Folks,
C51:

I have a couple of very good Bushnell rifle scopes and a very cheap Tasco telescope. It does not have a low power "sighting scope" as some do so I have trouble lining it up on my intended target. By the time I have the thing lined up and the focus knobs adjusted she has usually gotten tired of waiting and lowered the blinds or turned off the lights.... I once had a tripod for the thing but number one son turned it into kindling. Darned difficult to use that telescope just holding it to the eye.

When I was about 12 years of age I received my first telescope. It was one of those collapsible types like you see Pirates using in the movies. It had fairly good optics for the price. It was made of modern carbon fiber materials and was rather rugged. Unfortunately it was not filled with an inert gas (as I so often am) so the lens tended to fog up all the time, especially in winter. Believe it or not this aggravated me so much I tossed the thing into the thickest bushes I could find near the forest one fine day and just left it there. More than 40 years later I remembered what I had done and went looking for it. It was right where I had thrown it, lodged in a bush. It was a bit faded but worked as good as ever so I took it home and gave it to my son. He didn't care much for it either.

Only on the coldest of winter days is there any ice collecting going on out of doors anywhere around Lizard lick. We have therefore had to resort to ordering the stuff from the online Searz catalog. It comes to us in liquid form packaged in large gallon-sized plastic bags. The product is very cheap but the shipping is murder.

To save shipping costs we order five gallons of the crystal clear ice making mixture at a time. When it arrives by our huffing, puffing and usually exhausted postman, we immediately pour the contents into special trays that have little 1" partitions in them. If you put that into the freezing compartment of your fridge we've discovered it will freeze hard making quite a few individual 1x1" cubes that are just perfect for filling a warm glass. It may be a warm winter in Toronto, I'll send you the address. You have to make those trays yourself or buy them locally. We call them icetrays....

I think that address is:

http://www.searz/onlinecatalog/productsfordummies/doityourself/frozenbeverages/homeicemaking/

Here is something pretty scary that was brought up just this afternoon from the dark, dank and moldy HWH archives. I'm afraid it is a little late for Halloween however this is just the kind of tale Dux seems to enjoy. He may be the only one brave reckless or tasteless enough to read it. The really scary part Readers is of course the unavoidable fact that I am the one who wrote it. So now in the immortal words of that sage literary critic Elmer Fudd, you all should be aff-waid...vewwy aff-waid.

The Highwayman
By JRT
HWH Continued Page 101
3/4/05

It is September 1941 and a lone BF 109 fighter returning from an unusually late sortie drops through a thickening shroud of mist into startlingly bright moonlight. The little gray fighter is shot through like a sieve. Smoke trails back toward England for hundreds of yards behind Red 3 as it bounces about slowly descending toward the coast of occupied France. Inside the dark cockpit, a figure silhouetted by the dim glow of a few un-shattered instruments stares out of the cockpit into the void beyond. His cracked pilot’s goggles are pushed up onto his forehead. There is a dark streak of crimson trickling down past his left eye and there are terrible burns on his left hand. The taste of blood is strong in his mouth yet the pilot is going into shock and no longer notices the throbbing pain.

Major Karl Vogle is not a particularly superstitious man. In fact he is a brave man, a proud man. He is a very practical man. He sees things as they are. There are no gray areas for Karl, only black and white. As a trained engineer and veteran Luftwaffe fighter pilot he considers himself to be a scientific man. Tonight, Karl Vogle is, uncharacteristically, also a very frightened man. The sortie was a disaster, he was nearly shot down and now things are not going well for Karl as he struggles to make it home and hold his wits together at the same time. In fact, things are not going according to the known laws of physics. Things have apparently happened that are not even possible. Yes, Karl is a scientific man and yet he knows he has actually seen things tonight that defy all reasoning.

A mile behind and still enveloped in mist, a single RAF fighter churns along in pursuit of the straggling German fighter. Group Captain Percy Pettigrew dearly wants to catch up with the straggler and shoot it down. Earlier this evening an enraged Pettigrew could only watch in horror as the pilot of the German plane had shot down his young wingman. Now he was determined to exact a terrible retribution.

