David Milton McGowan

Safety for Joe Public

2012-01-11T20:34:00.003-07:00

I've done articles on this subject several times. Now here is another one from a police officer that supports my earlier work.
Looks like the facts are coming out in Gun Control and the NRA wins on this one!!
Australian Gun Law Update
Here's a thought to warm some of your hearts from:
Ed Chenel, A police
officer in Australia
Hi Yanks and Canadians, I thought you all would like to see the real figures
from Down Under.
It has now been 12 months since gun owners in Australia were forced by a new law to surrender
640,381 personal firearms to be destroyed by our own government, a program
costing Australia taxpayers more than $500 million dollars.
The first year results are now in:
Australia-wide, homicides are up 6.2 percent,
Australia-wide, assaults are up 9.6 percent;
Australia-wide, armed robberies are up 44 percent
(yes, 44 percent)!
In the state of Victoria alone, homicides with firearms are now up 300 percent.
(Note that while
the law-abiding citizens turned them in, the
criminals did not and criminals still possess their guns!)
While figures over the previous 25 years showed a steady decrease in armed
robbery with firearms, this has changed drastically upward in the past 12
months, since the criminals now are guaranteed that their prey is unarmed.
There has also been a dramatic increase in break-ins and assaults of the
elderly, while the resident is at home.
Australian politicians are at a loss to explain how public safety has
decreased, after such monumental effort and expense was expended in
'successfully ridding Australian society of guns....'
You won't see this on the American or Canadian evening news. You won’t hear a
Premier, Prime Minister, MP, governor or member of a State Assembly
disseminating this information.
The Australian experience speaks for itself. Guns in the hands
of honest citizens save lives and property and, yes,
gun-control laws affect only the law-abiding citizens.
Take note, before it's too late!
In localized
instances this has been proven for decades, but now it has been proven by an
entire nation.
Will you be one of the sheep to turn yours in?
WHY? You will need
it.

"Fire arms
stand next in importance to the Constitution
itself. They are the American
people's liberty teeth and
keystone under independence...from the hour
the Pilgrims
landed to the present day, events,
occurrence and tendencies
prove that to ensure peace, security and
happiness, the
rifle and pistol are equally
indispensable...the very atmosphere
of firearms anywhere restrains evil
interference---they deserve
a place of honor with all that is good."
(George Washington)

A Wet Christmas?

2011-12-17T21:45:00.002-07:00

The 17th day of December and I’m driving in rain
at 8ºC. (That’s 46º F for you metrically challenged folk.) I didn’t like it! The windows in the truck would allow a view for no more a few moments. We shouldn’t have muck for
Christmas.
I would be much happier with - 15º C ( 5º) until about March
5th when it should warm up and dry up in about a month.
Which also won’t happen.
Since one can’t do anything about the weather except grin
and bear it (or perhaps that should be grin and bare it.) I decided to construct a little rhyme as I was hauling fuel down the road.

The melody to “Jingle Bells” should work.

Racing through the rain
In a Razor Custom quad.
Goin’ to the neighbours place
For turkey, ham and grog.
From toddies smooth and rich
We wound up in the ditch
We’ll have to get the horses out
To pull us from this bog

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells
There they come right now
The off horse is a little shy
They’re both as fat as sows.
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells
They’ll do the job just fine
Back up to the shoulder there
And throw us out a line.

The team began to pull
The Razor made a roar,
The off horse made a mighty leap
The near horse took more load.
The double tree it broke
Pieces left and right
Man that team can really move
They just went out of sight.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Will tell us where they are.
With hay and oats in the barn,
They won’t get too far.
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Relax and just sit back
I think I’ll have a little sip,
Will you pass me the flask?

D. M. McGowan
2011

Daylight Savings Time

2011-11-07T21:10:00.001-07:00

I was told that Daylight Saving Time was invented by a wise
old Indian who cut his blanket in half then had his woman sew the ends together
to make it longer.

Many years later I met the wise old Indian at a club where I
was playing in Vancouver. He said that
only a politician already established in some cushy government position would
come up with the idea that someone could cut a foot of his blanket and sew it
to the other end to make it longer.

Many years later I heard, because he was famous, that the wise
old Indian had passed away. While contemplating our visit many years before and
what he had said about the business of turning our clocks backward or forward I
had an epiphany;

Daylight Savings Time was invented by a very warped mind.

What We Need Is a Good Cattle Dog

2011-10-29T21:15:00.001-07:00

I can't tell you how Alvin's doing. It's been a while since I seen him. You see, Alvin and I don't spend too much time together. Not like we used to. It goes back to that time we went up to Carter's to help them round up their cattle. Looking' back, I reckon I was a bit rough on him, but I thought he had a better sense of humor.
There was about ten of us who volunteered to help out. Neighbors rode over on horseback, and some hauled their horses in from as far as fifty miles away. I don't have a truck or trailer, so I rode with Alvin, our mounts in his two-horse trailer.
Most of us got there the night before, a Friday it was, so that we'd be ready t' get started early Saturday. 'Course, the early start was a bit rough on most of us since, once we got a place for our bedrolls, most of us spent the night over a few drinks, playing' cards and swapping yarns. But despite how tough a few felt that next morning we were all out there gathering' cattle in fairly decent time.
Along about two in the afternoon, we had quite a bunch of critters up by the loading pens. After turning about a dozen head into the herd, Alvin and I headed south into a low spot we hadn't checked out. Sure enough, there's twenty head or so, down in the brush.
Well, we pull up near the edge of that brush, and Alvin starts to get down.
"Where you goin'?" I asked him, though I pretty well knew what he had in mind.
"Well, horses’ll be no good in that brush," Alvin says. "We'll have to go in on foot."
I rode back up-slope a ways and had a look at that bush. It probably covered ten acres, and was as close as hair on a dog’s back.
"You're not gonna chase any cows outta that," I said. "Work like that, you need a good cattle dog."
"Well, we don't have a cattle dog," Alvin says, "so we'll have to do it on foot."
"We could also just leave the herd up where they are," I advised. "By tomorrow this bunch in the bush’ll be lonely, and come out of there on their own."
"Work don't get done by lettin' it lay," Alvin says.
I swung one leg around the saddlehorn, and proceeded to roll a smoke. "You get ‘em out here, I'll be sure to hold ‘em for you," I said, though I figured there wasn't much chance of me having to do anything.
Well, Alvin just glared at me, dropped the reins, and went waddling off into the willows.
He got four steers and a cow moving that first time out. Of course, when he got right up to the edge of the brush, the cow went left, and the steers right. Alvin was heaving pretty good and trying to figure out how five animals could go in ten directions.
He went back into the trees, picked up his hat, and carried it out and hung it on his saddlehorn. Then he glared at me, and headed back into the brush.
I pulled my hat down over my eyes and got comfortable.
During the next half hour, he kept trying to chase them cows out, and they'd just turn around and go back in the bush, as cows tend to do. Pretty soon his face began to look like a piece of raw meat, and everything he wore was soaked with sweat. I was beginning to worry that he was gonna have a heart attack, and I'd have to haul him out of there.
He was on the edge of the brush, legs spread, and hands on his knees, and just heaving. I was pretty sure there wasn't a bull on that place with a harder head than his.
I started to roll another smoke as I let my horse shuffle over toward him. "You know, Alvin," I said, "you're gonna have to cut a switch off one of those willows, and give yourself a lickin'. You're gettin' way behind!"
You know, I had to find somebody else to haul my horse home!

2011-10-22T19:26:00.003-07:00

Over at http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/about/hownanoworks they have a novel writing contest. You can see all the info there, but primarily it's write a 50000 word novel in any genre during the month of Nov.

I certainly plan to try and hope to be in FSJ on Nov. 1 for the "official" beginning. However, working 10 and 12 hours a day, often 7 days, I don't know how successful I'll be. Here's to effort.

2011-09-17T20:04:00.003-07:00

Chuck Wending over at terribleminds has asked for a short story of a 100 words or less. Therefore I’m posting the following. How Hennedy wound up on this wall and what he does about what he has found is up to you.
By the way, Chuck can be found at http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/16/flash-fiction-challenge-the-numbers-game

Hennedy exited through the main door and trotted along the front wall to the North corner. After testing the strength of the ivy that climbed the church wall he began to climb.
At the third floor he looked in the window of the locked apartment. In the dim light from a table lamp he could see the Bishop standing over what appeared to be a body. In his left hand he held a chain of prayer beads and was rubbing the right hand fingers over what appeared to be a blister on the back of that left hand.

Where do you stand on digital publishing?

2011-08-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

G'day all;
I've been giving serious consideration to releasing "Partners" and "Homesteader" as digital, or E books.
I personaly enjoy reading "real" books; I like the feel and I'm comfortable with the concept. What books have done for mankind in the last few centuries can not be understated. What the early books ... the papirus, the hand copied bibles, the early writings of scientific pioneers ... did for the development of man and his society is nothing short of a miracle. Because of my feeling for books, I'm finding the move to E books a difficult decision.
Perhaps it's simply another step forward in the evolution of the written word. We've had the progress as mentioned above from writing on plant leaves and animal skin to multiple copies of the same work. Perhaps not being able to feel the pages your reading will be a good thing.
So all you folks out there let me know what you think. I realy want your thoughts on the subject. Perhaps, after making digital copies of "Partners" and "Homesteader" available I'll then make my first novel, "The Great Liquor War" (the prequel to "Homesteader") available. And then follow it with a collection of short stories and the sequel to "Partners".
Dave McGowan
d.mcgowan99@gmail.com
www.dmmcgowan.blogspot.com
www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Partners
www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Homesteader
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Partners
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6LEqjRHCDQ

Would You Care For Pie? By D.M. McGowan

2011-07-28T21:27:00.001-07:00

Mrs. Smith was usually alone in management of their little country store, since the rest of the family was involved in construction. She also operated a lunch counter on the premises which attracted many travelers who could not resist her home cooked meals, pies and pastries. It was a wearing, seven day a week task made more difficult in a land of dust and mud.
On occasion, however, she would arrange to have someone take over, allowing her a few hours respite from the constant grind and perhaps a trip to town, thirty five miles away. On one such occasion her husband, Garner Smith, heavy equipment operator, mechanic, rascal and tease, was left in charge of the establishment.
He was sitting at the counter reading a paper and drinking coffee when a lone traveler entered and took a seat a few stools away.
Gar looked up from his paper and asked,” What can I get you?" He rose and moved around behind the counter.
"Coffee and maybe a piece of pie," was the reply.
"What kind o' pie would you like?" Gar asked, looking through the offerings his wife had prepared.
"Well, you got any pumpkin?"
"No. No pumpkin, but we have lemon, raisin and apple."
"Apple, I guess."
A twinkle appeared in Gar's eye, but he quickly hid the smile. He served the slice of apple pie and the coffee, and then returned to his seat down the counter. Sipping his own coffee, he allowed the customer time to become involved in the pie and appreciate just how good it was.
"We had to quite makin' the pumpkin," he observed, taking another sip of coffee.
The customer stopped his fork half way to his mouth, an inquiring look directed at Gar.
Returning his cup to the counter, Gar nodded sagely, no hint of a smile. "Mice kept leavin' tracks in it."

