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mvisconte · 04-11-2010, 01:08 AM

Nope, I couldn't do it. I can't just write a quick riff and be done. It's never a "give me a minute, I just was to dash off a quick note." It's always "this is gonna take a while. Siddown, Relax, put yer feet up."

Looking at the birth, death, and prison records for Virginia in the early decades, I notice the number of birth certs where the child's name is given as "Not Named (boy)", etc. Not suprising, I guess...

The birth records list the ages of the parents, which I find a little interesting at times. I see 40 (man), 21 (woman), and even one 56 (man), 23 (woman). Gives me hope for my middle ages, maybe.

Our friend was born in Dungannon, although his parents lived outside Dwina. His father was raised in Crab Orchard, and had lived there pretty much all his life. Don't get the idea that he was a "rube", tho', because he was a MAN of the world. He had been overseas in the horrific World War, and had done his best to show the mighty Hun that America would not stand idly by while her allies were trifled with. So many boys went over and some men came back. The father, tho', went over a man in the first place. Used to subsistence living, being raised on land, used to hardships and caring for himself, he was a natural. He was a natural born sharpshooter, although the new-fangled guns were a puzzle to him. Still, men used tools, and that was a tool. He was a hunter, and that's what he did. He was an excellent sniper, although that carried it's own stigma in the day. "Real men" hunkered in a bunker, and lobbed cannon fire. And were drowned in the mud, over-run by masses, bayonetted, gassed, starved, and died of very minor injuries through infection, from exposure, dysintery, and friendly fire. Our friend's father lived off the fat of the land, not being above poaching eggs, chicken, fish, and even dogs and cats if necessary. It was no big deal to sleep under the sky, and years of living the outlaw life had made him quite a light sleeper. He would show up at camp (carefully -- NO fire is friendly) and resupply. Ammo, guns, clothing, food on occasion. The brass let him go, as they learned early on that he wasn't going to do what they want and after seeing his results, they decided that having a roving disaster on their side was not such a bad thing.

He was fond of fighting, and in the beginning, he was fond of killing, but the novelty wore off quickly. Whether it was the repetition or the fact that it was legal, the thrill left, and he was just a very good army man. He knew the job, and that he was saving lives. He didn't think of it as heroic, just as an important job. One that, once completed, would let him go back home and get back to the fun stuff.

He was a driver, and he enjoyed that. The thrill never went away. Driving is suds-o-fun, mainly because of the power, the skill it required, and the pay, but especially because it was illegal.

It was on a shine run that his dad met his mother. Her folks were from Frog Level, 70 or even 80 miles away, depending upon the roads, whether, and who was pursung him. He had just outrun his third patrol that night and he was figuring that maybe laying low would be a good thing... He was a little tired and he's rather sleep outside, although the jails had improved greatly over the years. He had taken what passed for roads for hours, sometimes frighteningly fast, sometimes stealthily slow, sometimes pulling off the road and camouflaging the car. He had made his way north and then east, based on what roads looked passable, and what fields were plowed and how close the trees were to the roads.

He arrived outside of Frog Level about dusk -- just about the time he had started driving, the night before. He hadn't had much to eat. A couple dry sandwiches and some warm beer. During one of the breaks, he had broken out a jar and drank enough to worry himself about how good his driving skills would be, but after several hours, it had worn off.

He noticed a gathering in a farmer's field, not to far down a dry, dirt path, and he swerved off road and down the path far enough to hide his car behind some bushes and saplings. He got out and dusted himself off, and ambled over to the shindig, figuring on grabbing a couple handfuls of chicken or beef or whatever he would get, and getting back on the road.

Then he saw the farmer's daughter.

They raise women differently in the country. I don't know if it's the clean air, the fresh food, the quantity, the physical work, or what, but their women? VA-VA-VA-VOOM!

(sorry, I tried to make it short, and type faster, but it's ust not working... I'll add some more, tomorrow...)