Fuel is low for both fighters, especially for Karl, who’s “Emil”, like everyone else’s, is notorious for having an inadequate fuel supply. Karl is doing all he can to conserve what fuel he has left and knows he does not have enough to make it to his home field. He is going to have to ditch or bail out tonight and were that all he had to consider that would be more than enough.

On the ground, Karl’s mates have already safely landed. And as the moon rises higher they scan the dark skies toward the Channel. Each one is worried about Karl and each man is imagining the desperate struggle for survival that must be going on out there over the black water. Karl was last reported just a few miles off the coast. Everyone now fears the worst but he silently prays for the best.

Pettigrew taps his wavering fuel gage with his index finger and realizes that he must turn back now or risk certain ditching in the Channel. At this moment of decision an aircraft drops out of the mist up ahead. It is the 109 with the blood red three on its fuselage. There can be no doubt for the stricken craft stands out clearly against the rising moon. Percy grits his teeth and vows to revenge his mate even if it means he will join him in the murky depths stretching far below. He begins a shallow dive and notes with pleasure that he is gaining. Soon he is gliding into and out of the 109’s smoky trail. Percy adjusts his gunsight. The 109 takes no evasive action as it slowly grows within the gunsight’s reticle. Percy takes a firm grip on the control yoke. A little left rudder. Hold it. He will be too close to miss.

Far below, the rising moon casts a million diamonds along the rolling wave crests. Pursued by a larger fish a smaller fish darts high into the spray filled air only to be gulped down the instant it crashes back into the sea. A brisk wind begins to whip the wave crests and to herd a few wispy clouds across the face of the moon. Ashore, Karl’s worried mates have mostly given up hope. All save two have left the vigil for a hot meal and a bath. Standing there as if chiseled in granite stands Karl’s rigger Ernst and by his side stands Karl’s huge Alsatian Cerberus. They will stand there, both bone-tired, silhouetted by the moonlight with the gritty tarmac scrubbing under their tired feet until dawn. Cerbi wags his tail as Ernst gives him an affectionate pat of encouragement. Any moment now they are certain they will hear the roar of an aircraft engine.

Karl strains his eyes as a sinister cloud completely darkens the moon. Something is out there. He wipes his tired, stinging eyes and squints toward the silvery lined cloud. There it is thought Karl. I do see it. It has to be real. In Karl’s crowded mind reality and imagination have somehow blended. Out the port side of the cockpit Karl clearly sees a dark rider on a jet-black steed galloping across the sky from cloud to cloud. Karl had seen them before and much closer. The dark horse has eyes like fire and the man wears a three cornered hat and wields a long, bloody sword. The spectral figures are now coming straight toward Karl. The great stallion rears up right in front of the terrified Karl who screams and throws his fighter into a sharp dive. He does not even see the 303 tracers streaking across the sky as he plummets toward the sandy shoreline of France.

Damn! Shouts Pettigrew as his shells pass harmlessly through the spot just vacated by Karl and his Emil. Just then another cloud passed before the moon and Percy lost all hope of finding his quarry in the darkness below. Cursing under his breath Pettigrew turns back for the Cliffs of Dover and a boisterous wake for his departed chum.

Thousands of feet below Karl’s 109 has plowed a long furrow across a stretch of French beach front property. Karl un-straps his harness, disconnects his wireless cable, unlatches and throws open his shattered hood and scrambles out onto a crumpled wing. There is no more threat of fire as Karl sinks down with his back against the cold fuselage. A fresh wind blows Karl’s matted hair as he slips into a stupor. Tomorrow he will rest safely in a German operated French hospital and not remember a thing.

High in the sky an unusually shaped cloud forms, crosses the face of the moon and then dissipates into a fine mist. Anyone who saw it must have remarked that it looked just like a dark horse and rider.