A Primer on Primer Storage

Your valuable things.  They vary from person to person, but for reloaders they include primers.  Primers are sometimes readily available and sometimes as valuable as gold.  If they're available at a good price people tend to stock up.

If you are new to reloading,  there is some basic information that you should consider before you start tucking them in your sock drawer. I would also strongly suggest you do some homework and check your local laws rather than just rely on info from someone like me who stayed in a Holiday Inn Express last night. Various state and national fire codes have minimum standards for storage regarding methods and quantities. That's what the insurance companies go with, for what it's worth.

I am still learning about primers, but over the years, I have learned about smart and dumb things to do with explosives. Alaska, somewhere back in the 90s.

Just as I think many of you know about hazmat to some degree.

Due to their explosive nature, it is recommended that only an absolute minimum be kept in storage. The National Fire Protection Association's NFPA 495 says that not more than 10,000 primers should be stored in a private residence. This recommendation is law in most communities, so you might wish to check your local laws.
 

But think of it, 1,000 each large rifle, large rifle magnum, small rifle, large pistol, large pistol magnum, small pistol, small pistol, small pistol magnum, and shotshell primers. That's 8,000 primers, folks, so with care in replacing those supplies used, most people should have plenty on hand.

What about long-term storage?  Time isn't much of a factor in primer performance, but temperature cycling is. Going up and down in temp induces condensation.
 

The two biggest dangers for primers (outside of not being able to find any) is

(1) HEAT

(2) HUMIDITY.It goes without saying that you want to store primers in a remote location away from any source of ignition (that includes bullet impact). Watch for any potentials for high heat, spark, electrical percussion in your storage area. A general run through for potential dangers before setting up your reloading and storage area before you make your purchases is a good idea.Keep them away from oxidizing agents, flammable liquids, flammable solids (including handloading powders), children, pets, or idiots (including those related to you). Always store primers in their original packaging, which is designed for safety. Never store primers in bulk, such as in a can or jar.
 

There are better places to keep them than a gun safe. A storage cabinet is strongly recommended, constructed of at least 1-inch thick lumber, which will delay the transfer of heat to the contents in the event of a fire. The storage cabinet should be kept away from direct sun rays, open flames (well, duh), trash or other combustibles, heat sources, furnaces, solvents, and flammable gasses (well, you get the picture). Near the floor, as well, is the coolest place in a fire, but not touching the wall.

And yes, despite the commenter's warnings on my blog from fire marshal Bill and other friends, I store some primers in an ammo can. Why? Long-term storage. (Think of days of being unable to find primers instead of saving a few for a rainy day during the zombie apocalypse). I have primers stored this way that go back to the Clinton era that still work.

Yes, there are inherent dangers of this, frankly, in ANY storage of explosive bits and pieces. Primers are primary explosives, and just putting too many of them together in one place makes them "a bomb" whether they are contained or not.  The metal box storage would be a concussion explosion, and the shrapnel would not be as much as you think, but it certainly is a risk. Anyone that reloads in any bulk has all kinds of stuff that will go "boom". Some do it in shops separate from the home, and some do it in a house with precautions, such as a magazine built into the structure.

The hazard from the metal box is more about it creating an isothermal (uniform temperature) environment inside during a fire as it is about fragmentation. I would not want to be the fireman working near a hot metal box full of primers. Yes, the house could catch fire That's a risk I live with. I, for one, drive too fast to lose sleep over it. But if I plan on storing something long-term, I don't know any other options.

