(Clark’s gun shop in rural Opal, the gateway to the South. Photo Clark Bos.)

I thought about Mom yesterday- disconcerting not to have to send flowers or make the call to wish her the best returns of the day. This is the second one without her, and not being numb, or in the hospital, it struck me much harder than last year.

RIP, Mom, I was thinking of you.

Monday? Crap! I woke up at the farm. I should run the Bluesmobile to keep the battery charged, and ought to drive the World’s Fastest Production Pick Up Truck back up north and have some routine maintenance done that did not happen last year. Not going to happen, probably, maybe next week.

Jon-without-an-H showed up at Big Pink on Saturday at ten sharp and we moved filing cabinets and crap down to his red Ranger and came down to the Farm to continue stacking my life in the garage. Part of the deal was that he had come into a modest inheritance that included some nice firearms. He was interested in a stop at Clark’s, the all-purpose gun shop on Route 29 in beautiful Opal, VA.

I had my handicapped placard in the backpack, since that is the only way to get anywhere near the store, given the crowds that pack the place on the weekends, trying to stock up on sanity or madness. We got out I-66 without event and got past the Dulles turnoff and the speed-trap State Patrol operates right where the gridlock stops and anxious people jump on the accelerator, and to the bypass around Gainesville on Rt 15 to Rt -29 and the spot on the road where George Armstrong Custer almost got smoked by Confederate cannon fire, and the place a little further on in Warrenton where “Little Mac” McClellan was relieved by President Lincoln, and where the little General of the Army of the Potomac threw himself a parade that stretched a mile-and-half and on to the junction of Route 17 and the turn-off to the parking lot of the gun shop.

It was not as frantic as it has been- there where two handicapped spots open and Jon-without swung into one of them. He had some questions about the firearms and walked into the shop with one of them- a Browning Hi-power in his hand. No one blinked.

The staff is always courteous, which may be a function of a bunch of heavily armed people wandering the aisles, and of course the staff is packing to a man. Anyway, Kurt confirmed that Jon-without had indeed come into possession of a 9mm handgun of high quality.

Jon-without took out a list of ammunition calibers for the other weapons and asked for a couple boxes of each.

“9mm?” he asked.

“Out,” said Kurt.

“.357?”

“Out.”

“38 Special?”

“Out.”

“.22 Long Rifle?”

“Out.”

“.30 caliber carbine?” My ears perked up- that was an unusual cartridge for a handgun- basically a rifle round suitable for medium range shooting and pretty good stopping power.

“I can let you have one box a day, 50 rounds.”

“That’s it?”

Kurt nodded. “That’s it.”

“Can I back order?” Kurt shook his head. “We are only doing that with a weapons purchase. Otherwise, check back daily and see what has come in.”

I was lucky- I found a couple boxes of odd-ball calibers I can always use more of, and when the purchasing was complete, we walked back out to the truck. “That is unbelievable,” said Jon-without. “How did this situation come about?”

I buckled my seat belt. “Might have something with that billion rounds of ammunition the Feds bought, or maybe it is people just panicking and clearing the shelves in case Congress does something.”

“But they won’t, will they?”

I looked out the window at the Park-and-Eat drive-in at the junction. “They are never going to stop trying. In the meantime, the Second Amendment says that the right to keep guns shall not be infringed. The Founders didn’t say anything about ammunition.”

We rolled on through Remington and Brandy Station, where the Spite House borrods on the hill where J.E.B. Stuart’s headquarters once stood and the north exit to Culpeper’s Big Box stores peels off, and past the new Highs School, and got off the big road at Rt 3, where Grant set off for the Wilderness after the winter he spent with his army in town.

We swung under the brow of Mt. Pony and the Cold War bunker where the Federal Reserve stored a few billion in small bills to re-start the economy after disaster or nuclear exchange. The Farm looked pretty good when we swung onto the gravel drive and backed up to the garage to unload the crap.

I entered the code to make the doors work and looked at the other crap stacked up in the shadows under the metal roof next to the silent black pick-up truck.

I saw a few of the lizards scuttling around on the walls when I pried open the door to the office as we unloaded, which did not take long. “Do geckos eat paper?” I mused aloud.

“I think they eat bugs,” replied Jon-wthout, unlocking the back window of the camper top.

“I think that is right,” I said. “I had a buddy who had geckoes sent to him in Vietnam from the Philippines,” I said, hopefully. “They seemed to keep some of the critters down in his hooch.”

“He lived in a hooch?” asked Jon. He was attired in coveralls and steel-toed boots, fully prepared for any moving contingency. All he needed was an embroidered “Jon” on his breast to be a complete working man. Funny the costumes we can assume- like the going-to-work grownups suits and bow ties.

“Yeah,” I said. “And the big adventure was to go to the Ville, diddy-mau.” Jon-without looked at me quizzically. I shrugged. “Different war, different times.”

We did some shooting with the Russians later, with the only ammunition Jon-without had been able to purchase, and then headed back to the city. I figured I could make another load move itself down the next day in the Panzer, but I was going to stay over Sunday night and have drinks with the Russians and sit out and watch their bees, and listen to the cicadas.

It was a solid plan, and well executed- except it is Monday, and I have to get my butt back Up North.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com