Another source for The Yearlings

2011-07-23T21:24:00.003-07:00

For those of you who came here late and find you have no idea what "Historical mention in The Yearlings" means ,,, it's a short story I posted here in episodes. If you are interested in reading the whole thing, drop me a line at d.mcgowan99@gmail.com and I'll send you the whole thing.

Historical mentions in The Yearlings

2011-07-16T21:06:00.003-07:00

As I mentioned, there are two historical mentions in “The Yearlings”. So why should you, or any one else, give a damn? Because what happened “back then” (when ever it was) helped create who we are and who our kids will be.
Fiction is entertainment, or at least good fiction should be. It doesn’t necessarily have to be literature, nor does it have to be a presentation of perfect English. If it is either of those things, that’s a great plus. If it is literature it will last. If it is understandable (in what ever language) it continues communication. First, it has to be entertaining so that someone will read it.
If it is entertaining as well as being informative, that’s even better because it gives the reader of any age an opportunity to grow.
I suspect everyone understands the first historical mention in “The Yearlings” is when Rolley says “there's a war gettin' under way over t' Europe,”. Of course, he is talking about the “War to End All Wars” or WWI. Many people, from all walks of life, all levels of society and in many countries thought the war would change politics and aggression throughout the world but would also be an opportunity for them to get rich. It proved to be an opportunity for hundreds of thousands to die.
It’s funny how people don’t learn from history. We have wars now, and somehow the folks back home are surprised when soldiers and civilians become casualties.
When Janet is thinking about the Yellowhead Trail and the new railroad that of course is the Canadian National. However, at the time it was the Grande Trunk Pacific Railway.
There were many supporting reasons for building the GTPR. The most important of those reasons, of course, was that customers of Canadian Pacific Railway needed another source for service. Partially to attain competitive pricing, but more important was a competitive attitude. The CPR thought they owned Canada and its citizens and could treat them any way they wanted.
There was an official ceremony at Fort William, Ontario (Thunder Bay) on September 11, 1905 and, after many delays the last spike was driven one mile east of Fort Frazer, BC on April 7, 1914. Most of the delays were due to a lack of funding, the same problems that had plagued the CPR during its construction more than 20 years earlier.
One of the great champions of the GTPR was its General Manger, Charles Melville Hayes. He made several trips to solicit funding for the venture and apparently was successful on his last trip. However Hayes’ returned passage was booked on RMS Titanic. The date of the world famous end of that voyage was April 15, 1912.
There are several firearms mentioned in the story. Janet leaves home with a rifle (which she forgets to load) for no one but an idiot would venture into a true wilderness without a weapon to protect themselves. The other weapons mentioned were a common thing in Canada's wilds ... at least until 1924.

There's history in ... well, someplace.

2011-07-07T19:55:00.001-07:00

The story “The Yearlings” is purely a product of my weird imagination. However, within the story are two historical mentions. Did you pick them out? More about that on my next post.

Janet's cattle returned with extra treasure for her trouble

2011-07-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

4

A half-hour later she stopped to fit the saddle to her shorter legs. The steers showed no inclination to veer from the trail home. As she shortened the stirrup leathers she noticed her heart rate and breathing had begun to slow their frantic pace.
"Now I'll have to listen to Mother go on and on about how I left her alone for a whole two days," she said to the horse as she pulled the lacing free. "Then she'll make Matt feel awful by telling him it's his fault that I was almost murdered over a few filthy animals." She finished on one stirrup and moved around to the other. "Then Matt won't ever want to leave the place again."
She was finishing up before she continued. "Which might not be all bad, at least I wouldn't have to listen to Mother's drivel all by myself."
She remounted and continued, liking the feel of what she was already coming to think of as her saddle. It was also a fine, smooth-gaited horse.
"That's not really fair," she continued. "It's not fair to make Matt have to put up with any of Mother's prattle when I can protect him from it. It's not fair to expect that she would be hard on him over this. She probably won't say a thing about it to him, thereby making me feel guilty because he doesn't know how much danger I was in, and because I have kept something from him."
The steers were beginning to tire and wander, looking to fill their stomachs with the old grass that was showing now in more places than were covered by snow. She drew her mount in a little and began pushing the yearlings along the trail.
"Yes, that would be more like Mother. Then she would think she had a new power and control over me."
She had also lost Ben, Matt's one remaining tie to his childhood. She knew that the sight of Ben had brought back many pleasant memories for her husband.
"And I don't want Matt to feel he's tied to us. He should be able to leave, but want to stay.
"Besides, for the next few years at least, we need that trapping money. Otherwise we'll never have our own life."
She looked at her mount and rigging with a critical eye. True, she had lost one of the light team but she now had an excellent saddle horse. She also had a fine saddle and bridle, an extra rifle and a pistol.
Holding her own rifle and the reins in one hand she slid Rolley's rifle from the scabbard far enough to identify it. It appeared to be similar to her Winchester '73, though both the lever and breech looked slightly different. It also had a saddle ring and appeared - though she didn't remove it all the way - to be shorter. She did remove it far enough to see the 44WCF stamped into the round barrel, making it the same caliber as her own octagonal barreled '73.
Next she removed the pistol from her pocket and studied it. The barrel was perhaps three inches long and, though the stamping was worn, she could make out "S & W" along the left side. She fiddled with what appeared to be a catch ahead of the hammer and finally tipped the barrel and cylinder down to reveal the bases of five cartridges all stamped ".32 S & W."
Closing the pistol again she placed it back in her pocket. "Well, I suppose, if we don't have the trapping money I could always rob somebody. I'm certainly armed to the teeth and well mounted."
After she had turned the steers back into their pasture and ensured the gate was shut, Janet rode toward the barn. On the other side of the house she could see another rider trailing a pack horse piled high with fur. Matt was home.
She met him by the house and they swung down together. As they embraced, Mark and Margaret came running from the house.
When the greetings had been completed, Matt turned back to his wife, holding his son in his arms and a twinkle in his eye. "You bin makin' a habit out o' feedin' the cows with a rifle. Must be hard to get the hay down the barrel."
Janet looked down at the Winchester in her hands then back to her husband. His eyes had gone beyond her to the strange horse and saddle and the twinkle had turned to puzzlement.
Janet stepped closer and put one hand on his shoulder. "Matt, I have some bad news. Ben died."

Later that summer, Joshua Casey's brother, Gabriel, rode up to a group in central Montana as they branded the latest batch of calves.
Joshua was busy with a knife when the horse came up, but it wasn't long before he realized someone was sitting a horse and not roping, or doing anything else to help with the work. Finished his latest cutting, he swung his attention around to the rider and saw his brother. The hair was very long and ten years had put some creases in the face, but it was definitely his brother.
He stood, the pocket knife down at his side, and nodded. "Afternoon, Gabe."
Gabe nodded in return. "Josh." He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Looks like you picked a hot one." He swung from the saddle.
"That we did," Josh acknowledged.
"Well, I'm not much with a rope, but I'm a crackerjack with a knife and a branding iron."
"We could use the help," Josh responded, turned the knife around and passed it to his brother. "You gonna be home for awhile?"
Gabe nodded, and then gazed off to the north. "Reckon I'll stay if you'll have me. I get out there I run the risk of gettin' into somethin' I won't be proud of."

After roundup that fall, Matt Kingsley went hunting for a few days. He trailed a moose back up into a draw where he shot it in a small clearing. In that same clearing he found what was left of a skeleton lying next to the remains of an old fire. There was a small, round hole, perhaps from a bullet on the right side of the skull and much of the left side was missing. The remains of what might have been a shirt and pants were also there. There was no sign of boots, belt, coat or hat.
With only an axe to work with it was difficult, but he managed to cover the bones and cloth in a shallow grave. During the fifty-eight years they were together, until her death in 1969, he never told Janet what he had found.

Episode 6 of The Yearlings. Where are Janet's Son and Husband?