Stored in their original containers, packed in a can, I think the risk of them "cooking off" on their own is pretty slim. But NO, an ammo box WILL NOT "contain" them if they did cook off. But I wouldn't want something that strong anyway because it would only increase the explosive release if it does go up (why I don't store them in a gun safe, among other reasons). For long-term storage, the sides of a GI box would blow out plenty fast enough to prevent excessive pressure build up and it protects your primers from humidity like nothing else if you want to store for years, not months.  I know folks who have taken a 1-inch hole saw (fine tooth) and thinned a place from the inside of the lid to direct the force of the blowout, though it brings to mind "The Crimson Permanent Assurance".Some of the primers that have lived around the Range over the years were stored for a very long time and were still good when used.  Had they been in plastic, even with desiccant, they could have ended up duds. (Click to enlarge and look at the price on this box. Do you want to guess how old it is?) This box was stored in an ammo can, not a plastic can, and it is as good as new. The problem with plastic containers may be the vapor permeability of the material itself. Plastic gas cans/vehicle fuel tanks were only possible after the development of a flourination process used to create an impermeable layer in the plastic after the part is formed. But I know many will disagree with me and there's lots of discussion pro and con in the forums on storage. If you're worried about a fire, store your primers in a plastic ammo box, like you see pictured, still in their original packaging. The original packaging is designed to be non-static so you shouldn't have a problem with the plastic box. If a fire causes the box to melt and if the primers cook-off, when the first package pops, it will help scatter the rest of them. A pack of 50-100 primers would make a decent bang, but the flying bits are small and low-powered. Plastic is acceptable for the short term, but in my humble opinion, if you want primers that will be useful 10 years from now, plastic will not cut it unless you own a desiccant factory. (Note: the desiccant is going to do less than you expect if the individual boxes aren't sealed. The primers are assembled in 30% humidity, and anything much less causes the cake (the pressed mixture) to crumble.)

My primers are stored in their original boxes, with several desiccant pouches and a humidity indicator. I have the primers I will use soon in plastic containers with desiccant, but I also have a couple ammo cans packed for long-term need, one for small rifle & pistol primers and the other for large & magnum primers. They're kept in a cool, dry environment until I might need them someday when times get tough, and I only keep the can in use long enough to select what I'm going to use and occasionally replace the desiccant.I've never heard of primers in their box, stored in an ammo can, going off on their own. In a reloader, yes, but the can no. Has anyone else? If my house burns, I'm in a lot more danger from the ammo than from two or three cans of primers stored in a carefully constructed magazine.

Powder is a whole other issue for long-term storage. Powder stored in a pressure-containing device (like a sealed ammo can) is NOT a good idea because the powder is designed to burn and create gas, and if you put it in a sealed container... well. . .

I don't keep my powder in a sealed or airtight container, but I feel safe putting some of the primers in an ammo can. I don't want anything to crush them and make them pop, and I don't want flame to get to them and make them pop. I also don't want humid air attacking them.If you are going to store primers in some cabinet in your house there ARE some basic rules you wish to follow. Don't use your primer cabinet to store -

(a) your girlfriend's Cosco purchase of 8 gallons of nail polish remover,

(b) your blow torch or

(c) your emergency bacon rations. (well, just because).

(d) your powders

You can also identify your storage area with NFPA markings to aid firefighters responding to an emergency at their home -

The NFPA 704 marking system consists of a diamond-shaped placard divided into four sections: a white section on the bottom for special hazards, a blue section on the left for health hazards, a red section at the top for fire hazards, and a yellow section on the right for reactivity hazards. Each color box contains a number from 0 to 4, specifying the corresponding hazard level for the material contained in the container or area.

So for powder, primers, and most reloading materials, the white square at the bottom would be blank, the blue square on the left would contain a "0" for no specific health hazard, the red square at the top would contain a "3" for moderate fire hazard, and the yellow square to the right would contain a "3" or a "4" for high reactivity hazard, depending on what you're storing.   Google NFPA Marking System for more info.  Naturally, never smoke around primers. If the area where you reload is frequented by guests or household members who may not be familiar with the process, No-Smoking signs in the storage area and at the loading bench aren't a bad idea.

Again, these are just some basics of what I do. Others will have better info, and others will disagree. But on the issue of the ammo argument, you might wish to reference

49 CFR, Subpart 173.62, packing instruction 133.

Boring, yes, it's the federal requirements for packaging Primers, Cap Type, UN0044 (i.e., ALL small arms primers that we, the public, use). According to that reference, primers MUST be packaged in a certain way, but choices are allowed within specific parameters. For example, it references inner packing, which consists of "Trays, fitted with dividing partitions" as one option (this is what some of you are used to seeing). The reg above requires that if the primers are housed in trays, as mentioned in (1), then intermediate packagings are required. Follow the link above to page 11 of the PDF, look at the "Intermediate packagings" column for packing instruction 133, and see that we can store the tray of primers in a receptacle made of (our choice) fiberboard, wood, plastic, or METAL.

