Editing

I apologize to those who read my entries one day and come back another only to find I have changed them a bit. I probably should write a draft or two off-blog, edit off-blog, then post, but I'm not that well organized.



Regardless of the aggravation my editing behavior may cause, I am gratified that someone other than my family reads what I write, and is then kind enough to comment. Thank you.



My world is expanding through blogging, because I am exposed to other bloggers and their worlds, their thoughts, their creativity. This wonderful bit of lagniappe brings me unanticipated happiness, feeds my soul.

Again, thank you.

The Dance of the Crows

Eva Yerbabuena

http://www.picturapixel.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/eva2-copy.jpg

This is the season when many birds begin their mating and nesting rituals; some, in fact, have been at it for a month or so already. While mating is not the last thing on my mind during the freezing season, it is so far down the list right now that it might as well be. All I can think of lately is staying warm while trying to make my fuel oil supply last as long as possible. ...

Not so the other crows, the feathered ones; the True-hearts. Several times in the last couple of weeks I’ve watched their prelude to The Dance, that elegant, persistent and endearing ritual of bonding and avian seduction I look forward to each winter.

It seems to begin with The Strut, a behavior easily overlooked because it is so common. (I say ‘seems to begin’ because this is the first behavior I notice. They could have been chatting about this for weeks before I started paying attention.) Crows don’t walk so much as they strut wherever they go; swagger, even – especially when they’re cawing and walking at the same time.

The male (I’m making another assumption here, because I have no way of knowing which bird is male and which is female) holds himself as erect as crow physiology will allow, which drops his tail, and sticks out his chest. He struts near the female, but doesn’t appear to look at her. She doesn’t give him the time of day; turns away in a coquettish manner. The seasoned male persists in his antics, drawing a little closer with each rebuff.

She continues turning away, but she begins to look over her shoulder for a split second before he’s completely out of sight. Eventually, he’s close enough to look her in the eye and stay with her, step for step, as she turns this way and that. He doesn’t block her way, just insists on being close at hand...wing, I guess; close at wing.

The Dance picks up tempo when the male bows toward the female and begins to flutter his wings ever so slightly. His behavior now reminds me of the juveniles who have grown big enough to leave the nest, but who still beg food from their parents and from the older sibling who stayed behind to assist with the new clutch.

She bows, then throws her head back, makes a gurgling sound and flutters half-heartedly toward the male. He back-steps from his partner and bows lower still, wings at half-mast flutter this time. He stomps three or four times in rapid succession, como el flamenco, then abruptly stops.

Neither bird moves for half a minute or so.

She breaks the stalemate, turning away from him, this time with no backwards glance. He stands still for a few seconds longer before shaking himself, quickly checking for something in his wing-pits. (Do crows have b.o.?)

Caw-CAW! He has her number. She betrayed her interest in him with her flutter and her bow. He starts over. His caw this time is long and low, almost a growl.

“It is only a matter of time, Corazón, until you are mine!”

She shakes her tail and ruffles her feathers, ignoring his caws and his strutting. She extends her wings out to the sides of her body, her primaries splayed like the fringe on the flamenca’s montone. Her action is an invitation: he accepts.

The Dance of the Crows goes on.

(All rights reserved. Martha McLemore 2009)

Annie (Sofie), Git Yer Gun! (November Road Trip, Part III)

Tom Carson is a good teacher, perhaps because he is a good story-teller. He tied a demonstration of firing his musket to tales of homesteaders on the Pennsylvania-West Virginia frontiers and the value of the musket in providing security and sustenance for the pioneers.


He talked about the differences in accuracy and speed between the flintlock musket such as he had and early rifles. While a shooter could load and fire three balls from a musket in the same amount of time one could load and fire the rifle, the musket ball wobbled and was less reliably accurate than the rifle. Because of the rifling (spiral grooves) inside the rifle barrel, the rifle ball/bullet was more stable in flight, thus providing greater accuracy in hitting one's target. Accuracy is important, Tom said, when in battle or "when facing down a bear on your front porch."
...
Maybe it was his costume or the setting or my gullibility, I don't know, but I had no trouble believing Tom had had personal experience with the latter example.
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Tom, locking the strike plate.




