Brogrit’s comment, in a previous post, about me having a cloak and dagger made me think about what kind of weapons I own. I have a strange collection that really isn’t interesting at all other than for its odd variety. All of my weapons are currently stored away in my attic, and I don’t even have any ammunition for the guns.

• 12 gauge sawed off shotgun — a cheap single-shot firearm I bought way back first for curiosity to see its shot pattern for research I was doing, and second for home (read: bachelor apartment) protection.

• .30-something caliber rolling block rifle — an old (maybe very old) gun my step-dad gave me five or so years ago; I’ve never shot it, but I like it for its vintageness.

• .44 caliber ball-and-cap revolver — a replica (fully functional) 1861 Colt-style pistol that I built myself from a kit.

• 12-inch dagger — a match to the next item. . .

• 3-foot double-edged sword — a Spanish-style blade given to me as a Christmas gift over 20 years ago.

You see, a strange assortment of weapons. My step-dad had a large collection of various hunting rifles, from a black-powder rifle to shotguns to high-powered, scoped rifles. My dad has a good number of handguns and a couple of long guns. For having grown up in a family of gun owners, my collection is pretty pathetic.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

While in my hometown, my mom and I stopped by the local grocery store to pick up a few items. You can’t find Piggly Wiggly stores everywhere in the country, but they’re scattered here and there at least in my home state.

We went to the store to pick up some steak and other items for a standard grill out, but while in the meat section I saw some items I haven’t seen in a few years.

I’ve known people who ate these things, some in my family, but I don’t know anyone who eats them now. (No, I’ve never eaten these things.) I would have thought this kind of fare was a lost taste, but finding them in the grocery, prominently displayed in a large selection tells me there’s still folks who like this stuff.

Pig feet. The only way to make these look and smell nastier is to pickle them.

Pig feet for the whole family.

Pig ears. The dropped blood on the package just shouts, “Come and get it!”

Pig skins. Okay, I’ll admit that I have eaten these — although not in at least 25 years.

I also took a picture of a package of chitlins (pig intestines), but the image was too bad to tell what they were.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

One day last summer, one of our neighbor families was visiting with us in our backyard. Their two little girls were playing with our two boys, and we adults were standing around talking. The neighbor mom was wearing a tank top, and I noticed what I thought at the time was a bruise on her chest, mostly covered by the shirt. I didn’t think anything much about it other than, “Ouch, that must have hurt.”

Then the other day, the mom and her girls came over to drop something off on our porch. I saw them come up, so I went to the door and opened it. I surprised them — the mom didn’t want to disturb us at that time. The mom was again wearing a tank top, and while we talked for the couple minutes, she kept pulling on it to cover up what I saw was a tattoo.

The designed seemed to be a bird or two, of some kind, on her left chest, a couple inches below her collar bone. It’s about the size of a dollar bill — not small, but not extensive. She was obviously uncomfortable about it, trying to keep it covered as she was. But her attempts to keep it covered just drew my eyes to it. It made me more and more curious about what the tattoo was. It also made me curious how and when she got it.

If it was something old, surely she would be comfortable with it by now. If it was something new, why get it if she’s uncomfortable about it? Maybe she was worried about my reaction — she hadn’t expected me to see her right then. I never would have imagined her as the type to have a tattoo — at least not one that size. But now I want to know what it is and why and how she got it. But since it is obviously a source of embarrassment for her, I’ll never ask.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

One major thing I want for my sons is for them each to grow up to be a better person than I am. I guess every father wants that of their children, sons or daughters.

If a man feels he has not grown to be a better person than his father, does that mean his father failed at what he wanted? But then, if a man thinks he is, or has become, better than his father, isn’t that hubris? It’s a kind of catch 22.

Thinking on it, I hope my sons do grow up to be better persons than I am. I hope they are wise enough to realize they have so grown, but are compassionate enough to love me anyway, and to not tell me they know they are better.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com