Finally, the regulation gives folks that fall under their guidelines a choice of outer packaging, noted in the 3rd column of page 11 of said PDF-- steel box, aluminum box, wooden box, plywood box, and plastic box, among others. I know these regs don't apply to us, the individuals, but it's nice to read what they consider safe choices for various purposes. Use common sense, check out local laws if you are so inclined, and follow some standard safety practices of not just HOW you store them but WHERE. Frankly, given where I live and what's on the radar at this time of year, I worry more about Mother Nature than Mr. Primer. Boring, yes, it's the federal requirements for packaging Primers, Cap Type, UN0044 (i.e., ALL small arms primers that we, the public, use). According to that reference, primers MUST be packaged in a certain way, but choices are allowed within certain parameters.

For example:

It references inner packing consisting of "Trays, fitted with dividing partitions" as one option, (this is what some of you are used to seeing). The reg above requires that if the primers are housed in trays, as mentioned in (1), then intermediate packagings are required. Follow the link above to page 11 of the PDF, look at the "Intermediate packagings" column for packing instruction 133, and see that we can store the tray of primers in a receptacle made of (our choice) fiberboard, wood, plastic, or METAL.

Finally, the regulation gives folks that fall under their guidelines a choice of outer packaging, noted in the 3rd column of the same page 11 of said PDF-- steel box, aluminum box, wooden box, plywood box, and plastic box, among others.

I know these regs don't apply to us the individual, but it's nice to read what they consider some safe choices for various purposes.

Use common sense, check out local laws if you are so inclined, and follow some standard safety practices regarding not just how but also where you store them.

For frankly, there are more things to worry about than your primers some mornings.

Words in the Dark

Some of you in the gun blogging community likely heard that our friend Ken Ostos lost his wife Samara last week after a brief and valiant fight after a medical emergency.  I don't have words that begin to display the love and courage he displayed during that, our having talked frequently as I had a similar stint in ICU 3 years ago, but I hope these words will offer him some comfort today.

-------

I wish my mom had lived long enough to see me in the captain’s seat. She knew early on that I loved planes, trains, and automobiles, much due to my beloved Uncle Rich, a Boeing engineer. Being childless by fate, he and my aunt welcomed my brother and me into their home as if we were a part of it.

We all know that every life must end, some tragically young, to war or a senseless accident, or to disease, but nothing in us wishes to accept it. For the true majestic, incandescent blindness of love is its willful refusal to fully acknowledge that at some time death will take someone from our lives.

I look at a photo of my mom on the table, taken so many years ago when she was alive but fading when Dad would return to our home from the hospital where she was, and he'd collapse on the sofa from worry and exhaustion. Losing my mother seemed impossible.  She was never as alive as in those last years when she fought so hard to stay that way.  Still, death came too soon for her age and for mine.

Yet she is still with me daily. Whenever you've been touched by love, be it of a parent, or child as I have, or a spouse, even after they've been taken from you, a heart print lingers so that you're constantly reminded of the feeling of being cared for, knowing that, to someone, you mattered. For now, know that others out there, strangers perhaps, but strangers with heart, pray for your family. Every hour, every day, is grace. Savor that, for it's not simply who you've lost that counts; it's what you do with the legacy of love they gave you.

One of my favorite places in the world is the rocky coast of Northern Ireland.  Being there reminds me of those days of childhood; the rush of the water affirms what draws me to search and discover. It takes me back to the taste of salt on my lips, that of rain or tears that only the years remember. The water rushes, then waits, as I do, moving in, retreating, watching, and still waiting. Remembering everything past, hoping for everything good in the future, in a bone-deep calm that belies the deep ache in my muscles as I climb up ancient stone steps that lead to cliffs hundreds of feet above.