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"Now, you don't want to go off half-cocked here, Martha"

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"Going off half-cocked" was a common experience with flintlock muskets and not just for novices like me.

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To save time when hunting or in gunfights, the musketman would half-cock the firing mechanism, saving a precious few seconds in the shooting process. Sometimes, whether because the cock wasn't securely in place or because it became jarred loose, the cock would fly forward, the flint would strike the plate, creating a spark and -- POOF-BANG! -- the musket would fire prematurely.

...

Bad news if one were stalking a deer or trying to stay hidden from an enemy...and let's not forget the bear. One could become snack food for bruins in the blink of an eye, or the "going off half-cocked," as it were.

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One of the things I found most interesting in Tom's lecture-conversation was about the command, "Ready! Aim! FIRE!" American-Revolution militias were the first military groups in the world to use the word "aim" in their firing command, and the Europeans (primarily the Brits and the French) called us barbaric for doing so. Evidently, it wasn't gentlemanly to actually take aim at an enemy soldier.
...
In Europe, Tom told us, if it could be shown that you deliberately took aim at an enemy and were successful in killing him, you could be tried for murder in criminal court! European-trained armies walked in long rows toward an enemy, bayonets affixed and guns cocked and ready. But one didn't aim specifically for any single enemy. One fired his weapon in the general direction of the oncoming flank of men, hoping to be effective. Of course, 50 or so men, lined in a row, all firing at the same time (more or less) pretty much guaranteed some success. The front row fell back after discharging their weapons, and the next row, "locked and loaded," became the front line.
......
Not only did we "barbarians" take specific aim, we also didn't follow the English/European model of fighting, either. In fact, we were following the American model -- the First American model, which we had learned through friendship and fighting with Native American tribes as we pushed our way into their territories. This was the original guerrilla warfare.
......



As Tom pointed out, accuracy was more likely if one kept his or her eyes open while taking aim.

This shot was a "flash in the pan" -- a misfire. Also not uncommon with muskets...and rookies.
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Despite the fact that I wasn't firing any ball, and therefore there was no kickback to speak of, as this picture shows (below), I wasn't taking any chances!



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At the end of my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fire a flintlock musket, minus the ball, I bent to the ground to retrieve the top of the paper cartridge I had bitten off so I could pour the blackpowder onto the flash pan and down the barrel. (Blackpowder tastes awful, by the way!) Tom assured me I didn't have to clean up the grounds, but I told him I wanted the cartridge top for a souvenir.

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"Well, here! I have a better souvenir than that for you," he said, while reaching into his cartridge tin. "Take this for a memory."

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He handed me a 50-caliber musket ball. It felt heavy and cold against my palm. I tried to imagine how being shot with one of those would feel, the ball heated in the explosion and by the friction as it made its way down the barrel, shot with enough force to drop a deer in midstep.

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Thank you, Tom Carson, for making our history come alive for me. I will remember you always, musket ball or no ball, flintlock sizzle or not.

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(c) 2009, all rights reserved. Photgraphs by Martha McLemore and Sandria Letellier.

Tom Carson: November Road Trip, Part II

This is Tom Carson, a docent at Pricketts Fort, near Morgantown, WV. Tom spends weekends and other spare moments showing visitors what a militiaman looked like and how he operated as a soldier during the late American Revolution-Early America era.

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Tom was generous with his time (I ask a lot of questions - maybe too many) and seems to love what he does at the park. He was dressed in attire he had sewn and carried a reproduction, fully-functional flintlock musket he made and demonstrated firing for visitors. The only anachronistic touches to his costume I could see were his designer eyeglasses, his wristwatch and his boots.

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Tom explained that the green sprig in his hat was worn as a symbol that the revolution was still alive, the tri-color cockade represented an alliance with the French against the British, and the deerskin pouch at his waist represented the friendship of some Native American tribes in the area. I asked if the design on the pouch, the red crosses on a dark field, had any meaning, or were just for design aesthetics only. He said the design didn't have particular significance, but the colors did. Black and red colors, whether as face-paint, or shield colors or on breech cloths, signified that the man wearing them was a warrior, on the "warpath", who was prepared for battle against his enemies.

