A Quiet Saturday

SOUTH CHINA SEA (May 10, 2024) The Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyer USS Halsey (DDG 97) conducts routine underway operations in the South China Sea, May 10, 2024. Halsey is forward-deployed and assigned to Destroyer Squadron (DESRON) 15, the Navy’s largest DESRON and the U.S. 7th Fleet’s principal surface force. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 3rd Class Ismael Martinez)

So, I've gathered up all the story so far, which I've decided to call "Uprising," and I've found a couple of disconnects, continuity problems if you will. I will fix those, maybe even go back to earlier posts and make some edits, I don't know yet.

Because I'm giving serious consideration to going book length on this, so far I've got about 72 pages, with pictures. But truth be told, this story is uncomfortably close to things which could happen in the future. And that bothers me.

I'd like to think that we can somehow just all get along. (Rodney King, Sarge? Really?) It is possible you know. There are a few people out there who would love to see things fall apart. Those people have zero clue as to what that might be like.

All that aside, The Missus Herself is on her way home after another sojourn down Maryland way. As I write this, she's not back yet, that happens later this evening. (By the time you read this, all of this will be in the past.)

Had to run down to the Social Security office on Friday. I applied online to start receiving benefits and thought it odd that one could do that. Well, a letter arrived in the mail which said, essentially, "Hey, someone applied for benefits using your name, slide on down to your local office and prove that it was you."

So I did, easy-peasy other than a local university had their graduation on Friday which snarled up traffic rather a bit. No fun, but the local constabulary were out to keep things moving. I did note that one or two officers could probably use some extra training on "how to direct traffic." Most of them did okay. Yes, there were rather a lot of them out there.

After the visit to the Social Security office I had to haul a pond pump over to the local UPS place to ship it back to Amazon. Wrenched my back a bit getting it in and out of Blue. But I'll survive. Thing wasn't heavy just a bit unwieldy.

I mean seriously honey, a pump which can handle 4,000 gallons? A bit more than we needed, which she realized 15 minutes after having me order it. So I attempted to cancel it. Amazon said, "Damn son, we're already shipping it, better luck next time." But returns on Amazon are pretty easy. So that was taken care of.

Beautiful day on Friday after a couple of inches of rain on Thursday. Today, Saturday, is a drizzly day. Gray and gloomy, which doesn't bother me all that much. Sometimes the glare of a sunny day drives my eyes crazy. My eyes have always been very light sensitive and the glaucoma doesn't help. (On the upside, I see almost like a cat at night. Very good night vision, which drives The Missus Herself nuts. She'll turn on a light to see me heading for the head in the "dark" which scares the crap out of her. I mean seriously, we live in town, there's so much ambient light I can almost read by it.)

Anyhoo, back to editing, back to playing war games on the computer, and whatever else tickles my fancy.

The leading picture? I've been on a destroyer or three in my day, love that ship class and wished we'd build more. I just like the photo, a sunny day at sea on a fast ship, what's not to love?

Oh, one more thing (channeling my inner Columbo), remember the two Lex posts which JB shared with us a while back? (Here and here.) The title of the second post "Po' Lazlorus," caused some confusion, as the name of the miscreant in the story was named Lazlo. So what's up with that "Lazlorus" thing, anyhoo?

Well, I had the opportunity to watch Brother Where Art Thou again (excellent film) and in that film (which as you should know was a Lex favorite) there was this song, Po Lazarus -

My take on this? Well, Lex's star of the story was a fellow yclept Lazlo, the name in the song, Lazarus, Lex converted to "Lazlorus." The opening lyrics to the tune go a little something like this ...

Well the high sheriff, he told his deputy

Won't you go out and bring me Lazarus

Well the high sheriff told his deputy

Won't you go out and bring me Lazarus

Bring him dead or alive

Lord, Lord

Bring him dead or alive

Our Lazlo missed movement, everyone was looking for the poor lad. Lex was an awfully clever chap, do you see it?

Anyhoo, it struck me as awfully clever. I'm still learning from Lex some 12 years down the road. (And that is a very long time ...)

Ciao.

