At Home on the Range! 2010

When your kid is qualified to be in Special Forces and has real skills, you listen to them when they say “C’mon Mom, we’re going to the range to shoot a few.” It happens more often than one may think.   Reuben has trained me in hand-to-hand combat, how to deliver a sweet kidney jab and cut throat move all in just two seconds. He’s rather handy that one. He takes great pleasure in sneaking up behind me and killing me, then explaining to me just how easy it was, before showing and demonstrating to me what I could have done to prevent him from doing so.  

 Reuben took me to the shooting range close to where we currently live, only about 20 miles away.  Had it been in Texas, I would have said "just up the road a bit" to describe how far we drove so I could kill paper targets. Everything is relative in Texas when it comes to distance. It was fun, it’s always fun when we go shooting, but more importantly, it was a life lesson for me, as to why I gave birth in the first place. The #1 reason I gave birth to my son apparently, was so that on this day, he would rule supreme over me and thoroughly school me on self-defense, self-preservation, self-protection, and why I should never join any elite shooting teams any time soon (Hint: because I suck at shooting a gun.) You have to understand that even though I was raised in a Southwestern state (Oklahoma) and have been out in the woods I have not been hunting. I have only been target-practicing with hand guns.  Before my son, I had only shot a hand gun a few times and I think I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger with both hands most of the time. I missed then too. It was determined long ago that I'm far better at shooting a rifle than I am a hand gun.  

I've been known to shy from a pistol; even dropping it, and then screaming because I thought it was going to go off in my hands or when it hit the ground for sure. Yep, I'm far better and more comfortable holding a longer barreled weapon and when I do I have a bit more confidence -- at least I can fake my non-nervousness and I don't shake or sweat where the bad guy can see me. Choosing the right weapon is so important. I told the guy at the front desk of the gun range that I wanted something without a recoil and he showed me the door. At first, I thought he kept guns outside where we had just come in from, but soon realized he was directing me to go home -- I laughed, but apparently, he's not much of a joker. See why I don't date? Men are mean.  

Reuben gave the guy the ol’ man head nod without saying anything, and he was escorted to the back office where all the rifles and pistols are kept. The guy finally cottoned up to me after Reuben explained my ignorance; thank you son -- and I was handed a something or other deer rifle with the number .243 at the end, which I think shoots 30x30 ammo - - but that makes no sense to me. It should shoot 243 sized bullets, right? Anyway, I didn't argue, I just listened to my son explain how to load it, how to lock it, how to cock it, how to aim it, and how to shoot it correctly; and he did this in one long sentence and only 1/2 of a breath. Done! I had to ask him to do it again of course, but this time to slow it down a bit -- the gun master left the room before he became angry enough to use one of his guns on me in front of my son. 

 We were the only shooters on the deer range. I was given a deer rifle for two reasons: 1. It's easier to explain to law enforcement, I'm told. You have a deer rifle you may never be questioned as to why you own one. It's used to shoot deer. the 2nd reason is, you guessed it, it doesn't have as much of a recoil. Well, it does, but it's supposed to be easier for women and/or men who aren't used to shooting. I don't like to lie to law enforcement - - but I will never ever in my life, as long as I live, shoot at a deer. It's not going to happen. Not in this life time and not in any other life times that I am a participant of. I'm getting the rifle to protect myself and Laura from bad men, not good deer. So, Mr. Law Enforcer - - I'm getting a MAN rifle, not a deer rifle. There, I said it.  

OK, so you don't think I'm a total buffoon, I will address the issue of aiming first. I did a very good job at shooting the rifle once I understood the concept of closing one eye and aiming with the open one. It only works when you use the open eye to gauge the shot, and no one, not even my son got a chuckle when I tried to aim the rifle with the closed eye -- it was a joke! He was not laughing, I swear, these sour-faced people can be annoying.  No one is funny at a gun range. I practiced a few times and then began shooting. We paid for 30 minutes and in that time, I shot at and murdered over 40 paper deer. I nearly cried thinking about their little paper friends, families, baby deer back in the storage cabinet, and thought long and hard about asking for paper man targets since I wouldn't be aiming low enough to shoot a deer in the head or a man in the ---- oooooh, yes, I guess I might be aiming low enough to shoot a man there, now, wouldn’t I?  At least he would stop his approach if I did, wouldn't he?  