At the top, there was a view, an expanse that was as untouched and unchanged as what drove me here in the first place. Steeling myself against the wind and looking down the distance, I wondered for a moment if I'd made the right decision to come up here.  Like anything, you do your best with what you have and hope you make the right decisions. Sometimes the decisions seem to happen by themselves as if found at the end of an invisible chain, sometimes they are long drawn out thoughts, held in the hand and dreamt of in the night before taking human form.

I wasn't alone—although the rest of the group took the bus back the short distance, there were a handful of us, strangers but kindred spirits, not speaking, simply looking outward. The others didn't dare the height, the edge, not with the wind that day, but I did, not feeling the fear until afterward, only feeling alive, on the wind, the smell, and the taste of the longing to simply be here.

I think about that place while home tonight as I sort through more artifacts of time I stole from the past that now sits on a shelf, flirting with the ancients, rugged rocks, the smell of peat and coal, a land brushed with snow, burnished with the traces of those who went before—traces that say, "Remember me, remember this, for in it you will find yourself and leave a piece of your heart behind."

On top of a sea-green cliff in Ireland, I will one day throw out one of those rocks to watch it splash down into the sea far below as I watch above from a strong yet fragile, light shell that houses this old soul. The rock will fly through the hindrance of the deepest sleep through the stiff fabric of the wind into the warm sea.

It's only a rock, only a bit of artifact of the past that holds in it, not the prolonged burden of time that too many embrace as they age, but the bright colored fluent movement of youth, the dancing heels of those days of risk and glory.  Perhaps the days of my youth are gone, as will be the rock, yet the feel of its absoluteness will remain in my hands long after the wind goes silent.

My mom was someone I always thought would be there, until one day, she wasn't. None of us have any guarantees. We're not promised a life without loss or pain, simply a way to cope if we're strong enough to give it up to something greater than ourselves.

But revisiting it is hard. It's like opening up a long-closed door. You must lean on the door, sometimes with your total weight, as it's been shut so long.  Then, slowly and with the painful rendering of wood held shut for months or years, it pushes open, and the light that falls from the lighted hallway shifts and moves into the long-held darkness. You look in carefully, hearing only the wind of your grief from outside of yourself, afraid to move further, head slanted towards the door as if you wish to see but are afraid to. You'll stand there, sometimes for hours, breathing slowly, hand on the doorknob and foot poised to step back or forward until your eyes fall upon what's in the room, and what is there is sadly empty of sentience. It does not contain the answers you want, reasons, or explanations. But sometimes, if you step into the comforting dark, you can at least find peace. 

 Brigid

One Heart, One Voice

It's Election Day, and the TV would be off if I hadn't given my flatscreen to Amvets. There have been many words on the TV and words on the Web, some that make you wonder, some that just make you wonder if someone was hypoxic. Here at the Range, it is just Tuesday morning.  I have a cup of coffee and a little time to write as I'm off work this week to eliminate some "use or lose" leave.  There is no lamp light, only the glow of a keyboard and a candle lit; the match then snuffed like a dying planet in miniature, extinguished with just the rush of breath.

I can not tell you who to vote for, where, or how. But think about it.  What seems to be monumental to the world now is, for my world, for yours, just one vote, just one action. Actions that, when taken, can not be undone.

I've never had a tattoo. One of my girlfriends has several, but they aren't really tattoos. They are works of art, incredibly detailed and delicate history etched into flesh. They are hidden by clothing, so it was some time before I was even aware she had them. When we changed clothes for a formal occasion, they were revealed as her clothing fell to the floor like flower petals, and I was struck by the beauty against alabaster flesh.

But I always hesitated to get one. For starters, I have a pretty low threshold of pain, which apparently is not uncommon among redheads. Then there is the whole "What would I get?" I have enough freckles that if someone were to connect the dots on my arms with an ink pen as a prank while I'm asleep, it might resemble a tattoo (don't ask how I know). But still, it's a big choice and a permanent one.

