"Most civilization is based on cowardice. It's so easy to civilize by teaching cowardice. You water down the standards which would lead to bravery. You restrain the will. You regulate the appetites. You fence in the horizons. You make a law for every movement. You deny the existence of chaos. You teach even the children to breathe slowly. You tame. -The Stolen Journals - God Emperor of DUNE

My Dad's a fighter, and I try and remember to tell him I'm proud of him. For the life he lead after the war, not just during. A Golden Glove boxer, a career soldier and military police officer, he was a true defender of home and family. Tragedy never broke his spirit, he learned to duck and cover and survive, with courage and honesty. Adversity only gave him the life energy that propels him to this day, that I am still fortunate enough to share with him. I hope I can muster the same courage as I proceed in life, to take the sequence of events and luck, combined in a thrall of the forces that Clausewitz calls friction and chance, that pull that defines a life, and with it mold who I am, who I can be.

Because I am definitely his daughter, for good, bad and always; a fighter, a survivor of wars of life's own making. Like my father and my mother, herself a law enforcement officer, the fight is in my blood. They adopted me late in their life, so the blood that flows is that of what was taught, not that which was carried, even more important as I make my way in a world that grows less safe with each breath.

My parents didn't differentiate between son or daughter when it came to teaching us the basics to survive, and just like my brothers I was equipped with an immutable sense of who I was and what type of life I wanted and a fairly clear understanding of what would be required to obtain and protect it. It doesn't matter if you are male or female, the will to fight is either there or it isn't. That is why, like my parents before me, I support the Second Amendment.  For it has prepared me for what life may throw my way, horizons that tilt and change, full of challenges.

I have no regrets for this life I lead, no apologies in what I do, have done, to be true to myself, to my family's legacy, for that is how I was raised. To be someone who knew that to live my life any other way, than what I have, would be to ignore my soul's natural response to living. I live as I must and I love who I do. To do otherwise might mean growing old in oblivious quiet, but it would be with regret.

That life includes fireararms. They are legally obtained and I train to proficiency with them.  They are cared for and respected.  They are my tools, they are my protection.  They are not instruments of death, but only of safety, the flesh and bone that directs them principled by law and order, rather than calculated violatione, their possession inherent with the capacity to maintain the law, not break it.

So today, I ready my bag for a trip to the local range, to practice those skills which enable my independence. Live your life to the fullest and fight for your dreams my Dad always told me. Words I agree with, especially when I traded in a lucrative career for this one, in which I hold true to myself, making small efforts to make the world a safer place. Better a belated and streaming dawn than a life lived in twilight, I say to myself as I look in the mirror, range bag in hand. A bag overstuffed with equipment, paper, stapler, targets, ammo and weaponry. The provisions of someone prepared for life. I look forward to these days, revel in them, if only for a few hours of feeling the strength in my hands, my will in action, striding towards the target after the magazine is empty, a day full of things hinted but not yet seen, life viewed through a haze of smokey freedom.

Today - I am not soldier. I am not an army.  I am simply the Second Amendment, the outdoor ranges and the fields of my world where I am most at home.  I know the smell of black powder on a jumbled path across the Rocky Mountains, the convoluted jig of waters that flow through the Cascades that I follow to my camp site. I know the mountains of the West and the deep ache of muscles that carried my hunting gear into God's country, seeking sustenance, rifle to my shoulder, eyes focused on the source of my strength. I have worshiped at the altar of a sun stroked morning, prayed into the beauty of a dark velvet night, spun robes of clouds, the candlelight of dawn, the church of the woods in which set up camp.  I've shared Communion with my God in the sanctity of a stand of trees, my cup a blessing of the bounty of the land, my rifle the power to keep my family fed during times of lean.

I am the Second Amendment.  I know the long lines of a gun show and have strolled, walked and ran full tilt, the length of a conference center packed with those like myself. I have politely pushed through an obstacle course of displays at some Big Box Mart for the last remaining box of Winchester White Box, and reveled in the wonder of a small family owned gun store, shelves full of the unique. I know the value of thrift, and the thrift of survival. I know the new gun smell more than the new car smell. I delight in the perfect clarity of fresh bluing and the late night whoosh of a Dillon press in full swing. I look forward to the perfect sky of a morning range and remember as well, the ice slicked ladder that led up to a blind, from where I sat in wonder and wait, for a single whitetail that would feed both my need and my family.