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The metal box at his waist, its strap slung across his opposite shoulder, held musket balls and powder cartridges. Powder cartridges are made of paper, rolled like one would roll for hand-made cigarettes, filled with black powder instead of tobacco, and tied at each end with string.

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On the other hip, there is a leather pouch. I asked Tom what it was for.

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"That's my pocket," he answered. Pants weren't usually made with pockets. Women wore pockets on the outside of their dresses, as well. (Hmmm...another research project for Google.)

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Dangling from his left side (on our right), Tom had a linen brush and what looked like a metal toothpick hanging from opposite ends of a chain. Those are tools for clearing unburnt powder and soot from the firing mechanisms of his musket. The brush is used on the powder flash pan, and the pick clears soot from the primer opening, called the touch-hole, of the firing chamber.

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Tom built his musket from a kit, carving the wood for the stock himself. The musket stock is made of walnut. The barrel is steel. The flash pan is made of steel and brass, and there are small brass escutcheons along the stock. It is a very handsome piece of craftsmanship. You can tell Tom has put a lot of care into the construction and the maintenance of his musket.

..

After I bugged Tom for about ten minutes with my endless stream of questions, he announced to all of us in the meetinghouse that he was going to go fire the musket, if we were interested in seeing such a demonstration. Roughly half the visitors in the room filed out behind him to an open space beyond the stockade walls.

..

There, I had one of the most thrilling experiences of my life!

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(http://www.prickettsfort.org)

(C) Martha McLemore

November Road Trip, Part I

The two women in the photo above are my younger sisters; Ina is on your left, Sandra is on the right. Ina and Sandra were born on the same date, exactly one year apart. For many years, Mama dressed them in matching outfits, as if they were twins, until the girls grew to school age and began deciding for themselves what they would wear. They shared a birthday (and a bedroom,until each left home) but they are their own separate, un-twin human beings, with separate and distinctive personalities, moods, attitudes, personal outlooks and world-views.

...

When we all were kids, it fell to me, as the eldest, to take care of my younger brothers and my sisters while Mama worked. Sometimes, I resented having to do that because it meant I didn't have time to make or play with friends. I had a great deal of family responsibility at a very early age. However, those early childhood experiences helped make me the responsible person and good cook that I am today. (Didn't do anything for my housekeeping skills, though - just ask anyone!)

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Over the years, especially after we lost Mama (the glue that held the six of us together), I grew apart from the others, and our relationships have suffered for that. Sandra and I have grown closer in the last two years because we have gone through almost identical marriage problems and divorces, but my relationship with Ina still languished somewhat. So, it was with a bit of trepidation that I agreed to meet them in Morgantown, West Virginia for the weekend after Turk-enstein Day.

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(In fairness to me and my sisters, there was an even stronger reason I didn't want to take a road trip, which had nothing to do with them, at all. More about that in a different post.)

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I couldn't have been more needlessly concerned about anything in my life! Nor could I have had a more rewarding time than I had with Ina and Sandra that weekend, even though we only had about 24 hours together. We caught up on our family news, reminisced about episodes from our childhood, got lost (sort of) then found our way again while searching for one of West Virginia's last standing covered bridges, found a school bus farm, visited a reconstructed fort from the American Revolution era (see post about Tom Carson), then woke each other with our snoring through the night.

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The morning we were to leave, Ina asked if she could brush my hair (I'm letting it grow after 40 years of cutting it short; a biker-chick-wannabe fantasy - some other post, maybe.) I've never had anybody brush my hair, except Mama when I was a little kid, but I agreed. We talked about how we used to brush our mother's hair when we were kids, and how she would nod off while we did. By the time Ina finished, I felt closer to her than I have in a long, long time.

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After breakfast, where we sat talking in the restaurant long after we finished our meals, we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, pledging to meet again next fall for another sisterhood bonding event.

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I love my sisters with all my heart and am so glad I am a part of their lives. I pray that God will grant me many more years with them.

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(C) Martha McLemore