Some tattoos are crafted with months, even years, of thoughts and stories behind them. Others are done on the spur of the moment at the urging of friends who say "everyone has one, you need to have one too!" Both end at that moment when you unclench your hands from the pain, fingers filling again with blood, and you realize that the rose, maple leaf, or giant battleship with the words "Wanda Forever," or whatever it is that your heart clasped firmly on to, will be marked on your body for the rest of your life.

Such are those moments in early adulthood when one is proving points as much as themselves. Two members of my family had died, and the rest of us scattered in our grief, myself wandering the skies of a big world far from anything familiar. What I yearned for was the smell of fresh baked bread, sewing machine oil, fresh cut grass, the long ago sound of Mom laughing as Dad sang a g-rated version of "Barnacle Bill the Sailor", chasing the little ones down the hall. I wanted family dinners around an old table, the sound of happy voices, the tender touch of hands that uphold and forgive. What I had was what life handed me, and no amount of wishing can bring back dreams that weren't yours to craft.

But I can remember those days as if they were today, the sounds, the throated roar of an engine, the whisper of wheels on the pavement, the oily smell of jet fuel and asphalt that lay heavy on my skin as I wandered. I had the tools to take care of myself, yet I was unknowingly looking for someone to anchor what had been set adrift. Looking back now, I think, "How naive !" But unfortunately, the future of individuals, indeed, a very nation, can lie in the actions of those unaware of the true costs of things.

It's not long after that day, though now it's 40 years past,  that I awoke one morning with a slight headache from jet lag, wondering, for a moment, where I was. I've awakened next to a stranger. Not really a stranger, though; we had known each other a little less than a year and agreed on this venture, much to the delight of his family anyway. But now I just see a stranger, mouth shut in a firm line, no tenderness in it, a head tilted away from me, no longer listening. The cheap hotel a.c. blows over my legs like sweatshop silk, dust-laden light glinting on a ring on my left hand, put there at some little "church" in a desert town where nothing seems permanent except loss.

I was not the girl he had wanted to marry, but I did not know that at the time. That girl was not suitable, according to his parents. I was the girl they wanted him to marry, to come into the fold with, a big farm to inherit someday, a big future. I wanted that absolute of family, mine torn asunder. I was at that age in my 20s when every parent, every magazine, it seems, was urging one to marry.

I spent the next 10 years paying for the mistake of not being that girl, the hopes of laughter giving way to sounds no louder than a sigh but filled with such fury.

Actions. When we do things for reasons known only to us, and then look back on those choices years later, at the scars that only show when the fabric cover falls away, do you wonder -What WAS I thinking?

So, I don't make choices quickly anymore. The people who share my life, my table now, are ones I've known for years. I was friends with my husband for two years before we went on an actual date. My friends know and uphold my strong choices; they know my poor decisions and forgive them. I also accept them for what they are, not attempting to change them to fit something I need.

They are around me when it comes time to celebrate something. They are dinners, bad puns, zombie targets, tools and discovery, songs and music, too long dormant. They are there when the rain falls like knives, simply warming me, their flame drying me from the inside out.

Some might rightly say that when all is said and done, just one action, just like one vote, will not change the course of the future. But it would let me sleep, knowing that I had made a choice for this moment. It's not the choice of a naive child in an adult's body, looking for someone to provide for me what I could provide myself. It's the choice of one who has worked, lost, cried, and fought, and will continue to do so as long as God gives me strength.

Yes, it's just a voting booth, just the motion of a hand, a moment in time. As the hand moves, so does that time, so much longing and loss, hopes dashed and restored, lies told out of the depth of our hearing and whispered softly in our ears, the clang of coins filling a pocket or scattering on the ground like tears. It's just a vote; it's just a simple action.

Or is it?

I curl up with my coffee and notepad, looking at the photos on my desk of those people who taught me to love and trust again, smiles of shared moments, a touch that is like gold in the hand, firm and secure. I look at the shelves against the walls, at the many books, some patches, some awards, merits of years given, and service paid to something I still feel is more important than just being famous. There's a flag and a small cross, ceremonial shapes of mortality, reminders that some choices are everlasting. There's a tail from a whitetail, taken in a hunt, some spent brass that guarded a life, a piece of old uniform fabric, the scents of verbena and gunpowder and freedom that soak into my skin and bones like ink, to stay with me til the end of days.

