the party itself. What conclusions should ordinary people draw about what Democrats stand for, other than a thunderous repudiation of Donald Trump, and how they see America, other than as a land of unscrupulous profiteers and hapless victims?


Here’s what: a party that makes too many Americans feel like strangers in their own country. A party that puts more of its faith, and invests most of its efforts, in them instead of us.


They speak Spanish. We don’t. They are not U.S. citizens or legal residents. We are. They broke the rules to get into this country. We didn’t. They pay few or no taxes. We already pay most of those taxes. They willingly got themselves into debt. We’re asked to write it off. They don’t pay the premiums for private health insurance. We’re supposed to give up ours in exchange for some V.A.-type nightmare. They didn’t start enterprises that create employment and drive innovation. We’re expected to join the candidates in demonizing the job-creators, breaking up their businesses and taxing them to the hilt.


Sub-titled: No shit, Sherlock. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/28/opinion/democrats-debate-2020.html

Dem Debate Films New Trump 2020 Ad

And they’re ALL in.

June 6

Memorial Day 2019 – We Remember

So, the Veteran’s Memorial Park here in Pensacola – home of The Wall South – decided they would love to have a memorial walkway leading into The Wall, and offered bricks for sale. It’s a splendid place, and a wonderful idea.

We got the email that our nephew John’s brick had been laid last Tuesday, and got out there this past Thursday, my next day off. The new sections are overwhelmed by the concrete leading into The Wall, but it made quick work to find his. And, frankly, it was an unexpected emotional hit when major dad said, “I found him!,” tenderly brushing the last of the fine sand from the brick’s face. The tears. Out of nowhere. Oh, John. Dammit.

Things happen for a reason, I guess.
At the very moment we were rewrapped in that cocoon of grief, trying to capture one decent picture through tears and blazing sunshine, a matter-of-fact voice broke into our sad sniffling, “Do either of you know how to run that damn computer?” I had to shake my head a moment, before I could look up, wiping my cheeks with my fingers and drying them on the tail of my shirt. Here stood a whip thin older gentleman in shorts, a blue polo, sunglasses, and straw chapeau, gesturing at The Wall’s locator computer kiosk, and, obviously, wondering why he hadn’t got an answer out of us.
“THAT computer,” he reiterated to the obviously challenged dolts before him.

“Um…no.” I said. “But it can’t be too hard, if it hasn’t fried from being out here all these years. Let’s see what we can do.” Over we trot.

Man. Was that thing cranky. He was looking for a friend he’d served with in Vietnam…who hadn’t come home. He’d plugged in 50 combinations of names, dates, and still no joy. After a 5 or 6 futile attempts using his suggestions – and with him ready to throw in the towel – I said, “Let’s try to strip this down to bare minimums. First and last name.”

Nothing again.
major dad and the fellow started to walk off, when miraculously there was a flicker, and I yelled, “Hey! He’s from Daleville, AL, right?” Back to the screen he came.

There were a number of “Williams” who had suddenly popped up on the locator matrix. And there was his friend, with his wall section and line. “But he was a captain,” the man mused, as the line said ‘major.’ “I’m sure he was posthumously promoted, which is why your searching for a captain couldn’t find him. These old computers are very literal.”
He kept repeating the entry address, and major dad gently said, “Come on. Let’s go find him.” Off they went.

I stayed at the computer while the two of them went down the walk to the 1972 section of The Wall. major dad helped him find his buddy, spent a moment with him, and then left them to visit.

We were just saying goodbye to John’s brick, when the gentleman came back up the walk. As he passed by, in a voice choked with tears, he said, “Thank you for helping me find him,” continuing straight to his car, shutting the door, and sat, head drooped over the steering wheel.

I looked at major dad, and we gave each other a little hand squeeze.
I guess we were meant to be there.
We miss our John every single day.
We remember Maj Robert John Williams, who never came home.

We remember, and thank them all.

God bless America.

Filed Under: Why Is There a 2d Amendment, Mommy?

Exhibit A.

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