My Dad's generation of shooters began with blackpowder and the eyes of a hawk. Though I have been trained in sniper scopes and all manner of high tech weaponry, we both understand the history of it all, and the responsibility, the complacency that could end our day on an uncorrectable note of finality. His generation, and now mine, speak as if old friends, of the Ruger and the Winchester and the early days of Browning and Colt. We still recall with youthful pride, the rumbling thunder that was our first lever action. We reminisce of the vast landscapes of the open prairie, shotgun in hand, bird dog by our side and that snug little sports car like feel of that little .40 we bought as our back up.

It is the language of my father's generation and it is my own. It's a language handed down from generation to generation and only slightly understood by our non shooting partners. We banter about bore and brass, half-jacket to hangfire, pattern and parallax. But when it's time for the shot, the range quiets and the concentration is almost tactile. For though we have tasted the insulation of our armor, we know too well the adrenalin surge of danger. We respect the power of our weapon and we know what it means to fight for grip, for stance, for what we believe in, and that is the uncommon faith in what we can do with our freedoms. We laugh and we joke, but we just as strongly believe in the capriciousness of life, of the indifference of humanity, and that every day brings the chance of facing something yet unseen, and lethal. Something more dangerous than a paper target or small horned animal, that will pit our countenance against a world without safeties.


I am the Second Amendment.  I relish the the quiet mornings as the sun peeks over the horizon as I make my way to my blind, the beautiful surroundings of a fog draped landscape below as I climb into it. It's evocative and inspiring and sometimes, despite the early, early showtime, the beauty of it all reaches out and grabs me. And in spite of the occasional bone weariness of the early hours, the freedom takes hold and shakes me like a playful puppy. I can't imagine being anyplace else but here in these woods, with my Dad's old Browning in my lap.

I know the overwhelming beauty of a Plains sky from a small ground blind as the sun seeps into the deep purple horizon and the pristine beauty of the sun's settling after a long day. I know the sea of waving corn that is my home, the winding roads of a farm deep in pheasant country and the perfect icy stillness that is a winter morning during first day of whitetail season. I know the bright traces of Orion and the tiny blips of satellites that guide me in the night as I find my way home, my 20 gauge at my side. I've felt the incalculable force of a thunderstorm's rain as I tried to keep my powder dry and the tears that tracked my face, leaving rivulets as if on earth, as we laid a fellow hunter to rest beneath his favorite tree.

I am the Second Amendment. Not to use my weapon to take something I did not earn but to save something that I did. That, for reasoning beyond ego and beyond anything, being something I need; this freedom as an essential element of my being. I am granted this liberty by one that came long before any government, the right granted by God to provide and protect and save. A right I embrace with pride.

Like those that have gone before me, I am strong and driven, law abiding, yet free. I am fiercely individualist, yet connected with my brothers and sisters in arms, family people at home and in the field. I compete with good spirit, yet bond with courage. I celebrate our successes and mourn our fallen. I am your friend or your neighbor. I am your father, your mother, your sister. I am charged with a reverent responsibility and I never forget it, nor should you.

I am the Second Amendment, as were all of my family, the fight in us strong.
- Brigid

It wasn't your typical Saturday.  Partner in Grime was packing to come home from his Thanksgiving at his parents.  I worked yesterday and finally had a day free from work or batphone. Did I go shopping?  Not just no, but he** no.  I avoid shopping in any capacity as much as possible.  Unless it's for bacon and ammo (for which finding some of the .22 is like finding a Unicorn in your bathroom)
We'd both been away from the Range a lot the last month, giving all the dog hair time to circulate, mate, make more dog hair and circulate some more.  I hoped it would have gotten sucked into the black sock black hole that lives near the dryer but no.

So today, there needed to be some serious housekeeping.  But first, after the kitchen was scrubbed to where surgery could be performed in it,  a pork roast was seared and then went into cockput with onion/sage gravy and some handcrafted pierogis stuffed with mashed potatoes and cabbage that I get from the little Polish deli in the Village.  That way, when he rolls in there will be dinner.Oh, (#)@.  There's only one beer, and there's two of us--best cook extra pierogis and wear something low cut, maybe he won't notice.

Then it was time to clean.
Living room is done, once I pick up hat and the dog toys.  Now it's time to move on to the bedroom where it looks like a SWAT team blew up.
Then everything was dusted. For a 1200 square foot first floor, there sure is a lot of stuff to dust.



Then a walk for Abby and some lunch. A bit of leftover  3-cheese stuffed shells with broccoli.
Then some ale to go into the fridge for tonight. Hey, it's Saturday.  Then it was time to dive into all of the woodwork and hardwood floors to be polished up as best as I could.
Pork's smelling good, time to put away some canned goods for the winter. From kitchen to basement.
Left to right--barbecue sauce, corn cob jelly with ginger and pineapple, fig molasses, corn cob jelly with habanero and a little tin of some Prickly Pear jelly that my friend Stephen made and sent to me to be added to my stores.