So, I shot 10 more deer after that...all dead. All the deer that came after me as they grazed unwittingly in their gun range field of air were called "Mr. Bad Guy" and I killed every last one of them. No mercy for their paper friends and relatives after that - - they had to die. Well, the rifle was OK, it hurt a bit and I realized that I can actually shoot right and left eyed -- or right and left-handed. I'm equally good on both shoulders, and because of that I'm equally sore tonight from the not-suppose-to-have-much-of-a-recoil recoil.... the .243 has a good recoil folks, it does. yes, it does. I can handle it because I have "shooter's shoulders" I'm told.  

How funny, when the assistant gun range man told me I had shooter shoulders, I told him I also had child-bearing hips. He said he had noticed my hips when I first came into the office. I blushed and said thank you, but my son wasn't the least bit impressed - - he got in the man's face and asked if the rifle was on sale or if he could pay some now and pick it up in a month or so. It was on sale, but we decided to wait - - I decided to wait. I want to be sure I'm moving to the country before plopping down $550 for a rifle I'm buying to protect myself in said country - - for the city, more urban, "Mr.Bad Guy",  I have my dogs, my daughter, and my Kaybar knife to protect me. (I'm not really bragging, but I'm fairly feisty with a blade) Reuben gave me a crash course on grappling as well.  

See, giving birth to this kid has just been so beneficial. There you go - - settled. Once I hear the words "We're doing the movie, Jude" and I find myself moving to the no-where zone of Northern Central Texas, where all roads lead somewhere cool, I’m told, I'll buy the rifle. I'm told the 30x30 ammo is cheap and that if I hang a couple of the paper targets outside the house, I could actually detour a would-be intruder. He may see that I missed the deer's head - - worry that I may not miss his head – OR, if I aim the same way I did to put a hole in the center of the animal Mr. Bad Guy may want to keep his bad balls where they currently hang. Just sayin’. 

Poems. (New book in 2010)

I'm posting a few poems which will be showcased in my 2nd poetry book. The first "Periwinkle" is available online at Amazon and can be ordered through your local bookstore. I am hoping to find a better publisher this time. Enjoy the works of a woman who loves to love.

RULED BY HEART

I couldn't ever start to know
The cravings of my heart
Her drum in me beats on its own
She lays out her own desires
I am forced to do her bidding
By fear that she may stop
If left alone she'd harden
Her need for me is soft

We fit together - harmonized
True, she rules us both
If she decides to fall again
If she desires to love
I won't fall, but have to wait
Wait until she frees me
I won't fall, but have to hope
Hope that she releases

I have but one heart to serve
She has but me to rule
Strange, our timing always off
Her silent beat abuses
Clinching to the next dreamt scheme
Silent beats - such thunder
Serve I will, devoted warrior
Pray she does not wander

Sooner Fan - - EVEN in my Dreams

Sleeping is NO exception when you're a Sooner. You are a fan at all times.

I was sleeping, I was dreaming, I was singing "Boomer Sooner". I don't remember all of the dream, but for the most part I was in Los Angeles the 1st weekend in October, as it was just too expensive to fly back to Dallas to see the OU/TX Red River Rivalry game. I remember thinking "this is a dream, I could fly if I wanted to. I don't need a plane!"