2011-06-30T19:42:00.004-07:00

3

When she had the strips of bannock dough wrapped around sticks and propped over the fire, she began to slice slabs of meat from the venison haunch hanging from a limb on the edge of camp. As she was doing this, Squeak rose and went to the pack from which he drew another bottle of the dark, Hudson's Bay Trade Rum. Rolley continued to sip on his, but Squeak took the top quarter of his fresh bottle in one long drink.
When the meal was finished roasting, Janet said nothing but took one of the bannock-wrapped sticks, another holding a slice of meat, and moved away from the fire. She hunkered down across the fire from Rolley and Squeak.
"I take it we can all dig in?" Rolley said, carefully leaning his bottle against the log before rising and moving to the fire. Before he could get a portion of the meal for himself, Gabe took his portion and returned to where he had been standing, back from the fire and to Janet's right.
Squeak refused to move even after Rolley returned to his seat with his meal. He continued to sulk and pull at the rum bottle, now only half full.
As she ate, Janet took an unguarded moment to remove two of the rifle shells from her coat pocket, holding them in the palm of her hand with her thumb. Her meal finished, Janet returned to the fire, took up one of the cups sitting there and rinsed it out with some of the thick coffee. As she sat the pot back near the bed of coals she allowed the two shells to drop from her hand into the fire.
Rising, Janet moved over to stand near her rifle but facing Squeak. "Are you going to drink all of that, or can I have a cup of it?" she asked with a smile.
Behind her, Gabe turned and stepped into the trees toward the horses.
Looking up at her, Squeak smiled back then passed her the bottle.
With the cup in her right hand and bottle in her left, Janet began to pour rum. When the first shell exploded she dropped the cup and grabbed the barrel of her rifle. Swinging the rifle up and behind she spun with her entire body.
The first explosion had thrown small coals on Rolley. When the second cartridge went off he jumped back and right into Janet's rifle. The top edge of the stock struck his skull just under the brim of his hat.
Janet noted that Gabe was no longer in the clearing as she turned back and brought the bottle down on the top of Squeak's head.
Dropping down behind the log she began to feed shells into the rifle. Her frantic fingers were having difficulty holding the cartridges. The normally easy task of loading the Winchester had suddenly become difficult. When she had the first one inserted she levered it into the breech before filling the magazine.
A quick glance showed that she had done serious damage to Rolley. He lay near the fire, his sleeve beginning to smolder, but did not move. Squeak, on the other hand was only stunned, rocking back and forth on his knees, moaning and holding his head.
With the muzzle of the cocked weapon still pointing toward Squeak, she continued loading. She found that her chest was heaving and she couldn't get her breath. The pounding in her ears was not stampeding cattle but the sound of her own heartbeat.
Gabe called from behind the screen of trees. "You have done well, Janet. I suggest you take Rolley's horse. It is the better of the three, and his rigging is much better than Squeak's. From the way you hit him I doubt he will need the animal anytime soon. Besides, it was he who shot your horse."
Squeak flopped over on his side, still moaning and talking to himself.
"The pack horse is broken down" Gabe continued, "and anyway, it would be best if you left as soon as possible. For myself I will now mount and ride away. I ask that you not shoot me in the back."
Janet stayed down behind the log, her breath now coming in short hard gasps, and the rifle muzzle still in the general direction of Squeak. Occasionally she glanced behind her to see if Rolley's smoldering sleeve had burst into flame, and to ensure that Gabe was not coming up behind her. To her right and behind Squeek she heard a horse break through the brush. She only watched as Gabe rode around the camp on the far side of the draw.
When the sound of the hoof beats satisfied her that Gabe was really leaving, she stood and stepped over to Squeak. Resting the rifle muzzle behind his ear she reached down and removed a small pistol from his pocket and put it in her own. His rifle she took up and threw into the brush on the opposite side of the clearing to avoid frightening the unfamiliar horses. Stepping back and over Rolley, she grasped the collar of his coat and dragged him away from the fire. She considered rolling him over to get at his Colt but worried that he might come to. She thought a lot more of just getting out of there
Janet was not long in leaving the draw. She ignored the too-long stirrup leathers and swung into Rolley's saddle. The steers were hungry and more than ready to return to where they knew there would be hay. Once Janet had rode in behind them they took off at a trot down the trail, some of them running through the camp and over the two rustlers. She hesitated only long enough to retrieve the bridle from the cold body of Ben before swinging back in the saddle and pushing on down the hill.

Episode 5. Can Janet save herself? Can she save the yearlings?

2011-06-22T20:22:00.002-07:00

Janet almost smiled. Perhaps there was a way.
The fire was still burning, though down to a few coals when they rode up to the rustler’s camp. Gabe picked her up by the waist, leaned over and set her on the ground. "I'll see to the horses," he said.
Rolley and Squeak dismounted and handed him their reins. Gabe rode off into the brush.
"Why, you must be real hungry, Ma'am," Squeak said. "We was just about to make up some bannock an' we got some deer left that Gabe shot. You just set over there on that log an' I'll whip it up." He was all nervous gestures and toothless grin.
Inwardly, Janet shuddered over the filth of the man, but she smiled back and said, "That would be very nice."
"Squeak, go an' sit down an' shut up," Rolley said gruffly. "You're makin' a fool o' yerself. This little filly's gonna be our cook from now on."
Sulking, Squeak dropped down onto the opposite end of the log from where Rolley stood.
From behind the brush where he was tying the horses, Gabe called, "Is it wise to have a stranger cook your food until you know something about that person?"
As he leaned her rifle against a log, Rolley stared at Janet, his eyes on fire. "Yeah, it is. I know all I need to know about this little lady." He reached down and untied a canvas wrapped bundle laying at the edge of the clearing and removed a bottle. "Except her name. What's yer name, little lady?" He pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long pull from the neck.
"Janet," she responded then stopped and thought about the Slash K brand on the steers. "Janet Lawrence," she continued, reverting to her maiden name. She looked up to see Gabe emerge from the brush behind Rolley. The nod he directed toward her seemed to confirm that she had done the right thing. Did that mean he knew she was from the ranch they had raided?
"Well, that's good, Jan honey," Rolley said, taking a seat on the log next to where he had leaned Janet's rifle. "We got us a grub-stake back up the draw here." He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "Spect yuh can hear 'em bawlin' and carryin' on."
"They're raising a fuss because they are becoming hungry," Gabe commented as he dropped to his haunches beside the fire. "We should be moving them away from here today and to a market." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the thick brew that had been simmering by the fire all morning then rose and stood off to one side of the camp.
Rolley shrugged as he finished another sip of rum. "No hurry. They can't get out of here without goin' by us. 'Sides, we need to spend some time today changin' that Slash K to a Rafter B." He leered at Janet. "Couldn't ask fer better company."
As she worked around the fire preparing a breakfast, Janet considered the appearance of each of her captors in hopes that it would supply some indication of their weaknesses and the treatment she could expect from each of them.
Squeak, for instance, did not demonstrate by his appearance that he cared about anything. On his feet he wore mukluks which appeared to be stuffed with something to improve warmth. Over these he had tied an outer layer of thicker leather to extend the life of his footwear, but it was all a soggy mess. His pants, also wet past the knees, were of homespun wool, perhaps made for a child since they were too short for Squeak despite his size. One leg had been torn and repaired with a long loop stitch of string. He wore no shirt, displaying the dirty red of his long underwear under an old and poorly patched wool coat that may have started life as military wear. One pocket of this coat hung low from what Janet thought might be a small pistol. On his head he wore a beaver fur cap with the ear lugs tied over the top. His greasy brown-and-gray hair hung to his shoulders.
"Yuh see, little lady, there's a war gettin' under way over t' Europe," Rolley explained. "Ain't no better way fer a fella to make his self a killin' than a good war." He giggled at his own wit, took a good pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Rolley was much better dressed but equally as dirty as Squeak. He wore well-oiled and well-used, flat-heeled, lace-up miner's boots. His trousers were of homespun wool, but of more recent make than Squeak's and protected by heavy leather chaps. His coat was of sheepskin, the matted and greasy wool turned in against a dark blue shield-style cotton shirt, and his hat was a dented and torn derby. It appeared that he sometimes shaved all but his upper lip, but had not done so for at least a week. Blonde hair just covering his ears may well have been hacked off with a knife. A holster was slung round his hips and held a pistol which appeared similar to her husbands .44-40 Colt. His boots, holster and pistol showed evidence of special care not evident in the rest of his appearance.
"Spread a few dollars 'round in the right places," Rolley continued, "an' a man can come out of a war with a mighty fine nest egg." He gestured over his shoulder toward the sound of the steers. "Them critters back there is the beginnin' of a kingdom. Pretty little thing like you plays her cards right, yuh might be a part o' that kingdom."
Gabe wore a dented and stained, but still serviceable Stetson over collar length black hair which may have been washed in the past few days. He was usually clean–shaven, but appeared to have avoided his razor for the past day or two. His plaid wool shirt was still relatively clean and covered by a Hudson's Bay blanket coat that showed signs of bunkhouse repair of some talent. His boots were of the high-heeled riders variety, well cared for but in need of replacement. What she had first thought were fringed buckskin leggings proved instead to be pants. Behind his belt she could see the handle of a pistol that appeared to be of the same size as Rolley's Colt but of a different make.
Janet's inventory of her camp-mates supplied little comfort. Only Gabe appeared to care about himself or life, and he had made it obvious that he would or could do little to help. However he had expressed some sympathy for her position. Would he interfere on behalf of his riding partners?
As she worked around the fire, Janet passed several times within reach of her rifle. As he sipped from the bottle and blathered on, Rolley watched her movements and grinned. Finally, after one of her passes, he placed the bottle down, lifted the rifle and levered the chamber open. Upon inspecting it he cursed, closed the bolt and set the weapon down again. It was only then that Janet realized she had not loaded the weapon. The cartridges she had taken from the house still rested in her coat pocket.
From the corner of her eye Janet saw Rolley leering at her again. "Yessiree, I can see where this empire buildin' could be a right comfor'ble experience," he observed.

The Fourth Episode in Janet's search for The Yearlings and survival.

