He shows up in a wide-open field, just looking for love and the whitetail equivalent of a "sandwich".
A little bit later, as the sun fades, the ladies show up.

As a child, I could never figure out why we got out of school in June. In June, it was still chilly on some mornings, and rainy on others. Then, to add insult to injury, we had to go back the first part of September when the air was a fine golden wine that invited laughter and the shedding of long pants and shirts, as we got into trouble as only the innocent can down at the swimming hole.

 But like kids do, we’d take in every second—swimming, jumping from a rope swing into clear waters, ripping through the woods seeking things we thought were ours alone to discover. An old scrape of an antler, the footprint of a stealth fox, the glimmer of red the only sign that she had passed.

It was a rare day in summer we’d stay indoors, and most of that time outdoors I was on my bike. My toys were beloved, but I loved my bike. However, I wanted a new one, specifically a ten-speed, when all the cool kids were getting $100 Schwinn bicycles. Dad’s income was modest, providing simply a roof over our head, seed for the garden, and a steer to butcher each year; plus, tithing for the church, and gas to go visit my aunt and uncle’s ranch or a cabin at the coast for a few weeks each summer. We weren’t lacking in a good, sound, loving home and physical comfort, but a $100 bike back in the late ’60s was out of the question.

 I was crushed, praying for what I wanted, not needed, as some people did, as if God was some sort of celestial room service. Yes, I prayed for a shiny yellow Schwinn. It was not to be, and knowing how hard my parents worked I tried not to let my disappointment show.

But I’d watch the other kids from up the ridge in the big houses of cedar and glass, whizzing down the hills on their brand-new bikes. It wasn’t jealousy so much as it was like looking through the telescope, we’d watch the stars with, the lens tempting us with places we wished to go, places our senses could see but which our limitations could not afford.

 I didn’t whine, I didn’t beg. That may have worked with the whole “get a dog” thing, but the dog was from the pound while a bicycle cost money. I rode the heck out of my old one-speed bike, hoping that if one day it would sort of spontaneously combust from that bump catapulting me downhill toward the grade school at Warp Factor 4, my parents would be forced to buy me a new one. But it didn't happen—neither the combustion, Warp Factor 4, nor the new bike.

 Then, one hot late summer day Dad got up early. He normally rose before the sun, but this day he was up early. When he came home, he bustled something covered with a tarp into the garage and told us kindly but firmly to stay out. We figured it was woodworking stuff, a hobby he loved; and that was that.

Then we headed out into the fields, the kids from the hill where the big houses were on their new bikes, while I rode the dilapidated embarrassment of a little girl’s bike complete with the hated basket. I wanted a big kid’s bike, a cool bike. I was almost ten! But my parents knew better than to give us everything we wanted when we asked for it, so we would not grow up into that sense of entitlement that can only lead to disaster—as individuals, or as a nation.

 But cool bike or not, I loved to ride; and we’d race the wind, abandoned to the musical cadence of foot, and spoke and pavement. The streets attested to the power of this freedom, kids racing up and down with war cries and laughter. Seeking out friends, seeking out adventures. Especially if it took us out into the woods that surrounded our little mountain town.

 The bikes got us to this place, but it was always ours. Clear blue streams gurgling with trout, flotillas of the first yellow leaves rushing on and gathering in clusters against the rocks. We’d race down the hills on our bikes, shouting over the galloping hooves of our imaginary steeds. A hawk dove from the sky; the wilderness was his home, but it was ours to claim.

 We’d drink from a clear mountain stream if we got thirsty, and we ripped more than one set of knees out of a pair of jeans which our mothers would patch, not replace. Our moms were all at home doing what moms secretly did in the day. My own, having been a sheriff in an adjoining big county, was high up on the Cool Chart, as was my dad; but we never felt tethered by them, only protected. They trusted us to travel in pairs, to wander in by dinner, and to come home if anyone accidentally lost a limb or caught a really big trout.

They seemed to understand that we needed to burn off the energy of youth and growth. They knew who we were with and likely where we would be; but they allowed us to work through the precursors of teen hormones, exploring, or building a raft, not cooped up inside. They had grown up with this generation of play, and so would we.

 Our toy soldiers clashed and died while we, as a general, or a spy, ran between the thick green trees until twilight rolled over us in clean, warm waves. Then with only the impending darkness and an empty belly, we were called home.

 We’d gather our wounded to us: the GI Joe who lost his arm in a tragic lumberjack accident; the precision plastic firearm that only dribbled water now; and field nurse Barbie who never had the appropriate outfit. Our next-door neighbor boy Craig with his skinned knee and my brother Allen with his sunburn retreated to their bikes, which they rode together as best friends for the next fifty years.

 School was almost upon us, and every last bit of adventure was squeezed from the day before we arrived back home. We crept into the pantry, grabbing a Hostess Sno Ball from the cupboard, and then rushed out to see what Dad was doing, cheeks stuffed with chocolate and marshmallow-like wild-eyed squirrels. There was my dad. Not angry that we were dirty, with torn pants, and having a snack before Mom’s homemade supper, but smiling. Beaming. And there behind him was a ten-speed bicycle. Not a Schwinn. But a Huffy, repaired and freshly painted in my favorite color, with new decals and new tape on the handlebars.