In the dream I was at a party and of course, because I'm a dedicated Sooner, even though I couldn't be at the game I was listening to it on my iPhone. I had the ear plugs firmly in place, and could see myself sitting in the corner talking to myself. I wasn't REALLY talking to myself. I was talking to Head Coach Bob Stoops -- I do that. I stand up and scream at the man through the television set when he does things I don't agree with, and I nearly chest bump the flat screen when he does listen to me...but we won't go there, in the dream I was half way behaving myself because I was in public. I was at a party! NOT AN OU PARTY, it was some sort of a get together for the book or the movie...this had to be a dream, because in reality, I can't think of much of ANYTHING that will keep me from either sitting in the stands or staring at my TV on that hallowed autumn Saturday morning. NOT MUCH could stop me - - it never has.

WHAT should happen in my slumber, but in walks no other than TEXAS fan Matthew McConaughey! I couldn't believe my eyes. This guy is usually not only at the game, but making such a burnt orange nuisance of himself on the big tron....singing, dancing, getting crazy, saying things like "Hook 'em horns" please! LOL

I asked my new friend why he wasn't at the game and he saw my shirt - - my OU shirt. He rubbed his non-horns chest and said "I know! I KNOW! I had to be here today! I can't believe it!" Well, you know I did the right thing, I let the man share my ear buds....he may be a Texan, but he deserved to hear the game too. That's the Boomer Sooner spirit - - right? This way when we scored and beat their Longhorn butts he'd be there to see me celebrate! LOL (Some Texans would tell you that after the last game or two, that I really must be dreaming...this year doesn't hold much more promise, but WE ARE SOONERS! We will believe!"

At least I woke up with a smile on my face.

Wicked Whirlpool - - But I am Still Standing

 

It's not like fighting authority, with the washing machine you have a chance. There I was minding my own business because that is what I do, when I heard a noise coming from the laundry room in my little house. Currently I "stay" as my friend says, in Ardmore, Oklahoma, a town of about 30,000 people, so it's not a dot on the map, but it more like a smudge. I was listening to the crazy noise this way before dawn moment of the morning, trying to determine if it was animal, plant, mineral or some kid that had snuck in the side door unannounced. I thought long and hard about it because it was dark outside; it was just before sunrise, so what, maybe 6:30 a.m, and I wasn't quite sure where I had put my Kabar. For those of you who don't know, a Kabar is a long sharp military blade. My son gave it to me for protection as he knows I don't do well with hand guns. 

The noise was thrashing, it was thumping, it was terrifying, but the most I could do at that point was to conjure up something wild in my mind.  Because I wasn’t really awake yet, and because I’m a writer, I imagine things that aren’t even there. Suddenly in my head there were now images of some sort of killer stalker guy who had managed to get into the side door but didn't know where the light switch was on the wall, and he must be falling over the Bissell steam cleaner trying to find the interior door. Oh, that's right, the interior door, I have one...was it locked? I couldn't remember? I was just in there too! I was trying to get the stink out of a comforter so I threw it in the washer with an extra bit of Oxy to do the job right. Did I forget to lock the door? Did I even need to lock it?

      Shoot, if it was open the guy could eventually find it and open it. He'd make his way through Reuben's nasty bathroom and then find me on the other side staring at him with a potted orchid in my hands. (Raised over my head of course, for better leverage in times like these) Where the hell did I put my stinking knife? The noise stopped. I rushed the interior door before the bad guy could find it and I locked it. I locked the damn door! Then, because I'm that way, I went outside in the dark through the back door, pushed open the gate, went around to the side door and pushed the heavy deck table in front of it! Ha! I trapped the bay guy now! There!  Now the guy was trapped in my laundry room and I could wake Reuben up to deal with him. Then the thought occurred to me, that if he were really small enough, he could crawl through the dryer's vent, and maybe escape, but I doubted it. 

 

    Me and my overworked imagination had tricked this S.O.B. so now there was only one thing left to do, and that was to taunt the guy. I called out to him, but you know they never answer. Laura was asleep of course, she slept through last week's tornadoes too - - it's like her to be unavailable in these stressful situations, but at least at this point, standing on the side of the house in my night shorts and tank top, I had a clear mind as to of where I had put the damn knife. It was under the bed between the nightstand and the bed frame. I remember now!  The orchid wasn’t going to do me much good at this point, so I did put it down knowing I could wake Reuben up and he’d be all over the guy with his bare fists if he had to.  