John Blackshoe sends - Serendipity History in your hands …

Many people love to read about history. Some enjoy visiting historic sites. Others have a collector gene which impels them to acquire historic relics as a tangible connection with past events. Someday I’ll tell you about a seriously committed collector, one I hold up as an example to my wife of how it could be a lot worse!

And, a few know nothing of history, care less, and are doomed to dire consequences for their character flaw. Pity the fools.

Sarge has already expressed his fascination with the Antietam Campaign of the American Civil War, where Lee’s army moved northward into western Maryland in September 1862. This was a move to bring the ravages of war to Union soil, for a change, and draw Yankee forces away from their Capitol in Washington, perhaps opening it for an attack.  Others tell the story of the campaign far better than I can. Accounts of heroism or trepidation, strategic and tactical skills and blunders which resulted in nearly 23,000 dead, wounded or captured on 17 September 1862. A majority of those engaged, and the majority of the casualties wore Union blue, and lesser numbers wore Confederate Gray.

If you want to know about the battle, the American Battlefield Trust has an EXCELLENT 15 minute video, including some of the best living history footage I’ve ever seen, and quite a bit more on Antietam.

I’ll share two stories about Antietam relics, first about two muskets, and a later installment about a sword.

The first musket “from the Schindel farm in Hagerstown.”

Source: all photos related to this gun are by the author.

A seller had a somewhat disreputable, beat up old musket for sale at a very low price at a large antique arms show. (Yes, there are such things!). It was a conglomeration of various parts and pieces from long before the Civil War. But, the seller’s tag read:

Someone making up a story would be much more likely to attach the name of a famous battle location, and rebel stuff usually gets higher prices, so this had a ring of truth unlike so many old stories.

The old saying is “Buy the gun, not the story.” It was NOT a “German shotgun.” This is what the gun whispered to me:\

It was made from salvaged Revolutionary War musket parts, probably circa 1790-1812. Poor quality, it would have been used as a general purpose gun in the early days, and was marginally able to meet the requirements of the Militia Act of 1792 which required every man to have a musket for militia duty.

• French Model 1763 (+/-) “Charleville” musket lock marked “Maubeuge Manuf. Rle.” 
• Barrel may be from the same type, but cut down to about 36”. 
• Stock is probably American maple, having almost the form of a rifle stock.  
• Trigger guard and lower ramrod pipe are from a British Brown Bess and possibly the buttplate.

This is very close to some arms made by Rufus Perkins in Bridgewater, Massachusetts circa 1808-1812, including some Indian trade guns. At some point the stock was painted red, now worn thin, common on guns intended for trade with the Indians, but Bubba may have painted it to match his barn.

This gun may have been carried by New England militiamen to the mid-Atlantic states during the War of 1812. Or maybe the owner migrated and took it with him. Eventually it was converted to percussion, probably circa 1830-1850 and a few such guns were still used to a limited extent by militia units raised during the Civil War.

Later it was altered to a half-stock for hunting or hog butchering, perhaps before, or after the Civil War. It was certainly plausible that it was in the Hagerstown, MD area in 1862.

“The Schindel farm” location was undoubtedly one of several owed by members of that family about 6 miles southeast of Hagerstown, or about 8 miles northeast of the Antietam battlefield, according to old property maps and census records.

My guess is that this story has some truth to it, and that either the soldier was a militia man who had this gun, or deserted his unit and found this gun on a farm and used it to disable himself as his unit headed towards the battle. Or, maybe he was a draft dodger who mutilated himself “by accident” several months before the battle of Antietam. We will never know, but war is not always gallantry in battle with mild flesh wounds. PTSD was every bit as real then as today.

Second musket- “The Cool Creek musket.”

In researching Antietam farms, I stumbled across a delightful blog by a Washington, DC interior designer and his husband who discovered a [once] nice brick federal farmhouse circa 1823 with 7 acres right on Antietam creek, between Hagerstown and Sharpsburg. They proceeded to purchase and considerably upgrade the house to be really beautiful. When nearly complete, they invited the family of some former owners over to see the results, and were surprised with a delightful gift.

