Every house you buy has its oddities. Sometimes the previous owner was a crackmonkey; sometimes they just did strange stuff like plumbing water lines with electrical conduit. Sometimes you buy a repossessed house, and the problems are multiplied by the time it sat vacant. We looked at a lot of houses, and the one we bought was definitely the best of the lot. There were houses we didn’t even bother going in with holes in the walls visible from the windows, and some that we were considering with no living landscape left at all, if it was ever installed.

This house had landscaping we could work with, we felt, and it wasn’t all dead either. The lawn was, but that was to be expected. It did have a lot of sort of generic stuff that I really didn’t like, like the row of red shrubs along the backyard fence, and the ugly queen palms all over the place. It was a start though, and it had good fences.

The first thing we did was to clear out the trash the previous owner left. The back area is about a third of an acre behind the backyard fence, and was knee-high in weeds and trash. There were weird piles of dirt everywhere. It was really a hassle to mow, and besides, we want to use that space.

So Junior borrowed a tractor after we’d done all we could by hand, and spent a couple of days running the box scraper around, levelling off the back field. That was also where the garden was going, and since the dogs didn’t recognize not to stomp all over freshly-tilled soil, he put up a nice fence to keep them out.

We had to do something about the lawns. We tried just fertilizing and watering them all winter to bring them back, and there was some grass there. It was patchy and ugly, with lumps and holes. So we decided to tear them out and start fresh. Junior mowed them really short and then put a couple of rounds of Round-Up on them to kill the weeds and grass. For a few week there, we were definitely the white trash of the neighborhood, with the dead lawns.

But getting to the next step of ripping them out and pulling all of the old sod was overwhelming. We had a ton of other yardwork to do anyway, so we called in reinforcements. We found a gardener who would prep the lawns for reseeding for a reasonable price, and they spent a couple of weekends working on it while we pruned trees and pulled shrubs. It was worth every penny; they pulled out cubic yards’ worth of dead sod and spread ten yards of new dirt that we bought to level it.

While they did that, we spent one day pruning and cleaning up the trees that are going to stay. There are a lot of redwoods, some liquid ambers, and a bunch of crepe myrtles that needed to be cleaned up. It was amazing the difference just doing that much did for the place; it went from looking like a jungle to looking more like a yard.

The next weekend, we squeaked into the backyard with the tractor before the lawn area was too nice to drive on. We ripped out about 15 ugly red shrubs and a couple of those queen palms. We’ll have to leave the bigger ones; they’re harder to get out than they look, and pulling those would break too much concrete. We’re not ready to open that can of worms just yet, so they’re going to stay. I don’t like them, but at least they don’t drop too much crap in the pool.

The plan is to landscape with edibles; fruit trees are going along the back fence where the uglies were, and possibly a nice asparagus bed and some artichokes. The garden is getting better and bigger by the day. There’s only corn planted in it for now, but Junior’s prepping beds and we have lots of seeds started. We plan to put some bigger, messier trees out behind the garden, where the chicken yard is going to go. A pomegranate won’t hurt anything back there, and will give the future chickens some shade. We’ve even contemplated cross-fencing the back one more time to give us a little pen for a sheep or a steer. We both believe that it’s important to know where your food comes from, and like the idea of raising our own. I like plants that are both functional and pretty too, instead of boring contractor’s special landscape shrubs that don’t add anything. And I love having a partner that likes that too, and is willing to work on it; he works harder on it than I do, that’s for sure!

I got to see something new this weekend. Junior had a regular league trapshoot up at Coarsegold. A big chunk of the league usually takes their trailers up there, since it’s the farthest club from most of us, and spends the whole weekend. The other motive for that is that the Sun Mountain Gun Club isn’t just a trap club; they also have a sporting clays course, and a bunch of the guys shoot that on the Saturday.

I’d never seen this before. It’s sort of like golf, I guess, if I know what golf is like (I don’t, not first hand, and I’m fine with that.) Except it’s much more rugged and instead of hitting little balls with clubs, you shoot flying clay pigeons.