“Would you like it?” he asked me with the hushed hesitation of that question where you knew before you asked what the answer would be.

 At first, I was astonished, not believing this was happening. Then the astonishment faded away, slowly at first, then evaporating quickly; and quietly, like a piece of iron being forged so hot that it glows, a glow sparked and then ebbed to the contentment of its final form, what it was destined to be.

Dad had gotten up at o’dark hundred hours to drive to the city where their police department was auctioning off unclaimed lost or stolen bikes to raise money for the community. He got up when some folks were going to bed and waited in the cold for hours to bid on this bike, which he got for $15, then repaired, painted, and cleaned up. It wasn’t new, but it gleamed with promise; the handlebars shone with invitation; and it was fast. Lord, it was fast.

 My bike now is mostly a four-wheel-drive truck. I have one at work as well, to get to places people never want to go. The woods are still my second home, be it play or sometimes work, quiet bluffs and valleys that hide their dead. I may still come home dirty, and it’s a frantic life some days; but being a grown-up doesn’t mean we have to grow up, for we still wish for the same comforts and joys we experienced as children.

With my work today done, I head on north toward home. On the way, I take a side trip through a park and wildlife refuge; I roll down the window, feeling the cold air on my face as if riding my beloved bike. Then, from the woods as the light seeps from the sky, a form off in the distance. I slow and then stop in wonder. A large whitetail deer rushes from the trees; antlers held high, splashing over dappled current, then disappears without sound. His size and form leaving goosebumps on my skin as if the departure of his presence blew hot and cold on me.

As I sit and watch him rush away, I wonder where that old bike of mine ended up. Probably handed down to a niece or nephew, though I couldn't recall. But I will always remember the look on Dad’s face when he wheeled it over to me and the feeling in me when I rode it for the first time, flying down our rural road—a fighter pilot of wheels and gears, my big brother riding close by as wingman.

 Soon, I think I need to go out to the garage. There is a bike there, the mountain variety, that’s been harnessed too long. The sun is out, the roads are dry. If I look down, I can see my face reflected in the polished handlebars—the face of a fighter, the scribe of rigid bone and the folly of men, overlaid with the wondrous childlike glee of unbound speed that knows not yet fate nor death.

 I’m going to forget what the neighbors will think or how sore I might be later. I’m going to climb up on that bike as soon as I can and put that wind back in my wheels, the shadow of my wingman always behind me.  - Brigid

The sounds of a neighborhood vary from day to day.  As I write this, it is early.  I don't wake to the neighbor's car leaving for work, a large stand of trees between this place and hers.  I wake to the alarm clock, warm a cardamom roll as the coffee brews, then sit down in the office to contemplate the day after Partner leaves for his job in the city.

I'm surprised at how quiet it is outside; even the Chicago traffic is hushed except for the wail of a police siren off in the distance.  The ground is dry from the recent heat, and the houses stare silently forward, not acknowledging anything that exists in their peripheral vision. The morning light falls upon their steps without sound.  That lack of sound does not seem odd; it is simply that unique time before dawn. 

My Office when The Book of Barkley was Written -  2014

We all come home to different environments.  For some, it's the sound of little kids squealing with delight that Mommy or Daddy are home.  It's the the clatter of footsteps like the thunder of small ponies down a trail, that is no trail, but is simply a hallway rug, worn by that repeated motion of sheer joy.

For some it's a simple "Hello Sweetie" a hug and a kiss.

And sometimes it's the blissful sound of silence after a really long day when all you want to do is eat a hot meal and have a mug of hot tea while you lay out the thoughts of the day in your favorite spot to write or perhaps watch one of your favorite old adventure movies.

The night in question was the later kind but it was going to be one of those very nights where the tea was a glass of Malbec.

Barkley usually greets me at the back door to the garage, alerted by the door going up, with that terrifying bark that to outsiders sounds ferocious. He sounds scary, but he'll let me take a bone right out of his mouth with my bare fingers.  I'm his protector and his protected, and if I want it, it's mine.  But he'll defend to the death, that bone, from any creature of a lower, parallel plane, those that are neither protected or protector that would take what he loves.  So even with that quiet temperament that is his nature, I know he'd defend to the death, as well, my safety.

But he knows the sound of my truck and the bark takes on a different tone. I normally hear him before the door is even up, the sound, wild and faint, and incomprehensible but for its meaning. Bark!  Bark!  "Mom's Home!"

It was later than normal and when I came in - silence.  He was comfy on the couch, Brinks Barkley, sleeping on the job.
I patted him, fed him, and let him out to go potty, which he always does after he eats. I was glad his tummy was feeling OK, as the previous evening he had snarfed up a bit of greasy food wrapper that had hit the floor when emptying the trash, and I figured that might upset his tummy. But he seemed fine, just not as lively as usual.

So I poured the wine, put on some barley soup on to heat for supper, and sat down to call Partner from the couch.