That done, time to I pick up before vacuuming the oriental guns (that was supposed to be rugs - that's a subliminal typo but you know what I would rather have been doing than vacuuming)
Pretty soon the chores were done, a few hellos on social media, checking The Book of Barkley at Amazon (#23 in sales for genre - WOOT) and a shower so my husband didn't mistake me for Red Green when he gets home.
The Pink Bathroom from Hades (the last of the house projects as it's just ugly, but it's in good condition with all new pipes, so it goes behind the new kitchen and front steps). If I take my glasses off I won't notice that I need to scrub the grout too. That can wait until Monday.

But it wasn't only canning, and cooking and cleaning in this Range family. No, this is an old fashioned house.  There was also some sewing.
Shooting pads to donate to a Youth Shooting Group.

You all have a safe and sane Saturday, I'm going to enjoy a night off, in my own bed, and pancakes in the morning with my husband. Because. for some strange reason - I'm kind of tired.

I've volunteered for much of the last 20 years--for the homeless, for the battered, and lately for the unwanted animals.

Man's cruelty to his fellow man is legend, but what people do to an animal that just wants to love them is heartbreaking..  I wrote The Book of Barkley to honor the stories of my best dog ever and my brother, who both died from cancer within weeks of each other.  I thought it would be a good thing, remembering their stories,of childhood, of coming into adulthood, of the awareness of our mortality and how we dealt with it with faith, while  renewing a relationship with a God we'd sort of left behind.  But I couldn't help, being human, of thinking of  all of the extra income from being a famous "writer" that could help with my Dad's nursing expenses (insert abrupt reality of what most writers make here and sound of crickets from much of the public, entranced by werewolves and spaceships and vampires).

And then things changed.  I got out and interacted with rescue groups as I adopted Abby and realized-- Barkley would't care if his Mom had a new truck, he'd want to help other dogs.

So, all of the proceeds of TBOB are being donated to animal rescue.  In the big scheme of things, not big money, only a couple thousand since July, spread out to a dozen or so organizations.  But every dollar counts, and as Barkley's story spread, more people will provide more donations  with their purchases as the book is slowly discovered by those sharing it with their dog loving friends.

Please take a moment and click on these words:   Peanut's Promise.

This group, up in the Windy City, not far from where we live, is doing incredible things, their latest project--rescuing Labrador Retrievers who have lived solely to breed purebred puppies, with bad food, harsh elements outside 24/7, little, if any  medical care, and no love or affection. Some had no more than a depression on the ground to sleep in. When they get sick, or old, or barren, they are discarded. In this case the breeder is giving them up, a blessing for them, but a lot of work for the volunteers with that many dogs, all neglected, coming in at once.  I am just one tiny little part of that effort, but I wanted to help and spread the word.

Because it broke my heart to see it.

Because every Lab should have a home where he's a family member, as loved as the two-legged ones.

So, for Black Dog Friday Weekend The Book of Barkley  is only $2.99 on Kindle and only $4.99 through Christmas and New Years.  ALL of the proceeds, Kindle and paperback, are going to Peanut's Promise.  You can gift it to someone with just an email address and a date you want them to get it and if they don't have a Kindle device there's a free app to read it on your laptop that's available to them when they claim it.

The book is also in the  Amazon MatchBook Program so if you buy the paperback, the Kindle is less than a buck.  All of the proceeds through New Years, big or small, is going to support this group of wonderful volunteers, part of  Lab Rescue and Adoption Wisconsin and Illinois, and the dogs they are trying to save. You can also sponsor a dog - this is Juno who I am sponsoring through the adoption process to offset the costs of treatment and care until she's adopted by a lucky family. She's responding well to the care and love, gently taking a treat from one of the volunteers in her most recent photo.

On this Thanksgiving Day, give a little back to those that are thankful for the smallest thing.  If you don't wish a copy of a book, and want to help, please donate to them directly. If money is tight, and I know it is for many of you, simply share their story with a link on your blog or Facebook to this post or their site or go to their site for a twitter feed.

Happy Thanksgiving, All of You.  Abby and I are on our own, ready to go on duty while Partner is with is family, thankful to be able to help in the small ways we can. - Brigid

Hope you all have a good Thanksgiving.  I'm taking the holiday off  from blogging.  I'm sort of fed up with the human race right now and going to take some time off from the internet.