It is just one small voice - but it is mine.
 - Brigid

Flying Towards the Sound of Thunder

What is the first sound you can remember? Most might say their mother's voice. I struggle to remember her voice; she died when I was just entering adulthood.  But I do remember her smell, a mixture of clean rain and Chanel No. 5. It's a smell, like that of sandalwood, that I can't catch a whiff of now without going soft and quiet, with this little echo in my chest.

Dad kept a few of her things around, her light blue sweater draped over the armchair where she read all of her books, her robe.  It was as if the presence of her things somehow compelled their home to remain that, more than brick and mortar, but the place that held the sentience and character of the woman who graced it.  Instead, just looking at them in the silence was simply an affirmation of emptiness, and soon, they, too, were put away.

I still have the sweater and the robe, but I do wish I could remember her voice.

One of my earliest memories of hearing comes from the sound of the ocean during summer vacation, flirting up against the sand while I played with a little bucket and shovel while gulls cried around me like mewing kittens. So many sounds as I grew, the clatter of my mom juggling pots and pans, making us dinner every night, the spray of the garden hose as my father washed our station wagon every Saturday, the wind pouring through the masts of trees, and later; the sound of an airplane.

When I travel, I hate sitting in the back of the plane: it's noisy, but what makes it worse is that it is the noise of strangers. Give me the cockpit any day. A cockpit is rarely quiet, but it's a symphony of familiar sounds. The air traffic controller's voice, a reassuring sotto voice, confirms that the two minds are in agreement and that all is well with the world. The sounds pick up as you descend, the gear coming down, the reading of the checklist, and before you know it, there is the ground. It's solid underneath you and hard, and if you flared too high, you'd break your aircraft against its incontrovertible passivity. But sometimes, the earth acquiesced, and the wheels kissed the pavement like lips against a warm neck at dawn.

Aloft and level, though, airplane sounds stabilize into a gentle song with just the occasional background chorus of the air traffic controllers, and you would have time to think and perhaps chat a little. Pilots talk of many things aloft when settled into a long cruise on autopilot, and the adage is true, when with the opposite sex, pilots talk about airplanes, and in an aircraft, pilots talk about the opposite sex. We talk of the spiritual, and we talk of the mundane. We talk about families and jobs, spouses, children, food, pranks played, food again, and surprise—we talk more about airplanes. Then, on descent, the time of “sterile cockpit” with no non-duty talking allowed, we would work in conjoined silence, only the callouts from the checklist heard on the air.

There were nights when we got in a long enough layover to play tourist or simply catch up on relaxation and sleep, carrying the cockpit conversation over to a bar or a little restaurant.  Such were the nights where on a very long layover, we'd have a spot of whiskey, telling tales of adventure of some pilot, who could have been any of us, or none of us, a story that was not boasting but simply a telling, stories that had been lived or inherited, those stories that have been told over whiskey since time began. There was just something comforting in the voices, the words, the recognition of sound in the air, the clink of ice, and if you were in a really low-rent part of the world, the cluck of the basket of live chickens hanging from the ceiling.

Then, there were the days when sleep was hard to find, the day grinding into the night, when the only words spoken outside of flaps and slats and EPRs were, with a quick look at your ‘dinner,’ Hey, I bet this would taste good warm.‘On such days, we simply continued on in silence, surrendering our misfortunes and our joys to God and Pratt and Whitney, which sang to us outside like a Mockingbird in the moonlight.

I think of a flight back before I hung up my professional wings, one long flight over foreign lands.  Up at altitude, across that vast stretch of blue, we laughed and shared. Much of it was happy, but occasionally a story would come back from a compatriot Gone West, and through the laughter, tears stung our eyes as a familiar awe-filled sadness enveloped our little space and we grew silent, remembering him, sounds of mourning and respect. Airmen and soldiers are a small community of thousands, and we never forget our dead.