Our team of six shooters happened to start on station 2. You don’t have to start on the first one, you just go all the way around and finish up at the ones you skipped. At each station, there are two shooting positions, an easier one and a harder one. Standing at the one the team has decided on, the shooter of the moment has a designated number of targets to shoot at. They come out two at a time, and they’re really tricky compared to trapshooting.

With trap, you can see the house the target’s coming out of, and there’s a big clear field behind it where they fly. There’s some variation, as the target thrower arcs back and forth, but you know where it’s going to start. In sporting clays, you can sometimes find the target throwers in the brush, but until they actually throw a target, you don’t know how they’re going to fly. Some go way up above your head and some roll on the ground like rabbits. At some stations, if you time it just right, the two targets intersect in a way that you don’t have to swing the gun too far, but if your timing’s off, you have to really search for that second one. And it’s not like you get a lot of time, only until it falls and breaks.

So they rotate through who has to start first, and everyone else crowds around to see where the targets are going. With our team of six (no, I wasn’t shooting,) everyone had to go first twice, which was nice and fair. And then when you’re done with that station, you stroll on to the next, and so on. Out of a hundred targets, our guys ranged from the mid-sixties to 93 hit; the two guys with the best scores do this a little more often than the rest, but Junior held his own.

It’s a little more expensive than trapshooting, but I can see that it’s fun. The weather was absolutely gorgeous and it was a lot of fun to watch. The variety alone made it interesting, trying to figure out where the next set was coming from and watching the guys take really challenging shots. We’ll probably be back at that club for the league shoot-off, and we’ll stay again and Junior will shoot the course again. It’s a fun time.

A couple of weeks ago, Junior and I took Seamus and Sierra, the two kids we happened to have that day, up to Bass Pro Shops. We had a couple of motives; Seamus’ birthday was coming up and I made a deal with him that he could pick something out for his gift and I would pay for it. Junior and I both wanted to look at guns too, he went for the .45s and I was looking at .40s.

I’ve been wanting a nice compact .40 cal for a couple of years, as a carry gun. I’ve amassed the concealed carry application, got my name changed on the pertinent documents, and scoped me out a nice training class. I used to hold a CCW years ago, when I was working for a Sheriff”s Department on call at odd hours. It wasn’t hard to get at that time, working for the Sheriff and all, but I let it lapse when I had John. I didn’t think I could successfully deal with both a gun and a baby at the same time. I always meant to renew the license one day, and now that the kids are all older and I’m again on call at weird times and places, now is the time. My old revolver is really big; it’s going on the permit too, but for an everyday carry, I also want something smaller and automatic. Hence the .40 caliber shopping; more stopping power than a 9 mm and yet not so punishing as a .45, so I will actually practice with it.

So at the gun counter, I pulled my number and patiently waited at least half an hour while Junior browsed ammunition, Seamus played with the turkey calls and plinking range, and Sierra gradually sank lower and lower into not feeling good. When I was finally called up, the little Taurus I was interested in fit my hand like a glove. I picked up a few more, but kept coming back to that one while Junior browsed his 1911s. Finally, I decided on that one, and started the paperwork. It was a really busy day, and getting everything together took another hour. Sierra zonked out in a cart. Seamus found a bow that he thought he might like.

We kept doing paperwork. We got passed from the orignal, under-21 salesman to a legal one. This one, Ray, was very personable. He explained the requirements of the DROS form, and I paid that fee. None of that was a big surprise, as I was once a gun dealer myself, years ago. I paid my fees and signed my name, and then he brought up the ID issue. Well, that’s changed a little bit in the years since I’ve been doing it, but OK. I had my driver’s license with my correct name and address. But then Ray mentioned, after the sale of course, that I needed two forms of government ID that showed my address. Uh, that could be a problem. I explained that we were recently married and I haven’t changed my name on everything yet. My registrations aren’t changed yet, as they haven’t come up for renewal. We bought the house before we were married, so it’s my maiden name on the deed. Seamus looked at backpacks.

“No problem,” said Ray. You can bring in a utility bill with your correct name and address. He helpfully wrote that down on the stack of paperwork I would need to bring in to pick the gun up. Seamus decided on a bow, but they didn’t have the right one. He selected a wrist rocket as something to have for his actual birthday.