On a plus side, I've learned one good thing through this tough year: who my friends really are. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

Partner in Grime had spent six days straight on a factory floor saving the planet, living off of sandwiches and a pack of ramen noodles in his hotel room.  Sometimes you need  more back up than Ramen Noodles.

I had a busy week as well, but not so busy that I couldn't heat up a home cooked meal when he rolled in.
Cream of Chicken and Wild Rice Soup (the copycat Panera recipe from food dot com to which I added 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, a tiny splash of Moosehead, extra black pepper and a pinch or two of crushed red pepper) with Garlic toast.  He gave it a thumbs up and polished off all of it.

And for breakfast the next morning  I said "Popovers?" and he shyly said "if it's not too much trouble" which is husband speak for "hurry, hurry make them now!"  I keep a popover pan at the crash pad, but it had not been used in a while.
Popovers  Crisp on the outside, soft with soft, rich almost custard-like interior, with layers of goodness, they're worth a little extra trouble. I'd recommend a popover pan for the height and crispness but you can make these in a muffin pan. 
It's a good breakfast before we pack up the car and drive back to the Range where I get a couple days off and he goes right back to work.

On I-65 Northbound, I'd prefer four wheel drive and dual flame throwers, but a full stomach will do.

It has been almost six months since Abby joined our household.  It is a decision I am  glad we made.  She is SO different from Barkley, yet she has her own unique personality, one that's becoming a treasured part of each day. She's a five year old mixed breed, lab and possibly flat coated retriever it appears from her slightly longer, super soft fur with a red undertone, muzzle shape and tail. Such dogs are often overlooked  and lose their life as a result as people look at younger and purebred dogs to adopt.

Abby had  been in foster care only a week when we met, with a very loving lady and her husband, but the scars from time in a shelter showed in her eyes.  She was lucky - black dogs are the last adopted and the first euthanized in shelters.  She was rescued just hours from death by the wonderful people at Love of Labs Indiana who drove hours and hours to transport her.  They got her started on the heartworm treatment that was necessary to keep her alive, then worked to find her a loving home when she was well enough from that treatment to be adopted.

This photo was taken when she first showed up at the crash pad. She had been fed well and groomed carefully by the rescue folks but she was still thin from the heartworm treatment, scared at being someplace "strange" again and not even excited to get a treat.
Here she is now (and that tail is about ready to go into mach tuck)
I miss Barkley each and every day, and know you can't replace any dog that's such a big part of your life. But I'm so happy to have the love of this sweet girl my life and smile every time I see her.

Plus, it has made me happy to be able to donate all of the proceeds from the Book of Barkley to a number of organizations, including Love of Labs Indiana, Westside German Shepherd Rescue, Big Fluffy Dog Rescue, Midwest Labrador Retriever Rescue, For the Love of Labs Rescue, Central Florida Weimaraner & Dog Rescue, Angels Among Us Animal Rescue, Willy's Happy Endings and the local humane societies of friends and family. It has been great to meet and great some of them, provide donations and autographed books for auctions and just share our stories.  Barkley's story was not about me, or about money, it was about spreading a message of love and faith and hope.

If you are considering a dog or cat for your home, please consider adoption of a rescue dog - there are so many wonderful souls out there just waiting to be rescued.

I posted a shorter version of this a couple of winters ago. These tips are designed for normal winter travel not  - "hey honey, we're going to get 9 feet of snow, let's take the Triumph to the grocery!"

Think about your drive home today. The sun might be shining, but what will the weather be like when you come home from work? What if your car slides or is forced off the road due to another driver that leaves the scene. There you are, stuck in a ditch or broke down in an isolated area as the temperature slides quickly to zero or below?

More times than you know, after a strong and unexpected storm, people have died on their way home, having left offices in light coats to covered parking garages, expecting a quick drive home to their snug garage. They are just going from covered parking to covered parking. Who needs gloves or a thick coat or other things? And they died.  People in this horrible storm out east have died, caught unawares on the road. 

If you're going any further than you can walk, check the weather.  I have driven home on Saturday morning instead of after work Friday many times, because the weather was too treacherous to be out alone in it. 

Being outdoors in the winter, how you gear yourself is crucial. You have to dress for it, layering the clothes, making sure you keep dry at all costs. My Mom would tell us to keep our hats on as we'd lose 90% of our heat through our head. I'd be a smart alec and say "so Mom, I can go naked and wear a hat and I'll only be 10% colder".