2011-06-14T20:10:00.003-07:00

Chapter 2

Something pulled at Janet and she came awake with a start. A stiff, dead branch caught her hat as she moved, knocking it from her head.
"Well Billy-be-damn if it ain't a woman," a strange, but at the same time familiar voice said.
Janet looked up to see a scrawny little man with bulging eyes and a scraggly beard grinning toothlessly at her as he held up the spruce branches. Behind him she could see that a new day had arrived and, looking into her den stood a square, better-dressed but equally dirty man holding her rifle. It was their pulling the rifle from her arms that had awakened her.
The second man turned his gaze off to the side and spit tobacco juice. "Better come have a look at this, Gabe." He turned back to smile at Janet as a third man rode his horse over and leaned down to look at her. This third man's clothes were also dirty, but it appeared he had both shaved and washed in the not too distant past.
The second man gestured with Janet's rifle. "Might as well come on out o' there, little lady. Reckon you'll find it a sight more comfor'ble over t' camp."
Janet rolled out from under the spruce on her knees but quickly stood and replaced her hat.
"What cha figure we should do, Rolley?" the thin man asked.
"Squeak, you ask too many dumb questions. You he'p the little lady back to camp. Gabe an' I'll foller yuh."
"This horse will ride double," Gabe said. "It will be better if she rides with me." Without waiting for a response he reached down and grabbed Janet's upper arms.
She was almost in the saddle before she thought to resist. Before she could do very much, however, Gabe grabbed her wrists and imprisoned them in his right hand.
"It is better to ride with me than walk with them," he said softly.
Janet stopped and looked around into his face. He did not smirk, nor was there the fire of lust in his eyes as she had seen in Rolley's gaze. She looked to the faces of the two men still standing by the tree and settled down.
Gabe slid back over the cantle allowing her to sit in the saddle, then urged his horse along the side of the hill, angling south, back toward the draw where Ben had been shot. While the other two men caught their horses and mounted, they gained several yards on them.
Gabe glanced over his shoulder, and then said, "Ma'am, you are in much trouble. I would not bother a lady, but they are not the same. Squeak is stupid, but not a killer. Rolley is a very bad man. He will shoot me – and perhaps you – with very little reason."
Janet looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you not one of them?"
Gabe nodded. "I am a cow thief. I have done many things to live. I do not murder. Or bother women."
"I am glad to hear you have such high morals," Janet said sarcastically.
"You do not show much gratitude."
"So far you've given me a ride," Janet noted. "I haven't seen you refuse to take your turn with me yet."
"That is true," was all Gabe was able to manage before the others came within earshot.
They stopped talking, but the other two, not realizing how well their voices carried continued.
"Whatcha figure she's doin’ here, Rolley," Squeak asked in his whiney voice.
"You sure are some dumb, Squeak," Rolley responded. "Ain't no woman's gonna foller a bunch a cows. I 'spect she's runnin' from sumpin’. Pro'ly lookin' fer a good man to look after her."
"Well, I could look after her. She could ride with us."
There was a short pause, then Rolley spit and said, "Shut the hell up."

Episode 3 in Janet's cold, lonely night in the foothill looking for cattle.

2011-06-08T19:44:00.002-07:00

At the barn she put a bridle on Ben. He was fifteen years old, a horse Mat had raised, trained, and brought with him from his father's D-bar-K. He was the easiest to handle of the four horses Janet had available to her – an important consideration, since she did not have a saddle. At fifteen hundred pounds he was also the smallest of the four and the easiest for a twenty-year-old, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman to mount and sit on.
As she turned to leave the barn, Janet thought about how unpredictable the spring weather could be and grabbed a saddle blanket - an old wool blanket folded into a square - and put it on Ben. She certainly didn't need anything to improve the comfort of Ben's wide back, but if the weather should turn, the blanket might help to keep her warm until she could make it home.
At the house she told her mother that she would be gone looking for the steers. Her mother was flabbergasted.
"You can't leave us here by ourselves!"
Janet sighed. "I won't be gone long, Mother. There's nothing out there for them to eat yet, so I'm sure they won't go far."
"Well, if there is nothing for them to eat, leave them alone and they will come home. It's just irresponsible to leave a little baby - your baby - and an old woman by themselves in this wilderness."
"We need every one of those steers, Mother. They mean money to pay off our loan. You have been spoiling my baby quite well with me on the place. I'm sure you can continue just as well by yourself for a few hours." Janet reached behind the door and picked up the Winchester. From the shelf above it she took a box of shells and dumped a few in her hand which she dropped in the pocket of her father's old coat.
"Well! That certainly doesn't sound like gratitude! And why do you need to take that awful gun."
"Because it would not be very bright to go off by myself in this country without one. And you certainly won't use it." Janet leaned down and kissed her son. "Try not to take Grandma too seriously, Mark." She stood and turned to the door. "Bye, you two."
As she followed the trail of the yearlings, Janet thought once more about leaving their pasture that morning. She was sure she had closed the gate, but perhaps she was remembering one of the many other mornings when she had done exactly the same job. If she had not put so much of her attention into recreating the earlier events, or in condemning herself for her stupidity, she may have paid closer attention to the trail.
When she had been on the trail for more than an hour, she began to look closer at the tracks. The steers were still moving in a bunch, but should have been wandering, some of them heading back to the ranch where they had been receiving regular feed through the winter.
It was then that she saw the tracks of a horse. And then more. At least two, and possibly three or four horses. The steers were not wandering because they were being driven. They had not gone through a gate she had left open. They had been stolen.
She brought Ben to an abrupt halt and looked around. She was already well up into the hills and the sun had disappeared. As she thought about how she should proceed she buttoned her coat. For her to follow and return wandering steers was one thing. To follow rustlers was something else again, and not something she believed she could handle.
There was no reason for the rustlers to go west and north as they had been traveling. They would want to sell the animals, and there was nothing in the direction they were traveling except higher and higher mountains. Therefore, they would have to turn north toward the Yellowhead Trail and the new railroad, or perhaps turn back east and toward one of the larger settlements.
Janet decided to follow a little longer and find out which direction they would turn. Matt would be home from his trap line soon and perhaps he could discover where the animals had been sold if Janet could tell him the best places to look. They needed those steers. She urged Ben forward, but now they traveled much slower.

2011-06-02T18:54:00.002-07:00

And so here is episode 2 of Janet's attempt to find The Yearlings.

She decided it would be best to wait for daylight. The temperature was close to freezing, but her long coat and blanket should keep her warm enough to survive. The slight southwest wind still blew and the sky was overcast so perhaps the temperature would not drop too much during the night. Spring had been a long drawn-out affair, though pleasant and not too cold, and it was long past time for warmer weather.
She saw a large dark shape uphill to her right and approached it. It was a big spruce, its branches sweeping the snow. She crawled under and next to the trunk. The needles under the tree were dry, and the tree itself protected her from the wind.
Returning to the snow she took some in her mouth, sucking on it while she washed her face and hands. Removing the bandana from around her ears she used it to dry her self, then crawled back into her haven. She leaned the rifle against a limb close to hand, wrapped herself in the blanket, and leaned back against the trunk.
She worried about the rustlers, as anyone should worry about people who would shoot someone from ambush. But she worried also about her mother and son, Mark, waiting at the ranch house for her return. Neither of them knew that rustlers were involved, but they knew it was dangerous for anyone alone in the mountains, particularly during questionable weather conditions. Mark was only three and needed his mother around, and Janet's mother was not comfortable in anything but a city.
Margaret Lawrence had been raised in New Westminster. Her husband, Janet's father, had been Area Supervisor for the Transcontinental Railroad, and later the Canadian Pacific Railway. Margaret had been used to social events, shopping when she felt like it, and being in a financial position to feel like it often.
Janet, on the other hand, had found the life boring. When her father was transferred to Calgary, she could not have been happier.
At the age of sixteen, Janet was forced by her mother to go to one of Calgary's social gatherings. Not only did Janet not like such events, but she knew she would have to listen to her mother complain about how it was not "up to proper standards" and would "never be tolerated on the coast." But her mother insisted that she was now a young woman and it was time for her to make her place in social circles.
It was at that social that she met her knight in shining armor. It did not matter that his armor was a pair of freshly washed work jeans and an old suit jacket, or that his helmet was a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat - not new but freshly brushed. It also didn't matter that none of his horses were white chargers. She had seen her dream and its name was Mathew Kingsley.
Matt and Janet had been married almost a year when her father died. On their small ranch northwest of Red Deer they didn't get the news in time to make the funeral, but they did go down to Calgary.
Learning that Janet was pregnant, Margaret insisted on returning to the ranch to help with the birth. Actually, it was the only course open for her since she could not afford to live in the city. During his life she had lived to the fullest extent of her husband’s income. Now that he was gone she could not afford even the essentials, and would rather run and hide than allow her friends to see her predicament.
Matt was pleased to accept his mother-in-law's offer. He had helped in the delivery of countless calves and foals, but was more than concerned about the arrival of his own offspring. True, Janet could spend a few weeks at neighbors twelve miles east, but what if something unexpected should happen?
Janet was not pleased with the arrangement. She had reluctantly followed her mother's directions for life in the past, did not want to hear any more of them, and certainly wouldn't follow them again. She also knew that with no place to go, her mother would be with them for far longer than it would take to have the child.
Mark was now three, and Margaret was still part of the Slash K.
"Janet, dear, I don't know why you insist on wearing men's clothing. It will give Markus an improper perception of how things should be." It was one of Margaret's favorite topics. She sat in the rocking chair doing needlepoint while Mark spun a small top on the floor.
"Because it's impractical to feed cattle in a dress, particularly in the winter time," Janet responded calmly and with little thought as she ate her soup. She had responded the same way to the same subject a thousand times.
"Well, I don't see why your husband isn't here to feed those filthy animals. That is a man's job, after all. Besides, Markus needs his father."
Janet sighed. "Matt isn't here because we are trying to make a life for ourselves. He's trapping."
"I still don't understand why he can't trap closer to home," Margaret continued with her usual line.
"Because someone else had this area already and we can't afford to buy it. Besides, Matt would still have to go up in the mountains and he wouldn't be home much anyway." Janet stopped a spoonful of soup half way to her mouth. Why did she continue to repeat the same things over and over? Her mother had been there the autumn Matt first rode away and for every trapping season since.
"If you need money, why not sell some of those beasts out there," Margaret advised. Janet was sorry she had paused, giving her mother an opening. "I mean, if you can't make any money from them, why have them?"
"We borrowed money to buy them and we have to pay that off before we can make any money from them," Janet responded, her anger rising. "You see, Mother, unlike some people, Matt and I pay our debts. And we don't spend money we don't have." She dropped her spoon in the bowl and stood.
Going to the door she sat on the bench and donned her mukluks. Now, in addition to frustration, she also felt guilty for having made such a remark to her mother.
"Janet, you've not finished your lunch," Margaret noticed, with more than a little disapproval.
"I have two more cows that still haven't calved," Janet responded. "I'll finish later." At the same time she thought, "Why do I feel guilty? I can't even insult her!"
"I would have thought it was warm enough for them to look after themselves," Margaret noted. "Your lunch will be cold. Besides, I would think a mother would want to spend more time with her son than with a group of cows."
"That was what I planned when I came in," Janet said. "And it's a herd of cows, not a group." She pointed across the room at her son who appeared to be paying no attention to the usual prattling of the two women. "And that is Mark. Not Markus, just Mark." Actually the boy's name was Markham - after his paternal grandfather - but that was another argument Janet didn't want to start with her mother.
Intent on the spinning top, his back to his grandmother, Mark almost allowed a smile to slip out.
One of the cows had already dropped its calf and the other was about to. Before going in for lunch, Janet had put fresh straw in what she called her 'baby pen', so she only needed to gently herd the cow and new calf into it.
The second cow stood with its back arched, tail raised, and a far-away look in her eyes. Janet expected it would not be too much longer, but was slightly fearful of expecting too much. From sixty cows she had sixty-one calves - two sets of twins - with nothing more serious than some frostbite to two sets of young ears. Things had gone especially well so far and she didn't want to jinx anything on this last calf.
After several minutes the cow relieved herself. She looked around at Janet then walked over near the horse corral, lay down and began to chew her cud. Margaret would have been impressed by the string of verbal abuse her daughter aimed at the cow – but not favorably.
Janet had no desire to return to the house, and another argument with her mother, so she decided to take a turn around the small pasture holding the twenty yearling steers. Perhaps by the time she had checked the fence the tardy cow would be ready to begin a birthing.
The small pasture was empty! The wire gate lay flat beside the trail of hoof prints in the mud. For different reasons Janet and her husband shared a dream of future independence. It was a dream she could see and touch every day in the small herd of steers. Now the dream – and the herd – had evaporated.
Immediately, Janet blamed herself. She had brought a wagonload of hay to them that morning on the still frozen ground and must have left the gate open when she left. As she hurried back to the buildings, she tried to remember the events surrounding her leaving the yearling pasture and going through the gate.