It was still dark as we flew over the Prime Meridian after stopping for fuel in Greenland. The Prime Meridian is the common zero for longitude and time reckoning throughout the globe. It is the one place where we are all at one point, and the moment stands still, an infinite place where, for a second, time and motion are tethered to our aircraft like a careless rope.

As we crossed over, I synchronized my watch with my copilot’s and attempted to capture that time, to somehow gather it for us. Only then did it hit—all we have experienced from this cockpit: different languages and sights, smells, and sounds; the roar of a turbine engine, as it started with that artistic endeavor of curse words and meditation; the underlying scent of jet fuel, oily and dark, that hung in the mist on an early morning ramp.

This morning’s air had burned with cold as we traced the soft scratches in the panel with gloved hands, trying to keep them warm while we waited for orders—the red “remove before flight” tags on the gear pins lying like frozen icicles against the landing gear as the crew chiefs finished their tasks.  Yet such thoughts disappear as the sound of the engines brings us back to our tasks; we're still at the Prime Meridian where there was precision and accord, spoken with the deep anesthetic hush of sameness.

We sat in that quiet hush, veins flowing with need, the nourishment of salt that comes from flesh and our eyes, that old blood that has explored new lands and ancient skies, the hardships of separation and the circumstances that lurk, to hurl us into wonder, or to snatch us from that blue, into the dark.  We've seen glory, tears, and abrogated peace from this windshield.  Though we missed being home, we'd not have missed this day aloft, given a choice.

The sun began to awaken as we neared our destination, the shadow of our craft skimming the clouds. The descent was at hand, and the day surged towards sunrise, or would if we could see it through the prevailing, thin mist of a foreign world. The sound of conversation ends there. We simply basked in the hum of the engines and the view out the window to our world. The clouds gathered up in a huddle of virgin thunderstorms. Up above, through a small portal of light, the trail of another aircraft 1,000 feet above fades into the blue as we started the ballet of preparing a jet aircraft to land, staring mutely through a spattered windshield across which the wipers swung like metronomes. We fly towards the sound of thunder for it's all we know.

The morning sun hits the windshield, an explosion of white light that leaves nothing—no bone, no ash—just a vast, deep plane of blue, the altar onto which we lay ourselves down as the flaps are lowered for the approach. For just a moment, I leaned my head wearily against the left side wall of the cockpit as the sun, my ship, and I were, for a moment, joined, an eclipse of light, sound, and motion.

Up ahead is the outline of land, there in the thin clouds, dissolving away beneath unfettered rain as if eroded by the sea. I sensed, more than heard, the steady hum of the engines outside my window. It's at once, the sound of an ocean, the laughter of a young girl, all wrapped into a bright continuous hum; the music of motion that pushes us towards home. - Brigid

Until I return - a Pictorial

I'm on vacation this week, so I will leave you with this in memory of not-so-pleasant weeks.  

My work week if I were a dog  - A Pictorial

MONDAY

TUESDAY

WEDNESDAY

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

FRIDAY YAPPY HOUR

To Have a Book

I don’t own a TV – having given the giant flatscreen to AmVet years ago.  But I don’t know what I’d do without my books. Remember the book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury? It was set in a dystopian future in which firefighters intentionally burn any house in which a book was located because it’s illegal to possess them. Ultimately, a fireman who secretly grew to love books escapes the city of big screen, reality-based entertainment to find a small group of book-loving refugees banded together. Each person was assigned to memorize one complete book—including Plato, Dickens, James Joyce, and more—so the books would survive until society was ready to possess them again. I loved that book when I was in high school. I did not read many popular novels, though I had a rather large collection of classic literature while growing up. When my grade school classmates were reading and loving their mysteries or the Captain Underpants series, I was reading Jane Eyre and Henry David Thoreau, and a whole world beyond my quiet, hushed one at home opened up to me.

Reading is, for me, not just intellectual but physical. I love how the spine of a book feels in the crook of my fingers; the smooth, hard-end boards snug on either side of the pages sewn together, their edges flush and perfect. I totally lose track of time when I read. I read somewhere that time, as most of us think of it, is an illusion; the past, the present, and the future are here, now, captured in a touch, the blink of an eye, or perhaps, simply between two pages of a novel. Today, between two pages of a favorite book, I found a photo of Mom in her garden. Outside the window here now, a plant waits for spring, when it can spill forth its seed onto the soil. I remember days of working in the flowerbeds that my mom so lovingly maintained.