“Grateful for allowing them to tour the house and grounds, they brought us an extraordinary gift. A German rifle made for the Napoleonic war around 1815 was found in the ground near the smoke house. At the dawn of the Civil War, the south found itself with a lack of weapons, most factories being in the north. European countries sold their old weaponry to the Confederate government where they subsequently fashioned them to weapons for their soldiers.

The “Cool Hollow Musket” as it is called was one of these such weapons. Most likely left by a Confederate soldier that either stayed near the house or was treated there. Whatever the actual story is we will never know, but this wonderful treasure was an amazing gift that has come home.

What we have come to realize is that our historic home, just like so many others is more than just the built environment. These structures encompass centuries of family life, both happy times and sad, war and peace. In this bloggers humble opinion, these are the most important aspects of owning an old house, we are keepers of the past, saving it for the future.” Source (Quote and image)

This musket is indeed a German (actually proto-German Prussian) model 1809 flintlock converted to percussion and widely used by both sides in the Civil War. This one had both the barrel and stock shortened, likely done after leaving military service, but still useful as a “farm gun.” I highly recommend the story of their preservation and restoration work, but it is only available on the Wayback Machine, which tends to be cranky and you need to be persistent and creative in finding all the installments. You can start here.

Now, it is an amazing coincidence that by 1861, the “Cool Hollow House” was amalgamated with other properties into a 500 acre estate “owned by David and Magdalene Schindel.” Mr. Schindel was a prominent businessmen in and around Hagerstown, MD. Mrs. Schindel, the daughter of the builder, Benjamin Emmertt.” Armies moved across this land twice, both in the September 1862 advance to Antietam, and again around July 9, 1863 after Gettysburg as union forced followed the retreating Confederates. Yes, this is in the region of Schindel farms mentioned previously. Source

Undoubtedly many other old guns have been found adjacent to battlefields, or the line or march to or from a scene of combat. “I wish it could talk.” Or, maybe there are scenes best left unseen, such as these dead at the Dunker Church at Antietam, only a tiny number of the 23,000 killed wounded or captured that day. Source:

(Source)

Ah, A Day Off ...

OAFS Photo

'Tis a nice day here in Little Rhody, couple of errands to run but I don't have to go to the paying gig today.

So, I've got that going for me.

Y'all stay safe, enjoy life while you can.

I'll be back.

Just enjoying this "don't need to be creative" thing for a day or so.

Dinnae fret, it's temporary.

Ciao.

I'm Out ...¹

(Source)

I am out of gas.

It's been a long week, comments yesterday got way too contentious for my taste and far too political. Can't you people just enjoy the ride? (I turned the comments off intentionally, I was tired of reading some of them.)

Taking a couple of days off. Yeah, I'm a little pissed off.

Besides which, I need to gather this whole story together and figure out where it has to go next. I do intend to finish this tale. But not today.

Read the folks on the side bar.

OAFS, out.

¹ Not permanently mind you, I just need a wee break.

Meals Ready to Explode ...

(Source)

Moriarty and Golden were back in the van, they'd been swapping every 24 hours with another pair of agents, but those guys had been recalled to DC. Some big kerfuffle was apparently going down and they needed more bodies at the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

"Probably need some more input on somebody's Power Point presentation." Herb Moriarty quipped.

Rick Golden yawned and leaned into the camera viewfinder, "Maybe, but we've got something going on over at The Armory."

Indeed, a black van had pulled over to that side of US-13 and two men had gotten out. From what Golden could see, there was nobody else in the van, but he couldn't tell for certain as the van's windows were heavily tinted.

"Thompson, Batchelor, and Beardsley are all in the small office building. Could those guys be co-conspirators or ..." Moriarty said.

Golden cut him off, "They look an awful lot like Federal agents to me."

Wilt Thompson glanced out the window when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He saw two men approaching the big maintenance barn. They were wearing suits, which seemed really out of place.

"Well, lookee here, what is going on?" Thompson said as he pointed towards the men.

Beardsley spoke first, "Feds?"

Batchelor chimed in, "Gotta be, wearing suits and everything. Jimmy still working over there?"

Thompson nodded, "Him and Dwight's kid, what's his name?"

"Teddy, his name's Teddy. Good kid." Beardsley answered.