Short Story Collection 1

2011-05-26T16:19:00.005-07:00

I have a collection of 17 short stories that I'm hoping to have published in the near future. Since I seem to be having trouble maintaining my schedule of posts at the present time, I believe I'll post one of those stories in a serielized version on this blog.
I've been a little more busy than I like over the past few months and expected a slight slow down in the fuel distribution business this spring, which has transpired. However, even though I'm home a little bit earlier these past few days, now there are all those things to do around here that where not done when there was several feet of snow on the ground.
So here is the first instalment of "The Yearlings" which I originally constructed in 2005 and is the sole property of David M. McGowan.

The Yearlings

By D.M. McGowan

The horse and rider came through the deep cut in the hill, following the trail of the yearling steers. It wasn't a difficult task, the cloven hooves having left a well-marked path in the late-season, crystallized snow. The tracker slowed, partly to try to hear any sounds the cattle might be making, and partly because each step took them farther from the safetly of home. It didn't help that night was closing in fast.
The rider wore an old pair of coveralls, the cuffs of which were turned up and held in place by the mukluk laces tied around them. The coat was of heavy, brown wool that had become dark and shiny over the years. The outfit was topped off by an old, round-top hat, the brim of which had long since given up any resistance to the yearly attacks of sun and wind. Under the hat a bandana was tied around under the jaw to protect the ears, for although the sun had been warm, the breeze had been crisp and had turned to chilling cold with the coming dark. The barrel of a '73 Winchester carbine was nestled in the crook of an elbow, a homemade rawhide sling hanging under it. There was no saddle on the horse, but rather an old wool blanket folded to make a riding pad. From a distance it was impossible to tell that the rider was not a teenage boy but a woman.
She felt the horse, Ben, stop in mid stride and grunt. Almost at the same instant she heard the shot. Ben began to shudder and she jumped to her right - toward the closest cover - landing on a wall of young, fozen willow branches.
Looking back through the willows she saw Ben fall, breathe leaving him in an explosion. As he fell the blanket slid from his back and fell near the willows. She reached out and drew it toward her then rolled on through the willows to land in the icy snow.
She heard voices just close enough to understand in the crisp evening air.
"Dang it, Rolley, yuh done killed him! I come t' hep with a few cows. Didn't plan on no killin'."
"Shut up," a second voice responded.
Janet looked for a way out. Back down the draw a few young poplar had formed the beginnings of a grove which would probably not survive the next heavy spring run-off. Up hill from these young trees stood a few spruce.
With the willows screening her from her attackers she walked slowly to the poplars, trying not to make any noise in the wet snow. When she reached the first sapling she swung the rifle over her shoulder by the leather strap then stuffed the folded blanket between stock and makeshift sling. She shinnied a few feet up the limbless trunk then looked over her shoulder to see if she might be visible from where she had heard the voices. Reassured, she climbed a few more feet until the young tree began to bend. Reaching out with one hand she grasped the limb of the next tree and drew it toward her. Going from tree to tree in this manner she came to the edge of the grove and slid back to the ground fifty feet from where she started. It wouldn't hide her trail forever, but it should - with the help of dark - give her a good lead.
She paused before turning up the slope, attempting to hear something more from her ambushers. Hearing nothing she started up toward the spruce trees. Near the top of the slope she stopped again and listened. By then it was fully dark.
"Ain't nobody here" the first voice observed. "Yuh done killed a horse."
"I told you t' shut up!" the second voice responded.
Janet Kingsley continued over the ridge and into the next gully. This wash was much less steep than the one she had just left and, with the bottom filled with brush, she stayed on the slope and turned to her right, heading back down toward the ranch.
She had gone only a short distance when her heart rate began to slow and she began to think. She wondered what the rustlers would do. It wouldn't be difficult for them to figure out that she would want to back home. Would they ride down the trail and attempt to cut her off?
It would be easy, she decided, for them to outdistance her and wait for her where the draws all met and came out of the hills. In the dark she could easily blunder into them. That is, if they managed to shut up as ordered.

He's gone!

2011-05-02T17:33:00.002-07:00

I'm disappointed!
Oh yes, he was one of the most despicable animals on the planet and did more to damage Islam than anyone else, but I would have enjoyed collecting the reward posted by GW Bush. I could have used it to retire and spend all my time writing and publishing more novels.
Oh, well, I'll be writing anyway.
Truthfully, the world is a better place without bin Laden.

Saving our country

2010-08-16T10:59:00.002-07:00

It's been some time since I posted here, but now I'm back. I've gone a few rounds with cancer over the past few months but it looks like I've beat it. Now that my mind isn't working on that perhaps I can get back to writing on this blog, the novel I'm working on, or perhaps a few short stories.
More about that in the next post.
I accidentaly fell into a great blog that talks about one of our greatest ... if not our biggest ... problems here in Canada; immigrants to this greatest of all coutnries that are doing their best to destroy that country.
Neither Werner Patel, the author of this blog nor myself are suggesting that immigration should stop. I can't actually speak for Mr. Patel but it appears that he is in favour of immigration as am I; or at least true immigrants which he describes as 'homesteaders'. He credits George Jonas as the author of this descriptive title for the productive immigrant as well as other less complimentary titles for the many other immigrants who are quickly destroying our land.
They appear to be like the farmer from the fairy tale who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs.
I strongly suggest you go to Mr. Patel's site and read what he has to say. There is a slim chance that if we follow what he has written we may be able to save this country.
Check it our at
http://www.wernerpatels.ca/2010/08/a-benevolent-idea-abused-by-benevolent-people
While you're surfing you can also go to the links posted here or go to
www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Partners
www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Homesteader
www.blogtalkradio.com/Partners
www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6LEqjRHCDQ

Why not cover the whole story?

2009-09-29T08:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I watched an episode of CTV’s W5 which followed the history of a firearm with a highly questionable entry into public ownership and a disgustingly deadly end to its history. It demonstrated some great research and editing, had a good story line and was presented in a logical, linear manner.
My problem with the show is what was the point? I think I know the point they were trying to make, but if my guess is right, their point was not very well defined. I also don’t think they were heading toward the proper, educational point they should have been trying to achieve.
Let me first re-cap the story.
A young man in Georgia is selling illegal drugs and decides he should have a hand gun for his protection. He goes to an infamous dealer (in Atlanta, I believe) and purchases a well engineered, and well built semi-automatic pistol chambered for .45 ACP. This particular weapon is designed for concealed carry and the calibre for serious stopping power.
(.45 Automatic Colt Pistol – this is only the cartridge designation; the weapon was not made by Colt)
A friend of this young man convinces him that he should NOT carry the gun; not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing but because of the legal implications of being caught with illegal drugs and a firearm for which he doesn’t have permit to carry.
The young man’s drug centre is hit by another drug distributor and he is shot and killed. His firearm, which was at his home at the time of his death, is sold by his mother for a few hundred dollars. It is transported to the North East and sold by another gun dealer (with a questionable background). It eventually winds up in Montreal where it winds up in the night stand of a man who has a 4 year old son. The son and his playmate remove the weapon from the night stand; the playmate pulls the trigger and shoots the boy.
With this particular calibre cartridge it would not have mattered where a small boy is hit, the result would have been the same. In this case the boy was hit in the face.
So what was the point of this documentary? Too many firearms which are too easily accessible? Gun dealers without a sense of responsibility?
If one or all of these was their intention they didn’t bring any of these points home. Yes, firearms are easily accessible even under the most draconian firearms control legislation. This should be obvious since there are many jurisdictions with such laws (Canada for example) under which there are often more illegally owned firearms than legally owned.
Yes there are a few gun dealers who fail their responsibilities to society. As it happens the two dealers in this documentary were conforming (just) to the laws within their particular states. Any state where anyone can walk in to a store and walk out with a firearm while still knowing nothing about how to handle it needs to upgrade their legislation. Any state where a drug dealer can buy a ‘legal’ weapon in any length of time needs to upgrade its legislation.
As it happens, both dealers are no longer in business under their original business names.
The pertinent points that W5 missed?
1. Anyone who owns a firearm should not be able to take possession until they have been properly trained. (Twenty hours at a police academy does not, by itself, constitute proper training.)
2. Those that have been convicted of a capital offence or have no known source of income should not be allowed access to firearms except under extraordinary circumstances.
3. Firearms are stored in a secure location which does not include a bed-side table.
4. Firearms that are loaded are for use, not storage.
5. Firearms that are stored are not only double-checked to be empty but are left with the safety engaged. In the instance listed above, the firearm should also have had a trigger lock installed.