It's not 90% but she was close. Even though my Arctic weight Carhart has a great hood that snaps in front of the neck, I still have a scarf for additional protection around the exposed areas. You can lose over 50 percent of your body heat from an unprotected head and even more if your neck, wrists and ankles aren't insulated well, for those areas of the body have very little insulating fat and thus are good radiators of heat. If you don't cover your head well, because of the blood circulation in it, much of it close to the surface, can cause you to loose heat quickly. The brain is quite susceptible to cold.

Why a weapon?

I am going to come across to some as alarmist but I speak from someone with experience in the field and second generation LEO. Not everyone that may offer aid if you are stranded, especially women, is a good Samaritan. Women are often victims of those they trust. If the person offers help, have them call the Highway Patrol, Sheriff or local police. and stay near you until they arrive. But if your life is not in immediate danger, stay in your vehicle, with the window rolled up, until that help arrives. If a lone car pulls up with flashing lights, but no markings, or some sort of markings and no uniform, ladies, ask the officer for their ID before you roll down that window. Look at it closely and if it looks the slightest bit hinky, call their station to verify it.  They won't mind one bit, and would hope their wives or children of driving age do the same.

If you aren't comfortable or proficient with a firearm, take a knife, a can of mace, a big tire iron.  SOMETHING you can grab easily if someone tries to pull you from your car.

Now for assembling a basic, compact, easy to store winter kit:

What NOT to put in the kit is easy.

I think you can get along without a Margherita (alcohol is not the beverage of choice if you are conserving body heat), a snow globe (just look out the window), a DVD, or your lip gloss.

Hearing protection? Well gentlemen, that depends who you are stuck in the ditch with (I told you to stop and ask for directions ).

Here's what I would carry for trips about town - just the basics, not heavy, and it doesn't take up much space. For starters, already in the vehicle is a small shovel, flares in the glove box, that firearm and ammo (legally carried and stored, check your State laws), a map, cell phone charger that will run off the vehicle's power supply, a trash bag and a small first aid kit (throw some surgical tubing in the first aid kit, it can be used for a tourneqet, transferring water from a catch and is generally more useful than straps). Those things stay year round.

Now time for the winter kit or the kit that goes on any trip away from developed areas. Swiss Army knife, food high in in fat/protein and carbs, water for at least 3 days, a metal container to melt snow, waterproof matches (in a waterproof container), a backup lighter, a compass, waterproof ground cloth and cover, flashlight, 60 hour emergency candle, water purification tablets, something to signal for help (a mirror to augment the flares), an extra warm shirt or jacket and an extra warm blanket. (I throw in a sleeping bag alongside as well). Also, a bright colored warm hat to wear and something else bright colored to wear or hang from an antenna. Warm, waterproof boots, gloves, tape, string and hand sanitizer. Why? Cleanliness will keep you from risking dehydration with an upset tummy, sanitizer can also disinfect a wound and be used in starting a fire. This is in addition to the box of Kleenex and wet naps I usually have in the car. I also sometimes carry a little can of Sterno, NOT for using in side the car but for warming my hands if I have to do a tire change

If you have your pet with you - bring a very warm blanket for them, extra good and water, and keep a good bit of rope or paracord handy to allow them out of the vehicle if they have to go potty, while attached securely to your steering wheel. Also bring extra wipes and waste bags in case getting out of the car for bathroom duty isn't possible.

I tore the paracord in the boot with a knife and the boot stays in the cab.  If your supplies are in the trunk and you have to get out of your vehicle to get to it in snow or darkness cut a car length of it, tying one end to your steering wheel, the other to your wrist.  With another short piece tie your car keys firmly to your other wrist before leaving the vehicle.

When I go out and see my Dad on planned vacation trips,  I usually bring home some smoked salmon for a friend or two, rather than the usual cutesy souvenirs. 

But coming through the hippie friendly Portland airport on a couple of quick trips out and back when he was in the hospital recently (he's home and doing a little better, thanks for the prayers) I saw this. I immediately thought of the mayhem that would ensue if either Huck or his doppelganger Bob, from Midwest Chick and Mr. B's home, was outfitted with an inflatable unicorn horn.

Apparently, all the cool cats in Portland want one.

But I do NOT think Huck  wants one.
Tam - I think I need backup!

Daddybear, has joined the ranks of bloggers who are now published authors of books, crafting something from heart and hands that they wish to share with the world.   His first effort is an absolute delight and I was able to download and read it on the Kindle Cloud.  After a tough few days while Dad was in the hospital again,  his 'Tales of the Minivandians',  was exactly what I needed to look at the world  with humor and thanks again.  The book is a compilation of some of the 'Minivandian' stories from his blog, which many of you have read, woven together seamlessly with new material in the same vein.