I've not had a lot of excitement lately, or nothing about which I need to share. Bummer. Things change. A service call was needed at my place. I wan't happy, as I stayed home all day, my last day off, waiting for the technician to arrive. All dang day.
A different tech arrived today, the other probably not wanting a butt-chewing. God knows who you need, when you need them, and I told him this as he was preparing to leave, one of my favorite truths. His favorite saying is displayed inside his gun safe: "God, when I die, please don't let my wife sell these for what I told her I paid for them".
I knew I was in love when he mentioned the 1911 is the most beautiful firearm ever made. I wanted to hug him, I didn't, but I wanted to. I already knew he was married, with kids.
Thank heaven he could multitask, as I had a hundred and one questions. I won't say how many firearms he and his family possess, between them. He was born and raised in Odessa, Texas. His brother continues to hold the record for something or other, in a certain branch of whatever. When his superior asked where he got his skills, where are you from, and he replies Texas — we grew up hunting, superior nods, smiles, replies that explains everything, you're born with guns in your diapers. Oh I laughed. My kids grew up shooting too. Safety taught first, always, accuracy next. Though one kid would blow the butt off whatever, they never missed. I suspect their aim has since improved.
Genteman suggested what is believed (by me) to be the perfect, legal, shotgun (for me). Pictures follow. Gorgeous, simply gorgeous. It's perfect — the length, the grip, no ammo needed really, pump action tells intruders all they need to know. I want one of these bad boys beside my bed. (Yes, I will have plenty ammo.)
Listen and learn baby, one of many favorite activities.
Side note, he inherited a fourteen carat gold firearm of some sort, from his grandfather, a Texas Ranger. Siblings wanted to fight over the bounty, mom stepped in, with much wisdom. The one who hits the range, and wasn't looking to sell for much profit, inherited the prized piece. He told another story. This same grandad owned an exquisite fiddle, one of the first of a famous maker. Grandad played his fiddle, often. When he passed, another fight ensued. This is where I disagree with mama. She was bound and determined her other children would not inherit the fiddle, as they were irresponsible, and only want to sell a magnificent piece of her dad, for big money. She had already given the prized firearm to my technician. So, at gravesite, after everyone paid respects, she asked funeral directors to open the casket. Once open, she places (this makes me weep, almost) the fiddle in the casket with her dad, and tells them to bury his tush. I laughed, I cried, not really, I didn't cry, I told him I'm surprised grave robbers haven't hit this particular grave.
We talked way too long, a certain service is good to go, and my time off began grand, meeting and visiting with an interesting person.
I don't know how true his stories were, but I love a good story-teller.
On to the next adventure.
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