And, in addition, the forgoing (including the list) does not constitute any part of a firearms training program.

Great Books Great Entertainment

2009-09-20T19:50:00.000-07:00

This time I’m talking about Passchendaell, Divine Justice, The Good Old Boys.

The Good Old Boys by Elmer Kelton
I originally read this at some time around its release which was in 1978 although I had forgotten almost everything about it. Of course, anything written by Mr. Kelton is usually worth at least two reads even if you haven’t forgotten the story. The Good Old Boys is no exception. A great look at trying to make a go of farming in the US South West or anywhere else, for that matter. The problems are exacerbated by the timing, the first years of the 20th century and the financial depression of the era. It’s also a good look at the stuffed shirts (or in this case a pompous fool and a miser) who think they run the world but are actually just getting in the way of those who do.
The protagonist here is Hewey Calloway. Apparently there are other Calloway books and I’m looking forward to finding them.
It’s a very sad thing that Elmer Kelton will never add to his great body of works. I will miss him greatly. But he leaves a great legacy in some great stories.

Divine Justice by David Baldacci
This is another in the great ‘Camel Club’ series. I’ve read most of them and enjoyed all. Actually, I hope I missed at least one since they are so entertaining and Divine Justice is the last. No matter, they are so entertaining and my memory is so short I can read them all again in a few years.
The Camel Club is lead by an older gentleman who calls himself Oliver Stone. In an earlier life (and an earlier series by Mr. Baldacci) he was John Carr, ex Special Forces and member of an elite killing squad. The only way he could retire was by ‘dieing’ and re-emerging as Oliver Stone.
The other Camel Club members are a diverse group with a variety of backgrounds and very diverse characters.
Great suspense, great conspiracy and a great read.

Passchendaell by Paul Gross (originally)
This is the best story I’ve read in a very long time. The only problem I have with it is that it is “Based on the screenplay by Paul Gross.” Does that mean that Paul Gross also wrote the novel? Does it mean that Mr. Gross was too busy to write the novel (which I can certainly believe and understand given the body of work he has done in the past few years) and had someone else write it? If the latter is the case, who did the writing?
This is not really important but a small thing that bothers me.
This is a great story about WWI and the people … the farmers, cowboys, loggers, fishermen, home makers, sons and daughters … from all over Canada who fought it.
A great movie and a great read.

Mr. Gross has received several awards for his acting and writing. He deserves several more for Passchendaell.

Great Books, Great Entertainment

2009-09-16T18:00:00.001-07:00

The biggest problem with being too busy hauling fuel is that it doesn’t leave enough time to work on my next novel. However I can still squeeze in the reading of a chapter or so of someone else’s writing while I’m unloading in some spots.
I’ve enjoyed some great reading over the past few months. Passchendaell, Divine Justice, The Good Old Boys, Night of Flames, Echo Burning and Telegraph Days.

Telegraph Days by Larry McMurtry
One of McMurtry’s more entertaining efforts, much like his ‘Buffalo Gals’. I’ve found that some of his stories, even though they often contain humour can be very dark. The ‘Lonesome Dove’ series, for example can supply some serious depression. Yes, Telegraph Days has some depressing moments since it’s trying to depict life, after all, but overall it is a very funny, entertaining read. It follows the life of a young woman in the west from 1876 through the turn of the century and includes several historical references. Great read.

Echo Burning by Lee Child
This is the second time I’ve read this member of the ‘Jack Reacher’ series and I enjoyed it as much this time as the first. For those who are not familiar with Reacher he was an ‘Army brat’ who grew up in US military bases all over the world, graduated from West Point and spent 15 years as an army cop. He retired as a major when the end of the cold war changed ‘his’ army in ways he didn’t like. He now travels with a tooth brush and clothes on his back exploring the country he saw little of in his professional life. Echo Burning has him in South Texas experiencing some violent weather, violent bigotry, intrigue, murder and learning a little about horses and children. Great read.

Night of Flames by Douglas W. Jacobson
I can’t remember how I discovered this author or book but I’m sure happy I did. I’ve read countless stories of WWII but very few from the perspective of the Polish. This is an excellent tale of a young couple with a son who are all split up when the Nazis attack their homeland. They each go through their own version of hell then find new paths that go back through that same hell in their attempts to find each other.
If you want be entertained, like historical fiction, enjoy learning something new and want to meet some new (you’ll see them as real) people be sure to get a copy of Night of Flames.
You can visit Mr. Jacobson at http://www.douglaswjacobson.blogspot.com/
Great read.

More about the other three novels in the next post.

Homesteader: what does it mean?

2009-09-09T17:21:00.001-07:00

I’ve had people stopping by apparently looking for information on Homesteading and leaving disappointed. Apparently they have been lead astray by my novel title ‘Homesteader’. I tried to avoid this by adding the sub-title ‘Looking for Sharon’ but obviously I wasn’t completely successful.
Homesteading today might include a box full of dirt on a fifth floor balcony in New York or a small acreage on the Blue Mountain 80 miles north of Toronto.
My novel, however, is about the acquisition of a comparatively large tract of land in the North West Territories in 1886. This ‘homesteading’ story could have been set in any part of the Western US or Canada since the laws and costs for acquiring land were similar in both jurisdictions. The timing could have been changed to a number of decades. There was still government land available as late as the 1980s in British Columbia although the laws had changed several times over the years. I chose the Calgary area since I had hiked or driven over some of the area depicted and it fit in nicely with the characters I had created in ‘The Great Liquor War’.
Not that I don’t have some familiarity with today’s form of ‘homesteading’. I’ve planted and weeded more than one garden. I’ve raised and sold (or helped butcher) several litters of pigs and milked more than one cow. In addition to some experience with range cattle I’ve also raised a few on my own small acreage.
Yes, you pick up a few hints over the years that might help. For instance, if you find yourself in possession of an old garden plot that is covered in a thick blanket of weeds plant Jerusalem artichokes. Plant them very thick. While you’re waiting for them to grow, surround them with a fence that is pig – proof and install a water system for those pigs. When the artichokes are well on their way, turn a litter of pigs in to the lot. The artichokes will smother out the weeds; the pigs will eat the artichokes (and weeds) as well as doing the initial tilling of your garden now ready for next season.
One of the things I’ve tried was a hay rake of my own creation which worked. With some variation I describe it in my novel ‘Homesteader’. The characters in the novel use it attached to the back of a horse drawn wagon rather than to a tractor.
By the way, Jerusalem artichokes are not artichokes and they are not from Jerusalem. They are members of the sunflower family.
Yes, there is enough material in homesteading now and homesteading then to make a book on either subject. But I prefer what I’m doing.

2009-09-06T16:30:00.002-07:00

What is historical fiction?
Recently I read a post at one of the many blogs I visit asking that question. What is historical fiction?
I thought that should be a fairly easy question to answer. Is it primarily fiction?
If it is described by the author as fiction, then we have to accept that it is indeed fiction. Even if someone completely familiar with the event in question can say from their own knowledge or experience that ALL the facts presented are true that knowledge is completely irrelevant to the classification of the material. If the author claims it as fiction it is fiction.
Does it depict a historical event or describe with some accuracy a historical society? Is some aspect or part of it undeniably historical? If it contains any of these then it is historical fiction. No question.
However, that could be all out the window with changing just a few things.
For instance, let’s change the timing.
Let’s take a story about the arrival of Samuel de Champlain on the St. Lawrence River in 1608 and the building of his ‘Habitation’ at the site of present day Quebec City. We check it against all available diaries and journals – most notably Champlain’s – and find it is historically accurate in every detail. Does that ensure it is history?
Perhaps.
Now we look at the front-piece of the work and find the author says it is fiction.
That makes it fiction, not history, despite the accuracy of events depicted.
Then we see it was written by Jacques Cartier in 1554.
That makes it science fiction.
This concept can be further strengthened by simply looking at the work of some of the popular authors of the past few years.
For example, Tony Hillerman has written several novels depicting obviously fictitious events in the ‘Four Corners’ area of the South West US. I can’t think of a single one that doesn’t contain some historical information about the Anasazi, Navaho or Hopi peoples or perhaps the history of the four states. However, Mr. Hillerman never put the title of ‘historical fiction’ on any of these works. They are all fiction.
Elmer Leonard’s work is another example. In many of his novels, most notably the ‘Carl Webster’ series, there is a great deal of historical data. In the novel ‘Up in Honey’s Room’ he talks about the (verified and documented) infiltration of Nazi spies into Washington DC, FDR’s touring around in a Ford convertible and the timing of FDR’s death. Despite all that it’s still fiction and Mr. Leonard makes very little effort to explain how much of the story includes verifiable historical information.
Its fiction, because Mr. Leonard says so.

By the way I'm still waiting for my YouTube video on 'Homesteader' but they (SBP) has done a good job on on the 'Partners' vid at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6LEqjRHCDQ
It's much better than the first one ... it's so good that Doug (my son the Engineer) sent me an Email asking if that was me on the horse. No, it isn't.