Thompson thought for a moment, "Willy, you got your long gun with you?"

Batchelor nodded, "Yep, but it's in my truck. I can get to it without being seen ..."

"Nah, stay here and watch those Feebs down the road on the monitor. Leroy, you come with me, let's see what these fellows want."

Just as he was about to knock on the door of the big garage, F. William Murchison heard a man say, "Help you fellows?"

Murchison's partner, Bud Maximilian turned and held out his hand, he was holding a rather impressive looking legal document. "I'm Special Agent Maximilian and this is my partner, Special Agent Murchison." He nodded at that man, "We're with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. This is a warrant to search these premises."

Across the way Batchelor's ears perked up when he heard who the men were on the microphone Thompson was wearing. He also noticed that the Feebs in the van perked up at that as well. He would have paid good money to hear what they were saying.

Thompson scanned the document, "Sorry fellows, wrong address. This here is 35173 Lankford Highway, y'all want 35162, that's another mile up the road. Look for the Bundick Well & Pump Company, they sometimes use explosives when they're putting in a new well. Makes the work go a little faster, I guess." He handed the paper back to the man who gave it to him.

Maximilian took it and said, "You got a bathroom I could use?"

"No Sir, I do not. Restrooms are for employees only. We're just about to lock up and go home anyway."

Maximilian nodded, "Sorry to have troubled you. Maybe Bundick will let me use theirs. Let's go, Murchison."

As they walked off, Thompson shook his head. "What makes these Feds think we're in awe of their fancy badges and warrants?"

When they got to the car, Murchison shook his head. "Now I know that's the place we want. Why'd you'd give the judge that other address?"

"I didn't, I had my wife do this one up on the computer. The real warrant is in my briefcase, in the trunk. I just wanted a sneak peek, up close, to see what we might be getting into."

"Those explosives the Maryland State Police found at the sight of that shooting, what ties that to this place?"

"The MREs were purchased by a shell corporation and delivered to this address. Some dumbass left a copy of the invoice in one of the boxes the troopers found. This is going to take more than a couple of agents in suits, we're talking a full-on SWAT raid."

Maximilian shook his head, "Why do these people think they can go up against the U.S. government? Boggles the mind."

They drove off, headed towards Norfolk. They drove past two very concerned FBI agents as they did so.

"Okay, got it Sir. We'll just sit tight here. Yes Sir ... No Sir ... Very good Sir, I ..."

"Son of a bitch hung up on me." Moriarty said as he tucked his phone away.

Golden said, "There go the ATF boys," as the ATF men sped past, headed south. "Maybe someone should tell them Bundick is north of here. What the heck is going on, Herb?"

"The Maryland State Police searched the stolen pickup truck at that shooting yesterday morning. Ten cases of MREs with a C4 chaser."

That got Golden's attention, "C4, you're shitting me?"

"I wish I was. A case of MREs contains 12 meals, the ones the troopers found had ten meals each, plus a one and a quarter pound block of C4, wrapped in butcher's paper. A casual glance wouldn't get anyone's attention, but one of the troopers on scene had been a Marine back in his youth. He expected 12 meals, not ten, and as the cases were sealed as if they'd just come from the factory, that butcher's paper looked out of place, especially right in the middle of the case."

"Damn."

"Yeah, that's a lot of C4."

"Wonder what they were planning on using it for?" Golden asked.

"We need to get in there tonight and bug that garage, probably the office as well."

Golden nodded, "Somebody's got some 'splainin' to do." He said in his best Cuban accent.

Moriarty shook his head, "Yup, and the boys and girls back at the Bureau are gonna need information on this place. These guys are serious players."

Paying the Piper

(Source)

Chapman turned right, she was meeting with Captain Choe and someone else whom the Captain had not wanted to mention, that much was obvious. She was sure it had something to do with the ambush and the alleged anti-Second Amendment conspiracy. Just the thought of that made her sick.

She arrived at the Navy Yard and went on the Yard via the Water Street SE gate. From there she made her way through the rabbit warren of buildings to the parking lot across from the National Museum of the United States Navy.