This kicked my butt into gear to get my name changed in all of the rest of the places that I hadn’t bothered with. After all, the cable company doesn’t care whose name is on the check as long as they get their money. I did that, and got PG&E to resend me a bill, since I throw them away after I pay them online. Hell, I even got off my ass to go get a new passport photo taken to get that updated too.

So today, the magical day came along, and I scooped up Seamus from his dad’s house. We had my bundle of paperwork, a list from Junior revolving around shotgun shells in case quantities, and a post-it note with the exact model of bow for Seamus’ birthday. We attracted the attention of a salesman, gave him my paperwork, and went to look at bows. Sadly, they only had either the left-handed model or the low-draw-weight models of his bow. He was disappointed, but I had him measured for arrows and a helpful lady started cutting a box of them for him.

At which point the gun salesman wanted to see me other form of ID. I plopped my utility bill down on the counter. Promptly, my joy was dashed. Apparently, if you went the utility bill route, you needed 90 consecutive days’ worth of utility bill. Which Ray had neglected to mention to us, obviously. I had told him right then that I was in the process of changing my name and didn’t have a lot in it yet. He didn’t say anything about three bills. He didn’t write anything about it on my paperwork.

I was flummoxed. What was I supposed to do? None of my other paperwork at home had the correct name on it. My auto registrations probably didn’t even have the right address. This guy offered to get a manager at least, so I thought I cold get some clarification.

Boy, was I wrong. This manager type barely glanced at my paperwork, hardly listened to what I was asking, and dismissed me. “It’s not our policy, it’s the law,” he kept saying. Well, I understand that; what I didn’t understand was why hadn’t his salesman TOLD me that law whe I was buying the gun? I wouldn’t have bought it knowing I couldn’t pick it up. I couldn’t wait the extra two months until I did have three months of bill because the DROS registration is invalid after 30 days. I didn’t think you could return guns. I knew I was out the DROS fee, which I wouldn’t have paid in the first place if I’d known about that particular piece of law. The manager kept repeating that most people use their registration. I kept repeating that I didn’t care what most people used, my registration wouldn’t work and I’d told Ray that and why up front.

I was surprised and getting frustrated, and to my sincere annoyance, I started getting emotional about it. This was not what I’d expected to run into on a good day out. This manager treating me like I was some sort of common criminal trying to get away with something was not helping. He was so scornful. I’m embarrassed that I was so flustered that I didn’t think to get his name even, so I could write a scathing letter to their corporate headquarters. He said I could return it, and was on his way to escort me downstairs to do so. I already had arrows being cut though, so I needed to wait for those. I told him that I was done doing business with Bass Pro Shops if that’s how they treat people, and he did not give a rip. I hate to lose that place, as it’s one of my favorite retail places ever, but this was ridiculous.

But while the archery girl was ringing me up, another man in the department had been watching the whole interchange. He quietly took my paperwork and went in the back to talk to the actual department manager. I was apologizing to the girl for getting emotional; not one of my finer moments in a strong professional life. While I was standing there, scenarios were rolling through my head. Do I cancel my class? I can’t even apply to buy another handgun for another 20 days.  I don’t want to take the class without the gun I’ll actually be carrying. And now I have to start shopping all over again? Joy.

Seamus and I took our one purchase and had started downstairs while I tried to explain to him why we wouldn’t be going back to one of our favorite stores because of how they treated us. We had stopped on the stairs while I explained things to him about how one behaves when one values customers, and that I would find him his bow somewhere else, but that he would still get it. Randy, the quieter salesman, called from the top of the stairs. I had forgotten my paperwork, which I would need to get my money back.

But Randy’d been doing some research. It seems that his manager was of the opinion that the paperwork was designed to establish where I lived, not my name. They seemed to think that if I brought in documentation with my maiden name and my correct address, it would probably fly. He asked if I still had my old driver’s license, which I do happen to have. I asked if bringing in my marriage certificate would help, and Randy allowed as how it wouldn’t hurt. So instead of walking out never to return, I asked him to keep the gun stocked and I would try again. He took my phone number, promising to do some more research. But best of all, he apologized, and said that his store didn’t want to treat customers like that. He’d seen the whole thing, and while he didn’t directly contradict that asshole manager, I don’t believe he agreed with him either.