Finally, my new release

2009-06-29T19:41:00.002-07:00

Well, the publisher has been busy and there have been a few hold-ups here and there, but my new historical fiction novel is available. It could have been a lot worse; ‘Homesteader’ only took about 3 weeks longer than it took for ‘Partners’. Considering that Strategic is now up to 700 titles and has some new people, that timing is actually pretty good.
As with everything I’ve done (including news paper articles) I always manage to find mistakes that I and the editor have missed despite numerous attempts to avoid them. In the case of ‘Homesteader’ I found six mistakes but nothing that should require production to come to a halt.
As the title suggests it’s about trying to start your own agricultural enterprise on the cheap with the help of the government. In this case it’s the Canadian Federal Government, the time is 1866 and the area is Fort Calgary, (already being called Calgary in 1866) North West Territories (now Alberta).
Along with the choosing and registration of a homestead it also includes some information about the attitudes of the day, some crime and the end of the open range.
Here is an excerpt from the first few pages where Hank and Harry meets a man who will prove to be a problem for them …

The way the three of them charged right up to us and stopped so close didn’t add to my feeling of comfort. They were crowding us and had an arrogant manner about them. I didn’t like the look in their eyes, and I was glad I had taken the pack horse lead shank.
Even though he was a few years older than me, Harry Gilmore always followed my lead. Part of the reason was that, up until the fall before, I had been his boss for about a year. Mostly, though, it was because he was part Sioux - although few ever knew that - and several years of folks tramping on him and his people meant that he generally followed and kept his mouth shut. What that meant for me at the time was that I knew I would be handling the conversation with the fat man, and I could depend on Henry to back me up, whatever happened.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the fat man asked.
Maybe my confidence in Harry's loyalty and ability made me a little too mouthy in my response to the big man's arrogant manner. And, as I said, I was paying too much attention to the gun man and not enough to the fat man. "East," I replied.
He tried to stare me down. I smiled and he shifted his gaze to Harry, rolling his chew around in his mouth.
He forced his big horse forward a few steps so that its head was on Blackie's off side, its nose about a foot from my right knee. "Where did you come from?" he asked, bringing his gaze back to me.
"West," I replied.
He spit tobacco juice at Blackie's cheek.
Blackie was a good horse but he wouldn't put up with very much foolishness, even from me. He was also one of the fastest animals I ever rode. It seemed that stream of tobacco juice was still in the air when he turned and bit the fat man's horse on the shoulder.
Sixteen hundred pounds of horse squealed and jumped to the left, blood flowing down its leg from a three inch gash. The horse ridden by the young gunfighter, at least six hundred pounds lighter than the fat man's horse, was too close and no match for the bigger animal. Rider and horse hit the ground hard.
The mustang grunted, squealed, and jumped to its feet. The rider's left foot was caught in the stirrup as the horse lunged away from another collision.
The fat man put his hand on his pistol and turned his gaze from the donnybrook back to me. His hand froze when he found my Colt was already in my hand. I didn't point it at him, just let it hang there, muzzle down, my forearm resting on the horn. Very slowly he put his right hand back on top of his left which rested on his own saddle horn.
At the same time, the third rider shook out a loop and turned his mount toward the bucking mustang and dragging rider. Within a hundred feet he had the animal roped. It stood on the end of the lariat with legs spread wide and vibrated. The bundle attached to the stirrup didn't move.
"I'm Portis Martin," the fat man said.
I was doing my best to maintain a calm, this-is-an-everyday-thing appearance, but was in fact having a tough time with that. Not only had I been approached poorly in a generally friendly land, but one of my best friends had just been spit on.
"Henry James," I responded. "Some folks call me Hank, but you can call me Mr. James." Without taking my eyes from him, I inclined my head to indicate my saddle partner. "This here is Mr. Gilmore."

You can take a look at the cover by going to www.StrategicBookPublishing.com/Homesteader
or simply click on the link to the right.

It's about time!

2009-06-05T15:30:00.000-07:00

It has been a very long time since I posted something. Busy, busy, busy.
I just received a very nice review of ‘Partners’ at http://www.selfpublishingreview.com and I thank Carol for her attention. Some of her comments I agree with and, naturally, some I don’t but I thank her for the study.
Along with the every day making-a-living-so-I-can-afford-to-write I’ve also been working on the upcoming release of my latest work which should be available in a couple of weeks. It will be at
www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Homesteader-FindingSharon.html and I’ll be posting a quick link on this site.
My father passed away on Dec. 18 of ’08 and a good friend of more than 50 years wrote a poem in remembrance of Andy McGowan. I’ve dedicated ‘Homesteader’ to Dad and have included Bill Baker’s poem.
I guess I shouldn’t call ‘Homesteader’ my latest work since I have done short stories since I actually finished it and have been working on a sequel to ‘Partners.’
This sequel isn’t progressing at much of a pace however. I’m at about Chapter 7 of what should be about 50. I’m fairly happy with how the story is developing, although it will probably have to be re-written a few more times. I’m not progressing for the same reason I haven’t been posting here; it’s summer and there’s a great deal to do out there in the sunshine.

HISTORICAL BOYS: Historical Fiction for Men and Women: Guest post from Sandra Worth, author THE KING'S DAUGHTER

2009-02-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

HISTORICAL BOYS: Historical Fiction for Men and Women: Guest post from Sandra Worth, author THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Statistics or Fiction?

2009-01-21T09:12:00.003-07:00

Another look at statistics. Or perhaps another look at fiction.
People keep going on about how gun control will make the public safer. I would like to know how.
In Canada the instance of gun violence with a legally owned firearm are almost non-existent. Even in the US the percentage of crimes committed with legally owned firearms are a very small percentage of total gun violence. This in a country where it is not too difficult, in some states at least, for anyone to purchase a firearm.
What I’m saying is that almost all crimes are committed with stolen or smuggled weapons. So how will gun control make it any safer?
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
“Firearms deaths are the third leading cause of death among young people aged 15-24.”
This is a direct quote from some of the sites that talk about the impact of firearms on society. However, a few pertinent facts have been left out.
Perhaps one or two of these deaths were the result of a lack of training for our youth. However almost all (if not all) of these deaths were the result of gang members shooting each other in some urban areas with weapons they stole or manufactured.
Another story I constantly hear is that handguns are only for shooting people.
Not so!
Handguns were invented to protect travellers from road agents. They were used for this purpose for several years before they were taken on by military officers as side arms. Following that they were used in duals.
It might be said that the .357 magnum cartridge was invented to shoot people since it was designed by a law officer for use by law officers.
The .44 magnum, on the other hand was designed for hunting Elk (Wapiti) and deer.
Another bit of fiction I continually hear (mostly because of a so called ‘historical’ TV add) is that men didn’t carry firearms during the building of Canada.
Completely untrue!
Prior to 1924 when new firearms legislation was passed most people traveling in the wilds carried a firearm. True, not many carried a handgun since they couldn’t afford it, but they did carry weapons. And those that could afford it did carry a handgun.
Travelling alone in the wilds without a firearm is foolish. Working with wild animals – including wild cattle or horses – is also foolish.
Its interesting to note that the disgusting death and injury of unemployed men in Vancouver, Regina and Winnipeg took place in the 1930s … after the passage of the 1924 legislation.

Survey results

2009-01-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

Does anyone still believe in unbiased survey results? Was there ever such a thing as unbiased results? Will there ever be?
I don’t know how it could be possible to believe that there are no forces bending the results one way or the other. The world runs on commerce and if that commerce is interrupted everyone suffers. Those directly involved with whatever the survey subject happens to be are affected more than anyone else.
Regardless of who does the survey, someone has to pay for it. The company actually doing the study may have every intention of being fair and unbiased. However, they are aware, even through supposition that someone is paying for that study. If the survey group wants future work they will be strongly motivated to make sure their customer is happy.
If the study concerns the effects of second-hand smoke, for example it’s logical to assume the study has been funded by a cancer group. If you want to do a study in the future for that same customer the results of your study will be positive for the detrimental effects of second-hand smoke.
Where did the study subjects live? Did they live down-wind (or up-wind) of a major chemical facility? Is there a large coal-fired generator in the area?
If there is a study done of the effects of exhaust from an industrial facility what are the parameters built in to the study? Do we test air both down-wind and up-wind? What type of equipment is used to collect samples?
Once we’ve taken air samples, for what will they be tested? Are we testing for compounds that are used by the industrial facility in question? During the manufacturing process – due to heat or other factors – perhaps there is another compound created that should be tested for? Perhaps something has been created that the study group has no way of knowing is present. Perhaps it’s an entirely new creation that no one is aware is dangerous.
In addition to air tests, perhaps indigenous wildlife should be tested?
Do any test subjects, wildlife or human, have a genetic dispensation to be affected by the chemicals in question? Do any subjects have a tendency to shake off the results of invasions by chemicals?
Several times studies have been done on the effects of wolves on the populations of both area livestock and wild prey. If the studies are paid for by ranchers one could come to believe that wolves will destroy the cattle industry. If the study is paid for by the World Wildlife Fund one might come to believe the foolishness that wolves eat only mice.

Turn On Your Headlights

2009-01-19T13:17:00.000-07:00

Why is it that people can’t turn on their headlights? Did someone tell them they will burn out faster if they actually use them?
Wrong!
Do they think that without headlights they can hide and no one will hit them?
Wrong!
Immediately after starting your vehicle, turn your lights on. Not the parking lights, your headlights.
In many jurisdictions it is illegal to drive with only parking lights on, although it isn’t generally enforced.
You might say, “Why? I can see fine.”
Perhaps you can, but you aren’t the only one on the road. And if that’s your attitude – thinking only about your own problems – you probably shouldn’t be allowed on the road.
Perhaps you say, “I have daytime running lights, so I don’t need to turn on my headlights.”
Depending on the make and model of vehicle you drive your tail lights may not come on with your running lights. Therefore, if you are travelling in dust, fog or snow or during dawn or dusk you run the risk of being tail-ended.
Yes, according to the law the person who runs into your back end is responsible. However, their being ‘at fault’ won’t make your neck hurt less nor will it make a fatality any less dead.
Perhaps you might say, “The first thing I must do after starting my vehicle is fasten my seat belt.”
The fact that you do or don’t wear your seat belt is an argument to have with your immediate family and your insurance company. If you want to be there for your family, wear your seat belt. If you don’t wear your seat belt your insurance premiums should be higher than if you did.
Not having your headlights on effects everyone on the road. Without headlights some vehicles blend in with the road surface, primarily because of color. Not being able to see an oncoming vehicle someone may pull out to pass when there isn’t enough room. Or perhaps (particularly if the oncoming vehicle is traveling with parking lights) the passing vehicle thinks the oncoming vehicle is parked and pulls out to pass. In heavy multi-lane traffic a driver might not notice someone coming up behind (particularly if that oncoming vehicle is swapping lanes every few feet) and thus changes lanes ONTO the overtaking vehicle. In addition, it is usually much easier to judge distance when looking at a vehicle with lights on.