04-11-2010, 01:08 AM	#274
mvisconte pHilosopher kIng Posts: 208 Karma: 429751 Join Date: Jul 2009 Location: An imperfect world Device: Laptop, laptop, desktop, phone (HTC, HTC, Asus, Asus, LG rah!)	Nope, I couldn't do it. I can't just write a quick riff and be done. It's never a "give me a minute, I just was to dash off a quick note." It's always "this is gonna take a while. Siddown, Relax, put yer feet up." Looking at the birth, death, and prison records for Virginia in the early decades, I notice the number of birth certs where the child's name is given as "Not Named (boy)", etc. Not suprising, I guess... The birth records list the ages of the parents, which I find a little interesting at times. I see 40 (man), 21 (woman), and even one 56 (man), 23 (woman). Gives me hope for my middle ages, maybe. Our friend was born in Dungannon, although his parents lived outside Dwina. His father was raised in Crab Orchard, and had lived there pretty much all his life. Don't get the idea that he was a "rube", tho', because he was a MAN of the world. He had been overseas in the horrific World War, and had done his best to show the mighty Hun that America would not stand idly by while her allies were trifled with. So many boys went over and some men came back. The father, tho', went over a man in the first place. Used to subsistence living, being raised on land, used to hardships and caring for himself, he was a natural. He was a natural born sharpshooter, although the new-fangled guns were a puzzle to him. Still, men used tools, and that was a tool. He was a hunter, and that's what he did. He was an excellent sniper, although that carried it's own stigma in the day. "Real men" hunkered in a bunker, and lobbed cannon fire. And were drowned in the mud, over-run by masses, bayonetted, gassed, starved, and died of very minor injuries through infection, from exposure, dysintery, and friendly fire. Our friend's father lived off the fat of the land, not being above poaching eggs, chicken, fish, and even dogs and cats if necessary. It was no big deal to sleep under the sky, and years of living the outlaw life had made him quite a light sleeper. He would show up at camp (carefully -- NO fire is friendly) and resupply. Ammo, guns, clothing, food on occasion. The brass let him go, as they learned early on that he wasn't going to do what they want and after seeing his results, they decided that having a roving disaster on their side was not such a bad thing. He was fond of fighting, and in the beginning, he was fond of killing, but the novelty wore off quickly. Whether it was the repetition or the fact that it was legal, the thrill left, and he was just a very good army man. He knew the job, and that he was saving lives. He didn't think of it as heroic, just as an important job. One that, once completed, would let him go back home and get back to the fun stuff. He was a driver, and he enjoyed that. The thrill never went away. Driving is suds-o-fun, mainly because of the power, the skill it required, and the pay, but especially because it was illegal. It was on a shine run that his dad met his mother. Her folks were from Frog Level, 70 or even 80 miles away, depending upon the roads, whether, and who was pursung him. He had just outrun his third patrol that night and he was figuring that maybe laying low would be a good thing... He was a little tired and he's rather sleep outside, although the jails had improved greatly over the years. He had taken what passed for roads for hours, sometimes frighteningly fast, sometimes stealthily slow, sometimes pulling off the road and camouflaging the car. He had made his way north and then east, based on what roads looked passable, and what fields were plowed and how close the trees were to the roads. He arrived outside of Frog Level about dusk -- just about the time he had started driving, the night before. He hadn't had much to eat. A couple dry sandwiches and some warm beer. During one of the breaks, he had broken out a jar and drank enough to worry himself about how good his driving skills would be, but after several hours, it had worn off. He noticed a gathering in a farmer's field, not to far down a dry, dirt path, and he swerved off road and down the path far enough to hide his car behind some bushes and saplings. He got out and dusted himself off, and ambled over to the shindig, figuring on grabbing a couple handfuls of chicken or beef or whatever he would get, and getting back on the road. Then he saw the farmer's daughter. They raise women differently in the country. I don't know if it's the clean air, the fresh food, the quantity, the physical work, or what, but their women? VA-VA-VA-VOOM! (sorry, I tried to make it short, and type faster, but it's ust not working... I'll add some more, tomorrow...)