Monday Blues: Bite the Bullet

 

The missus came home and walked back down stairs where I was, probably, trying to nap following my Friday excursion up and over Baldy Notch. She asked, "are those bullets scattered all over the floor?"

Ooops, as I was emptying my jersey pockets that afternoon, out the spent shells came, tinkling to the floor where I had left them in my exhaustion. The question was why I had picked them up off the trail to begin with...

Back in my formative years my best friend, and his family, were all into shooting, shooting at steel plate silhouettes. It was cool because, you know, Clint Eastwood, the man with no name and Dirty Harry. It was also cool, because I got to go with them sometimes (heck, we even made a little money one summer, thanks to Mr. B, working tournaments at the shooting range.) Dad grew up with guns and hunting in Colorado, and, while Mom would have hated the idea (an Iowa childhood neighbor having been killed in a "shooting accident," during her own formative years) she kept quiet about it, and so I got to go. On those days, and when we were done with our target practice, we would always pick up the spent shells, not for the sake of picking up litter (although Mr. B was all behind those efforts too), but because my friends' family made their own bullets. They would bring the empty shells home, punch out the old primers, insert new ones, fill with shells with gunpowder, and press fit a new lead projectile. I remember seeing little lead ingots in their garage and, at first, wondered what they were for. Later, I would know.

Anyway, ever since those days, when I am out and about either hiking, or riding through the dirt, and I notice a little collection of brass at my feet I stop and reach down, pick one or two up, and pocket them. For old times sake as much as anything, I guess.

The Monday Blues has been an occasional feature here at the blog since inception; the blues, an emotion, a color, a genre of music, with a cycling twist.