          

        Back to the bad guy - - he still wasn’t answering me, he didn’t say anything and I wondered if I should call the police at this point or let my kids loose. What would they ask me, what would they think about me pushing the table into the door rather than leaving the house with my cell so I could call them? I hadn’t alerted my kids yet, and you know what, the dogs weren’t even barking.  That’s really weird I thought. The dogs are not barking at this intruder! My dogs don’t pass up an opportunity to shriek at a random squirrel crossing my back yard, what’s up with them not bellowing like crazy right now? They were in bed with Laura sleeping! They were still sleeping! They didn't even get up when I went outside. I think Matrix followed me out of loyalty, but he wasn't really thrilled that he had to. He waddled back to bed! 

      After a few clear minutes of going over it in my mind and conversing with my Guardian Angel Sam who never ever leaves me, I went back inside the house and opened (cautiously) the interior door leading from Reuben's bathroom to the laundry room only to find that there was no bad guy - - unless he really was that small and had crawled through the dryer's vent. The washer however, had managed to find its way closer to the middle of the room and I think I heard it bitch about something being inside of it that wasn't fitting correctly...oh yeah, the comforter.  I thought it needed to be cleaned after Reuben used it when he went camping last weekend and I could smell pizza, beer, and the distinct odor of my gloriously wonderfully masculine son who could stink up a room just by walking into it.  

Yeah, well, OK, no bad guy - - just an overloaded washing machine that didn’t agree with my load choices.  Nothing to see here folks, nope, just ah....yeah, you know, go back to bed and tell the dog good night, again.  I know I could hear Sam laughing at me, he does that from time to time, but hey, I’m deadly with an orchid; at least I have that. Next time I’ll wait for the dogs to sound off before I potentially moon the neighbors or strain a muscle pushing the damn table up against the side of the house.  Yeah, that. 

 

The Notorious Nick Posh

I went to sleep last night after waiting up past eleven for Bryan (my personal Starbucks Shift Manager) to bring me a grande java chip frappucino. He had asked me if Laura wanted something before she went to bed, and had offered to bring her old mother one as well -- nice kid. So I said yes, and then started the clock. I won't say yes next time. It was a great and wonderful (as well as generous) offer, but waiting up to drink a fatty caffeinated drink may have led to this extremely interesting dream and I'm not really sure I'm cut out to be a detective novelist.

The Notorious Nick Posh appeared prominently in my slumber. I'll consider this writing proof of my copyrights, and therefore if anyone comes along and steals my idea I'll sic Posh on them immediately. Posh, in his day, had been credited with killing upward of 10 people over the past 12-15 years. He was hard to pin down has he'd been laying low after the Maguire brothers beat him senseless for the attempted rape of their sister Kate. That had been over 30 months, and since no brutal mutilations had taken place in Chicago's east side that could be nailed to Posh, the detectives of the XX precinct were all but convinced the brothers had scared the polecat into hiding for good, or maybe he was still floating somewhere on the banks of the Michigan looking like fish bait.

Here's the deal; Posh had an MO. After reading about a bloke in Guthrie, Oklahoma back in the early part of the century (20th)who had been shot during a bumbled bank robbery and having been over processed with the undertakers formaldehyde, Posh cooked the idea to intentionally use the stuff to stiffen up the stiff so tight he couldn't break, but he could be cut up cleanly enough. Posh then took several of the pieces that could be recognized, the head, the hands, and even the belly and mailed them to himself outside of Chicago -- to post boxes in post offices all around the area like parcels. From there he'd chop the pieces up using difference wood choppers that he borrowed or rented from locals. He even went so far as to go to Gary, Indiana once to borrow a farmer's combine tools to destroy evidence. Who cared if the other parts were found right, in 1939 it wasn't like those forensic experts of the future were going to catch Posh. He had it made.