She got out and buttoned up her coat, there was a stiff breeze coming off of the Anacostia River and it wasn't a warm day to begin with. She made her way over to the big railroad gun on display by the parking lot. She saw Captain Choe talking to another man whose back was to her.

Choe waved and the man turned around, damn, it was Johansen.

"Morning Captain, morning Ephraim. I didn't expect to see you out here."

"Sorry for all the mystery, Beth," he paused then handed her an identification wallet, "you now, officially, have a need to know."

Chapman took the wallet and opened it. she gasped.

"Really Ephraim, the CIA? Isn't it illegal for ..."

Choe interrupted, "As long as he is seconded to Homeland, it shouldn't be a problem. I asked around," glancing at Johansen, he quickly added, "covertly of course. I didn't get selected for Rear Admiral by being stupid, you know."

Johansen grinned, "I don't know, Captain, these days ..."

Choe smiled, "Nah, I'm not the token Korean at the Pentagon. Dad retired from the Marine Corps as a Colonel. We Choe's have been in the U.S. long enough to blend in, so to speak."

"Okay, enough with the introductions. Beth, you know John Morgan, known as Jack, right? No need to go into detail on that, I know."

Chapman blushed, "I was young, but yes, I know, well, knew, Jack Morgan well. We partied in a lot of ports when we were deployed to the Gulf. Separate ships ..."

Choe interrupted again, "Morgan was my VBSS OIC¹ on McFaul. We were part of the Ike's carrier strike group."

"And I flew helos off the Ike, landed on McFaul many times." Chapman added.

Johansen nodded. "Have you see Morgan recently?"

Chapman blushed again, "Yeah, couple of weeks ago. We met for lunch in Alexandria. He's been involved with an investigation into illegal arms dealing in ..."

Johansen cut her, looking at Choe he said, "He's been playing all of us."

Chapman leaned in, "What are you talking about?" Her tone was slightly heated.

"Second Amendment shit, right? Someone's planning to ambush Federal agents, a lot of Federal agents, up in western Maryland. Morgan's not only involved, he's one of the leads on this thing. Problem is, I think he's gone rogue."

Johansen said nothing of the Park Police SWAT team ambush, he'd been deeply involved in that. But he'd been surprised when Morgan had started gunning men down. The guys he'd got for the machine gun, he had known they were druggies and drunks. Though they knew how to operate the gun, he doubted they'd hit anything. He'd been right too.

Morgan's long rifle had killed those four agents and wounded two others, one seriously. This thing was out of control, the guys up on the Eastern Shore thought so as well.

"Have you heard anything about the shootings out in western Maryland. A state trooper and two campers were gunned down in cold blood. We think it was Morgan."

He turned to Choe, "You had a Chief Machinists Mate on McFaul on the VBSS ..."

"Rossi, Al Rossi. Last I heard he'd retired as a Senior Chief. What about him?"

"He's with Morgan, at least we think he is."

"We?" Chapman asked.

"Officially Homeland, unofficially, the Agency. The Bureau has been paying Morgan, off the books, as a contractor. We think the FBI is behind this. It's a false flag operation."

"Rossi and Morgan despised each other." Choe offered.

"We think it was an act, or maybe after they were both out of the Navy, they made common cause. A lot of gun enthusiasts are worried shitless that Congress is going to make a move to make gun ownership almost impossible. The FBI likes the idea, some of us at CIA do not. And yes, we're kind of a minority over there."

Chapman wondered, as Johansen kept talking, 'What the hell have I gotten myself involved with."

Morgan was in a lot of pain, he suspected that he still had a couple of #12 shot in his body. He needed some alcohol, a sharp knife, bandages, and some pain killers. Looking at his map, he had Rossi turn off National Pike NE onto Orleans Road NE, there was an Exxon station just off that road.

They pulled in, Rossi parked the truck around the back of the little gas station store, hoping no one recognized it. Morgan told him what to buy. He nodded and went around the front of the building. He winced when he saw a Maryland State Police vehicle pull in. There were two troopers in the car.

Trying to act nonchalant he went in, found the items he was looking for, then went to the counter to pay. One of the troopers was there, talking to the older guy behind the register.