After her death, I kept it going as long as I could for my dad until he, too, was called away. As I toiled in the garden, the sun kissed the top of my head, the touch a benediction, a blessing.

I missed having a used bookstore a bicycle ride away, the owner having retired and closing it.  But there were often yard and garage sales here in the Village, and I could usually find old books for pocket change. The last time I was at a used bookstore, I found an old cookbook, two generations old, that I opened to browse and purchase. I could picture my Mom using a book like that, and it would look nice on the shelves with her books that remain in my house. In it was a dried flower carefully pressed within the pages so many years ago, a story untold within that small remembrance.

 I've many books like that old book, purchased from stores that contain more light than dust, containing within them things old and forgotten, things that in the wrong hands would only grow older. Finding the right one was like finding treasure. Fingers trace the spine, fingers that are gentle and forgiving, not wishing any further scarring upon that which binds. Such books find their way home, where they are pulled out to be read on late nights, the mind marveling that other minds marveled; the mysteries and the mistakes play out across the pages as if they were penned today. They tell their stories like some old and lonely shut-in would do to anyone willing to listen; lessons are given without rancor or heat. So many words need to be said while they can still be heard. I always make sure I have a book with me when I travel.

The last time I took a really long trip overseas, I had to downsize a bag as the little turboprop airplane piloted by who I believe was The Incredible Hulk was weight-restricted. My books were left behind for materials I had to have for the trip. Instead, I would have given up my lunch, poncho, and hiking boots instead of my little collection of paperbacks and a small leather-bound book of Shakespeare sonnets. Let the weather wreak havoc on my itinerary, let the grocers sell the last chocolate bar, but if I were to end up alone in the middle of nowhere after I bust a move down the Himalayas and break my leg, I wanted a book.

Curled up in strange places next to an artifact of the family that is toted around in my suitcase, I might be lonely, but I would be content. For I have a book. It’s a big old, paper-made, dead tree book. I want to hold something in my hand that feels alive to me, even if a living thing died to create its pages. Some words form pictures laid out upon a living thing that never slept, never dreamed of the soft perch of birds or the sharp blade of the ax, and never mourned the tender leaves that it nourished and abandoned. It’s a piece of wood that could be warmth, support, shelter, or the perfect, pristine bed of memory laid down bare.

My house is empty tonight, but I am not alone. In my head are history and the cries of warriors, rushing forth immortal beneath disported sabers and brandished flags, and men were rushing forward into time, propelled by gunpowder and righteousness, underneath a sky of thunder. I have a book. I am caught up in battles and loves, both forbidden and forgotten, coursing like blood as long as the words will—that immortal, fresh, abiding blood that bears respect above regret and commitment above the ease of dishonor.

My chores are going to be put aside for at least an hour or two before bed, and I’ll pick up a mug of hot tea and that book. I’ll let it transport me to somewhere far away until a chime will toll for warriors, for battles won and those so easily lost. As my hand turns the pages, I will move among people who lived and died, or perhaps never existed at all, their shadows not of flesh or blood but imagination, shadows as strong as finely-honed steel, and shadows as quiet as murmuring breath, forgotten until they were put upon paper. Then, upon hearing the sharp, clear, and quiet blade-like sound of that chime, perhaps a clock, perhaps something that just travels within me, I will fall off into sleep. The book lies prone on the nightstand next to me. The book and I are two forms, creating one shadow. The stories in both of us never cease, even at rest. Outside, the world continues in that illusion of change, the sky letting go of its tears, washing a parched landscape anew. 

Simple Things

Amount spent on fancy puppy toys to keep Sunny from eating the sofa:  $397

Amount of interest in said toys:  Less than 10 minutes and that was for the $9 "Hurl a Squirrel".

New Favorite Toy:  Abandoned Rubbermaid trash can.