So my plan is to give Bass Pro one more chance. It never was about the laws; the laws are what they are. It was about them not telling me of the laws, and that I wouldn’t have bought the gun had I been able to make a fully informed decision, and how they treated me with contempt. I am no criminal; I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. I wasn’t yelling, I wasn’t making a scene, I was just trying to find out how to resolve a mistake that they had made, not me. I don’t appreciate being treated as scum for trying to make a lawful purchase, especially at a store that survives on those same lawful purchases.

So Seamus gets his bow after all. This was the only store with a name that I recognize that carries this particular model. I’m not big on sending money over the internet to places I’ve never heard of. I ordered it, and when it comes in, I’ll bring him up for another two-hour drive to get it fitted to him.

And should they treat me with contempt again, I am done. Bass Pro Shops is on probation, as far as I’m concerned. I lived without it before they opened up here, and I can do it again. It’s too bad, but if I have to, I will.

Well, late for Central California, anyway.

We bought this house with the enormous property with an eye for a garden. Work and rain got in the way though, so we really finally got to starting it this week.

We’re going to fence off a triangularly-shaped odd corner on the back half of the acre. I have to keep the dogs out or they pee on all of my vegetables. They killed all but one tomato last year.

So we don’t exactly have the fence done yet, but Junior was excited about starting it, so he’s been prepping ground. He made a 50-long corn bed that will have three kinds of sweet corn in three phases. I spent most of the weekend working with PVC; there was an old watering line out there from the previous owner that needed fixing and extending, and the pool flush line was terminating right in the garden. I extended that another 60 feet. We did a major shop at Lowe’s and Home Depot and came away with bags and bags of PVC fitting and drip irrigation parts. I haven’t touched those yet, but I intend to use some soaker hose and some drip fittings and still make it flexible enough to roll up out of the way to till each year, and not have to make the beds in the same spot next year. I predict a crazy quilt of valves and manifolds. A rectangular garden is so much easier to lay out than an oddly shaped one.

But none of the home stores had much selection left in the way of vegetables. That’s OK; I like to start my own. We’re a little late with it, but whatever. Late tomatoes are better than no tomatoes, right? Next year, I’ll start getting my seed catalogs again and get obscure and tasty ones like I prefer.

So besides the corn and tomatoes, Junior wanted lots of hot peppers, so he’s getting those. I’ve got squash and zucchini and broccoli and two kinds of cucumbers started, and beans and peas waiting for the fence and their trellises to be made. I planted some herbs and green onions and more peppers in a decorative bed near the house. I have a spot in mind for a permanent asparagus bed and some artichokes. The kids each got to pick one vegetable for their very own; the girls picked carrots and watermelon, and the boys haven’t been home yet. I don’t predict John will want to do anything, but Seamus might claim the pumpkins, on the theory that any we don’t eat or carve, we can always shoot. He likes to blow up helpless vegetables. So do I; maybe I should start some more of those.

Junior’s got a place in mind for a people-gate between the regular back yard and the back forty. After lugging buckets of weeds around the long way to the compost pile, I’m enthusiastically on that bandwagon. The compost pile was the first thing started, as I was horrified when we were cleaning the place up and Junior was throwing away perfectly good organic material. He’s dubious, but I’ll be able to show him some good stuff in a month or two. The old residents thoughtfully left me a stack of decomposing hay, which is more of a gold mine than a nuisance. I’ve got it layered with grass clippings and weeds and prunings, and it should become beautiful soon.

As we clean and work on this place, we’ve noticed that even with the space we’re taking up, there’s still a lot left over. More than enough, actually, for a steer or a lamb. I’d like some chickens as well. It’s not on the agenda this year, but I sure would like to raise my own meat, and Junior would like to not have to mow that back area. This was the whole point of looking for at least an acre; I betcha I could have been happy with a larger area too; more meat in the freezer.

But as it is, I’m happy with looking forward to eating my own vegetables once again. It’ll spoil me; I won’t be able to touch grocery store tomatoes again, but that’s a (mealy, bland) price I’m willing to pay.