"They're driving Mike Taliaferro's truck. Bastards killed him and Benji Lee last night. So if you see anything ..."

"Damn, I saw Taliaferro's truck just now, drove around back."

Rossi was sweating profusely, he muttered, "Forgot something ..." then headed back towards the coolers. He needed water, lots of water, suddenly he had a powerful thirst.

As he grabbed a couple of liter bottles he felt someone come up behind him.

"Where are you from, Sir? Not from around here, counterman said so."

It was one of the troopers, he could see him in the reflection from the cooler door.

"No Sir, we, I mean I, am up from DC, heading out to Cumberland. Business trip."

Rossi heard the man draw his service weapon. He was too far away to jump, and there were too many people around anyway.

"Don't move a muscle, Sir." The trooper's tone was as cold as the grave.

"The guy you want is around back, red pickup truck ..."

"We know what you boys are driving. F**king cop-killers."

"What the ..." Morgan watched as a state trooper rolled past him and stopped his vehicle well away from the red Dodge. Watching in the rear view mirror, he knew the game was up. Now if he could convince them that he worked for Homeland, maybe ...

"Guy in the red Dodge pickup, show me your hands!!"

Morgan thought for a minute about drawing his Sig Sauer, but he stood no chance. Better to rely on his ability to bullshit people and the very real DHS ID he had in his wallet. He opened the door and began to climb out, hands first.

A gust of wind blew the door open abruptly.

"Shi ..."

Jack Morgan died instantly when the trooper opened up with his M-16. Three rounds, abdomen, chest, the third through his forehead.

The door swinging open quickly had startled the trooper, so he fired, his weapon was set to three round burst, he'd hit with all three. Afterwards he noticed that each succeeding round had gone higher.

He told his partner later, "They teach us the barrel's gonna climb, but damn, when you're shooting at a real person, ya kinda forget the training, well some of it, and you fire until the target is down."

In the meantime, Rossi had found himself face down on the floor of the store. A boot in his back and a very angry trooper saying, "Go ahead, give me a reason you f**king cop-killer."

Al Rossi made sure he gave the trooper no reason. He still counted himself lucky to be thrown into the back of a cruiser with only a couple of broken ribs. From where he sat, he could see that his days with Morgan were over. Morgan was in a pool of blood next to the red Dodge.

Stealing that had been a very dumb idea.

¹ OIC = Officer In Charge

What a Week!

 So....There I was*...Last Monday early evening,  post is posted, comments are commented, a pre-prandial Rose' in hand,  BBQ is heating, with the exception of all the Bovine Excrement going on in DC, all is right in my World.  Mrs J is down to her last few radiation treatments and both her doctors are very upbeat about the results.  They're not saying she's in the clear, but their voices are lilting when they talk about her progress.  So fast forward to tomorrow, she'll have her last treatment, then six weeks off before surgery to remove the remains of the tumor.

Thank you, Lord!

In any case, it's later last Monday evening and Mrs. J and I are sitting on the front porch watching the grass blow in the breeze in Rancho Juvat's pasture.  Life is good!

I'm taking a sip of wine when Mrs. J announces that MBD (My Beautiful Daughter), MG, my Eldest Granddaughter, and My Grandson, León, will be arriving in the morn. My brain was trying to decide on the order of swallowing the wine or yelling "Yay".  

Unfortunately, in the enthusiasm of the moment, it just said, "Yes"!  I got a short lesson on what drowning might feel like, but I recovered.

Apparently, the Docs had given permission for visitation as long as the visitors showed no signs of colds, flu, barfing, loose poops, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

MBD and crew passed the test. Given that we hadn't seen that threesome since the episode began, Mrs. J was pretty excited.

As was I.

Arrival was uneventful and I got my first in person view of our Grandson.  He's now 6 months old.  I think he's going to be a pro football linebacker.  I was so enthused about meeting him I carried him around on my hip for the better part of the evening.

 

I wouldn't recommend that.  The following morning getting out of bed was torturous.   But one must persevere.  Rather than lug the big lug around, we introduced him to one of his older cousin's vehicles from when she was his age.

