Some people ring in the New Year with a bell, a whimper, a drink, a kiss, a hangover, a dance, solitude, crowds, a resolution.
We actually own a bell (which we call the cats with- and they come), we NEVER whimper (that’s for wimps, of which we are not), a drink is for light weights, a kiss is mandatory, a hangover is optional, a dance depends on the drink, solitude is so deafening, crowds so anonymous, but a resolution- not so much.
I don’t like them.
They’re phony- great hopes in an inebriated moment, soon forgotten with the inevitable disappointment of personal willpower.
But give us a shotgun, shells, and skeet- now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!
We’re here Lord! Raisin’ a ruckuss, lettin’ the sweet aim of a dead shot take us over.
An afternoon at Ben’s gun club and family togetherness has never been more, well…
|Chase is whacking the clays|
|Just an old-fashioned cabin in the Bayou-
on 250 acres surrounded by nothing but
sunshine, water, iris, and birds.
|The creek that winds it’s way through the land, overhung with
sweet myrtle, cypress, and magnolia.