Back to Engineers

2009-01-16T21:45:00.001-07:00

Why is it that we insist on listening to accountants? Not only do we listen to everything they say we go out of our way to get them to say something. We’ve done this since the late 1950s and it’s obviously cost us a great deal of money. Not only is it costing us financially but it’s creating inefficiency in our public programs.
I’m sure some of this is the result of an unfounded fear of engineers. “What’s the connection between engineers and accountants?”
I thought you’d never ask. Now that you have I can relate a little history.
During World War II the engineering fraternity more than any other single profession stepped forward to perform some absolute miracles. For instance they took several ideas that had been around for years and made them work even when they had been proven unworkable. They formed new ideas from whole cloth and made them work when many said they were impossible. Many of those ideas helped the Allies to win the war and most have been further developed and are still in use today.
As an example, for several years there was an idea that the way bats navigated could be used by humans. Several time this idea proved to be unworkable. However when the pressure was on, it became workable and known as radar and sonar.
That is only one example and there are literally hundreds of others.
The result of all this is that by the end of the war engineers were heroes and received some of the best jobs available. This faith in their ability was returned by the engineers in the form of increased productivity and reduced expenses.
Sounds great, right?
Well, it wasn’t.
By the end of the 1950s North America and most of Europe were close to bankruptcy. Why? Because production had far outdistanced consumption. We had lots of everything and were producing more but there was no one to buy it.
The problem might have been worse (and faster) if it hadn’t been for the consumption offered by Mid-East difficulties, the Korean War and war and medical emergencies in other parts of the worlds.
So, to recap, society asked a group to do a job and they did it. Not only did they do the job but performed far better than anyone anticipated.
When the trouble came, did society step forward to help? No. As we have done with our heroes through-out time we dumped them.
We called in the accountants.
The accountants didn’t make the same mistake. True to their training they concentrate on one particular item and ignore all others despite the fact that there may be many related parts to an item.
Put your focus in one place and promise to reduce costs by 10%, or 20 or 30 percent if you think your actual results will be greater than what you promised. Make a lot of noise when you do exceed the promised numbers so that no one notices that five or eight or ten related areas have increased by a far greater percentage than what you promised to decrease.
There is a long list of examples.
We have many busy highways that are far too narrow. The ministry (or whoever) that designs and builds the highway has an accountant. This accountant shows that by reducing the width of the shoulder area they can reduce construction cost by X dollars (pick a number). This is obviously true to anyone.
The accountant is a hero.
When people go off the highway and roll in the ditch, the ministry doesn’t pay for that. Some insurance company and ultimately the customer pay for that.
When transport takes longer and must be done with smaller vehicles, the ministry doesn’t pay for that. The shipper and receiver and ultimately the customer pay for that.
When a vehicle, large or small, breaks down (They do that; they’re man-made, you know) and sits on the narrow shoulder thus partially blocking the road everyone pays.
Medical services systems that require more lab-techs, nurses and doctors? Sorry, can’t hire them. The accounting department has explained we can’t afford them. Actually, the money we do have will be used to hire two more accountants so we can find out where the money is going.
There is an instance in Canada where much of the food being consumed by medical patients is produced in the centre of the country and shipped to all the hospitals and long term care facilities. This saves the medical services plans in several provinces a great deal of money.
No, it costs money.
The products used to make that food last for several days interferes with the medication those consuming it are often on. This will result in extra medical attention which would probably not otherwise be necessary.
What about the cooks and servers who would be otherwise employed and contributing to the economy? They deserve as much consideration (and probably more) than the new accountant that was hired with the money saved with the new food supply program.
Why was he hired? To figure out why the medical system as a whole is now costing more than before they saved so much money with the new food supplier.

Whats Cook'n In Junk: Twirling Tissy Tuesday :D

2009-01-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

Whats Cook'n In Junk: Twirling Tissy Tuesday :D

Low or no meat diet?

2009-01-01T21:00:00.003-07:00

Human beings are omnivorous and should have discretion.
Why do I say humans are omnivorous? Because all anthropological, archaeological and medical data supports the statement.
Omnivorous: 1. feeding on many kinds of food, especially on both plants and flesh. 2. making use of everything available.
Anecdotal data also supports this contention. Those in activities that require extreme effort such as hockey players are a perfect example. A player who relies entirely on plant protein can not work as long a shift as a player with a similar physic who eats both fish and vegetables. Those whose diet includes at least 30% red meat (again with similar physics) can play or work far long than those who eat only marine animals and vegetables. Those sports participants who were omnivorous and became vegetarians can do roughly two thirds of what they could accomplish after changing their diet.
Humans need meat!
As to the output of CO2 we are spraying into our atmosphere, can we stop using emotions and try using some common sense? The production and husbanding of animals is an insignificant producer of harmful emissions. In addition, most herdsmen are also husbanding trees which are scrubbing far more CO2 than their herds produce.
If you truly want to help the environment … if you TRULY think this has to be done … then support the construction of Nuclear Power Plants. Ban the destruction of efficient agriculture production by drowning the best soil behind Hydro Electric Dams. Support electrical power production by wind and tide. Ban coal and fuel powered generation facilities.
True, there is considerable opposition to nuclear power. However, this opposition has no support in logic. It is not as clean, theoretically speaking at least, as wind and tide generation, but is nevertheless comparatively friendly to the environment.
The most common argument against nuclear power is the resultant waste production and the need to store that production. However, all the waste produced by Ontario Hydro’s many nuclear plants since their inception in the late 1950s is stored in an unused bay at the Bruce generation station. This ‘large pile of waste’ can barely be distinguished from the door of the bay.
I believe the true reason for opposition to nuclear power is from the heart and not the mind. The first use of this technology was to construct military weapons of destruction. The resultant death of tens of thousands of people was devastating to the continuation of that technological development and its acceptance by the general public.
Is our fear for our environment and our world well founded? Is it greater than an illogical fear of nuclear waste?
Perhaps one should take a second look at the definitions for ‘omnivorous’ and make use of what we have available.
What’s that about discretion?
It’s your decision to turn off the lights you’re not using. Now get up and go do it.
You can choose to have nuclear power or coal dust and smog.
You can choose to be the star of the hockey team or you can sit on the bench.
You can help clean up the atmosphere or you can rail on about things that will make virtually no difference.
Go to http://www.managefootprint.blogspot.com and learn something.
It’s all at your discretion.

HEART OF A COWGIRL: Snow in the Desert

2008-12-27T17:02:00.000-07:00

HEART OF A COWGIRL: Snow in the Desert

Entertainment inherent in history

2008-12-26T17:09:00.001-07:00

I’ve already mentioned the entertainment inherent in history. Many will read that and say, perhaps quite forcefully, “This guy’s a nut!”
Ah contraire, the entertainment is there.
The problem is in how it’s been fed to us. In order to ensure that students have actually studied their lessons our education systems demand that we memorize – and later enter in tests – the year that something happened. In truth, the year doesn’t matter except in its relation to, and thereby its effect on some other event.
For instance, Jacques Cartier apparently arrived in the area that is now known as Montreal in 1535. That date was probably important to Champlain who later used Cartier’s information and lived in the area for some time, but for me it doesn’t mean too much. What I would like to know is did Jacques and his crew cut down trees? Did they shoot (or try to shoot) a moose? Did the Iroquoian bows make their ancient firearms look puny? Did any of them sleep with Iroquois women?
There was undoubtedly some laughter. I can imagine the native population enjoying the Frenchmen’s reaction to weather, wildlife and vegetation.
How many people actually believed Cartier’s stories when he returned to France? How many didn’t believe him but used those stories anyway to create money for themselves? … Much the same as speculators do with stocks today.
In 1614 Champlain received, from France’s King Louis XIII, 10 years of exclusive trading rites for furs from New France.
Just a minute! That’s like someone having exclusive rights to sell all the diamonds produced in North America.
What did Champlain have on good King Louis? What did King Louis, (who was renowned for at least thinking he had everything) expect to get from Champlain in return for this ten year agreement?
My point is, when someone tells you that one of Champlain’s men, Brûlé spent 20 years among the Huron; kick your imagination into gear. Such information about an 18 year old moving into the bush with what the Europeans of the day thought of as savages raises several questions. Why? What happened?
Use your imagination.
All this is why I generally write historical fiction. So far I’ve had ‘The Great Liquor War’ and ‘Partners’ and hope to soon have ‘Homesteader’ out and, perhaps by the end of ’09 I can have ‘The Yearlings’ released. They are all historical in some respects. To some degree they all contain historical content although they are all meant to be primarily entertainment.

A Castle of Books: Happy Chrismahanakwanzaka!

2008-12-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

A Castle of Books: Happy Chrismahanakwanzaka!

2008-12-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

I just don’t seem to have enough time to write and can get ‘antsy’ when I don’t. Perhaps by writing a little at each opportunity on a blog I can calm the effects of not responding to this need.
I would prefer to spend all my time writing and, judging by the initial success of and excellent reviews for my latest release, perhaps someday I can. It’s called ‘Partners’ and can been seen at www.strategicbookpublishing.com/Partners
SBP is presently looking at another example of my work, tentatively called ‘Homesteader’ and perhaps we can have it available in Feb.
Karen, my wife recently sold her business in Dawson Creek and is now concentrating on the distribution of good health with Juice Plus. This is an awesome product and I don’t think I could be delivering fuel at my age if I wasn’t taking it.
And, yes, that’s what brings home the bacon – delivering fuel in an area about 150 miles wide by 300 north to south. The truck I have been driving lately is pictured at the top. The picture was taken in June of ’08 at the summit of Highway 59 which leads from Dawson Creek to Tumbler Ridge, BC. We are at approximately 1124 meters (3687 ft.) and the camera is facing west.
On this site I plan to talk about some of the things that rile me, some of the things I enjoy, writing styles, history (or more precisely, the entertainment inherent in history) and anything else that might cross my mind.

Drivers that don’t turn their lights on!
Simple entertainment such as what was written by Louis L’Amour.
Convoluted attempts at writing that are more about perpetuating Olde English than about communication.
History is life, not the year that someone left or arrived.

But before I get on a rant about any of these subjects ….
Another day.