Without more than a few words Detective Tom "Buzz" Irwin found himself back at work. Retirement wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and California's Malibu beaches wasn't any place for a Chicago native cop to hide out anyway. The chill of a hard Chicago winter hadn't gripped Buzz in two years but with Posh making a possible return, this time in the uppity Gold Coast, there was no one else qualified to go on the hunt. Chicago had a way of always seducing him. Always bringing him home.

That's when it happened -- I woke up. DAMMIT, I woke up. Now I have to sit down and write out some cheesy old period 20th Century serial killer novel with bad plots and sleazy evil characters oozing from the pages. It's either the Sherlock Holmes shorts I've been reading or my love for a hot, middle aged, raspy voiced, square-jawed detective that gives me this push - - can't simply be the frappucino. Wait, I hadn't actually described Buzz to you - - had I? OOPS, my bad.

That's my dream. It had all sorts of other details, places, people, action -- shouldn't take me too long to write it. I love writing in overt simple terms that can be read out loud and made fun of. Think Dragnet meets Dick Tracy meets me at the airport after too many cups of coffee. Should be fun.

So Not Easy Being Me in the Third

I'm trying to finish a book I'm writing with the fantastic Seattle based author Rudy Yuly. In the narrative we are writing in third person, which means instead of saying "me" or or "I", which is so ingrained in all of us when we talk about ourselves, I am being forced to say "she" or "Jude". I call myself "Stringfellow" when I think I've used my first name too often. This is not easy.

For the first few days I couldn't get it done at all. I forced myself to think outside of my own head and my own experiences to try and relive or visit the stories that I was telling the world. I tried to get inside my own head as it were, and tell the story from the point of view that would seem personal to the character in the book, but not necessarily so to myself, or the co-author. It helps that I'm not the only author of this book -- it helps that he's there and he's able to see things from a more pure and clean perspective when it comes to retelling a story that didn't actually take place in his life. It's like a dream for me. I'm trying to remember the events, but they don't seem all that real anymore.

When I go back over the things that have happened to me and to my family since we've had Faith it just seems like a bunch of made up stories - - like Forrest Gump or something. Oh wait, if it's Forrest Gump I may actually get a shot at Lt. Dan! Oh, how fun would that be? OK -- here's my dilemma, should I travel down this fantasy road for a while, or get back on the reality train and tell the blog as it was suppose to be? Oh, I hate it when I'm obedient. LOL

Back to the blog we go.

Authorship is a gift I believe. I know it can be learned, akin to playing the guitar, a piano, or even learning the basics in a game of baseball. If you are bent on writing you will write. Some of us are given a gift for it, and other work at it. Like me when I'm picking at my guitar - - I can't for the life of me remember the keys and I don't hold the chords correctly either. I love the instrument and I want to play it more than anything - not actually more than anything I suppose, because I'd rather write. I find that writing is a more natural event for me, and even if I don't have much to say I still talk. I still tell, and I still show off. If I were a classic guitarist like my good friend Edgar Cruz I would be strumming right now and you'd never be able to read what I write, but you could at least hear what I play.

Writing in the third is so hard for me. It's the equivalent of picking up that six-stringed instrument and trying to make it talk to me. Trying to make it tell me what I'm suppose to do to make it sing. I no longer write my fantasies or my dreams out in a journal before I key them into a computer. Times have changed and I have obeyed the times. However, being able to write and feeling comfortable with a new method are two completely different things. I like the challenge - - it makes me realize I'm a bit vulnerable; but at the same time I know I'll often slip right back into the woods I am familiar with and hide deeply beneath the foliage I have lived in and with all my life. My pen is my sword and I am not willing to lay it down just yet -- not when the fight is in me and the need to protect ME...well, her...if we're talking in the third.

I am the only me I could ever be. This remains constant. In every point of view.