 

Worked like a champ.  He took off with afterburners at full blast, laughing his head off.  Unfortunately, another Fighter Pilot adage took over.

"All velocity, no vector".  Never applied to me, well...not that often.  But, in this case, was completely appropriate.  While my back received no further misuse, the same could not be said of my shins.  And, he's perfected the "Bwah-Hah-Hah" laugh of a pirate and used it with great glee.

We also had another bit of excitement that evening.  LJW and Miss B came over for dinner and to meet their niece/nephew/cousins (depending on generation).  Introductions went quite well.

Then Miss B stunned the crowd.

"Look, Mrs. J (I need to find a Gramma nickname, suggestions welcome) no hands."  She'd made her first no support steps at her therapy session that morning.  This was about 5 times further, AKA 10 steps.  So...Big time and exciting progress.

We settle in for a bit of dinner (Beans, the menu was "Make your own pizza).  MG likes Pepperoni, Grape jelly rolls, cheese cubes and banana's. 

Hey, who am I to criticize?

 At least dinner included wine!

And after ruling over the festivities, León decided he needed a nap (at the table).

 Apparently, my rock hard chest (RRRIIIGGGHHHTTT) is quite comfortable for the little guy.  But did you know that having a Grandchild sleep in your arms is one of the most powerful sedatives known to man?  Yes,  I indulged in a postprandial sleep session also.

The following morning, we get a call from Guests in one of our cabins saying that water for the kitchen sink was only coming through the sprayer, not the faucet.  They said they were headed into town and would we fix it while they're gone.  

Well, crap! I'm not a plumber nor have I played one on TV.  I go down to the cabin, turn the door knob and the door's locked.  WTF?  We live at the end of a 1.5 mile road with only one way out, our property is gated and nobody's around.  You need to lock the door?

Anyhow, I go back up to the house and get the spare key.  Come back down and stick it in the lock.  Doesn't work.  Bad words were spoken.  Meanwhile the cleaning lady arrives, walks up and asks what's up.  I explain the issue to her, she goes back to her vehicle, returns with a playing card and opens the door.

I'm not sure if I'm relieved or scared stiff.  In any case, I enter and take a look at the faucet.  It does, in fact, only work in spray.  I look underneath and am in another "What the heck do I do now?" moment.

The sprayer connections are the top and the bottom.  I try turning them, but only end up turning the sprayer itself.  Nothing seems obvious to me.  Looks like, rather than screw something up badly, it's time to "Call the Plumber".  Before I leave to do that, I figure I'd better check to see that I didn't loosen something enough to cause a leak.  Turn it on, still sprays water.  Start to put it back into the slot, when I remembered a lesson I learned from a Crew Chief on my F-4.  

Sarge knows this one.

"Hit it with a hammer"

Well, I didn't have a hammer, but it's a steel sink with a divider between the two basins.  I give it a brisk rap on the divider and feel a kerchunk in my hand.  Turn on the water and Voila'.

Does this make me a master plumber?  Sure could use the money.

Since this is being written on Sunday and this particular Sunday is referred to as Mother's Day and I had 3 Mother's on the property at the time, I figured my continued life depended on getting that day right.

I took them out for Sunday Brunch with the 3 grandkids at a nice little restaurant called the Hill Country Herb Garden.  Very nice place, nice staff, good food, a little pricey but not horrible.  I can heartily recommend the Steak Filet Egg's Benedict.  

Well...I was the only guy, above the physical age of 6 months (other forms of measure could be in doubt).  Little J was "there" in spirit to keep an eye on things.

Afterwords, Mother's day gifts were presented.

MG did a great job of delivering them.

Speaking of gift delivery.

4 weeks into a planned 3 day job.

C'est enfin terminé ! 

The solution to the glue problem was soak it in paint thinner for about 5 minutes, scrape off as much glue as possible, then use Goof Off glue removal on any remnants. Took quite a while, but it worked. Just an FYI in case any of you are caught in a similar situation.

 Oh, yeah, one more picture. Or not! Thanks Google.

 *It's been a while, but this is the standard opening phraseology of a Fighter Pilot War Story, and the truth of the story is absolute. (In the mind of the Teller.)