Friday, June 3, 2011

Good day at the range

Awhile back an old friend came into town and my father and I had the chance to take him and his father to the range.  My friend had been shooting with us once before many years ago, and his father had been a member of a college rifle team.

At the range I was very relieved that the new rifle tables were a perfect fit for my friends powered wheelchair. A little duck tape, some para cord, and an Outers Varminter  Rest (bought just for this purpose), plus my fathers 10/22 international and he drove right up and was good to go.

Plinking at the backstop. Note chair controller 

Technically speaking my friend is not a quadriplegic but he was born with knee and elbow joints not made to spec.  He aimed the rifle with his chin looking through a 2 power magnification red dot scope and fired off shots as fast as his heart desired, while I kept him in loaded magazines and made any course elevation adjustments that he called out by turning the silver drum on the rifle rest.

Varminter Rest: $75 Shooting with no hands: priceless

I almost always go to the range with my dad so maybe I take it for granted. But I have to admit it felt good to bring another family into the tradition.

My friend watching his father shoot

I'm sure the NRA Disabled Shooting Clinic or HAVA have much more professional equipment. But my cobbled together rig served with distinction, and my friend was very accurate, breaking clay birds resting on the backstop and chasing tin cans.

All in all it was an awesome father, son day at the range.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

"One More Thing"

Youtube test.

"Nothing ever dies though shapes may change"

Looting The Tomb
Was it instinct or addiction
that led me back to this creekbed
to walk upon it’s mossy rocks?
What is this compulsion
to feel winter’s frigid whip
of wind crack against my cheek,
to camouflage my hands
with fragrant mud?
The blackthorn cane I bought in Dublin
dug up bones of an animal
that had forgotten it’s name and structure,
this Humpty Dumpty’s time-stained shellbits
laid there deconstructed and jumbled
among the acorns, twigs, and deadsoggy leaves.
I collected the remains
of the body’s collapsed frame
and put them in my jacket --
there was a feeling of weird power
when I stuck those fleshless bits
of death into my nervous pocket --
a scalpel blade of clarity sliced through
mind’s skin and I split-second glimpsed
into the open wound:
I learned that I’ve lived through each forever
and will never cease to be;
that nothing has ever died;
that death cannot destroy,
only rearrange the shapes --
it’s unbending metal hangers
to unlock the bedroom door.

copyright 2003 eric d. meyer

"Do You Like Sundays?"

First test post.  For the record I can't type (or spell) to save my life (and I use parentheses way too much).

Edit: I forgot dyslexic...