We  had just said hello when:

 "Oh, Crap! Barkley threw up in the corner earlier!  I have to go".
Barkley has an ultra-sensitive stomach as far as rawhides and some people foods, even when he was youngster, unlike my last black lab who could eat a tank and then just gently burp.  So several times a year, Barkley snags some fatty food that's dropped (bacon!)  or a piece of sandwich left unattended or a paper napkin or such that is soaked with meat juice.  He then usually throws it up. He always upchucks in the same spot, if he can't alert me in time that he needs to go out, a corner of the front room between a sofa and chair. Since there's a nice rug there, I spread out a large clean towel in the spot, just in case.

Unfortunately, it wasn't barf. Other end. Poor thing,

I'm sure he tried to hold it, but couldn't.  He's never done that in the house since his first couple of weeks home as a puppy. Of course, this time, he carefully MOVED THE TOWEL OUT OF THE WAY FIRST before he tagged my floor with the latest black lab gang signs (in poop!) But I can see the doggy thought process - "Mom gets upset if I grab her clean towels off the counter so I will protect her clean towel even in my indisposition - I'm a good dog!"

He just looked at me from a distance, as if he expected a scolding, as I cleaned it up (pointing out the large area of tile in the entranceway he could have selected instead of the carpeting, though he didn't appear to be taking notes). There is nothing quite like the look of a dog that's expecting harsh words, no different than a human that somehow knows you are angry, even if they aren't quite sure what exactly they did wrong; a sort of shocked and unbelieving sorrow.

You look at them, your heart beating strongly with the heat of the moment.  They look at you, their heart beating a hollow echo as though already retreating, as they wait for your reaction. You look at them again, weighing a hundred expedients, knowing what you need to do, and not necessarily what fatigue and emotion might prod you to do.
I went over and gently scratched his ear saying  "It's OK, you couldn't help it, you're a good dog", patted him one last time, and gave Partner a call back.

"(sigh) It wasn't barf".

"Oh, so the "Oh Crap" was literal then?"  We laughed and proceeded to chat while Barkley laid down next to me for an ear scratch, feeling fine physically, but needing the reassurance that all was well.

When people get married they take a vow of "in sickness and in health". In a way, we also do that with our pets.  Owning a pet is not cheap, even for youthful preventive care.  Then, there are always the things you don't expect, especially as they age, things that result in someone wearing the cone of shame or the expenditure of hundreds of dollars.
But you help them get better, you adjust your schedule, make doctor appointments and you offer only warmth and support.  You don't lay your hand upon them with forceful curse and belittlement. They look at you to be the strong one, the tender one. They trust you to act from your heart and not from the infinite, internal voices of human fear and angst.

Then, on those nights when you come home really, really late from work, your soul weary, the house dark, they will quietly come up to you, leaning into you, drawn from their slumber to your side like steel and magnet. At that moment, there as both your hearts beat in the silence, you realize that every measure of sickness and health was worth it.

The night is warm, yet I'm dreaming of cold, of a windswept farm field covered in snow. In my dream, a form I could recognize yet not touch—fire in his hair, fire in his eyes. Speaking to me though I could not hear, mouth moving as if to taste—and I wake up. For a moment I don’t know where I am, then I look around, smile, and go back to sleep.

When I wake again the neighborhood is hushed. I’m not sure what time it is, as I don’t have a clock on the wall or wear a wristwatch. I have an antique clock left to me by my mother, given to me not so that I remember time; for hers was short, but to forget it. Forget it as I move out into the world, gathering the wind to propel my journey, not holding my breath to conquer it; the folly of many a philosopher and fool.

The household is quiet. the rescue Lab is snoozing in a patch of sunlight somewhere, dreaming the dreams of solar-powered dogs. Outside, the yard is perfect with the stillness of dew, the sun glinting between low branches. No dog tracks yet, no human or squirrel tracks; only a line of old trees standing with the enduring and ageless patience of static stillness, waiting for something. Perhaps they simply wait for me to venture out into the burgeoning warmth of morning.

The neighborhood slumbering, I look out; innumerable shadows on the ground, as still as if they had been laid down upon it as stencils. Sunlight is just a pencil tracing, drawing dark and light. The morning is here, now. Where I came from last night is only a distant memory. 

Back behind the trees, the sound of a train dies away to the tick of a watch that is not there, running through another day somewhere far away for now, fire in his eyes, fire in his hair. The sound hangs in the air like punctuation, the clouds curled up above in small catnaps of infinity—only my small form, and perhaps a camera, to capture them. The train moves away in unshaken pull and balance, consuming inertia itself; its desire; only a breath of steam in the cold air.

The light is soft, a cold blue fragility that speaks of shattered thought. Not quite enough light yet for photos, no tangible remembrance of the feeling; only words that gather up their own steam even as they fade away into silence as I recall another morning long ago.

We had been setting out to check on an old tree blind before whitetail deer activity started. It had been some time since we’d visited since I’d made my way out there. The woods looked ancient; evergreen trees bearing their load of snow on sagging shoulders, a few trees holding on to threadbare leaves gathered around their branches like a shawl. It had been an early snow, masking all the normal markings I would have used to find my way back to the house. As I went deeper into the woods I broke off a few small branches, small signs that I was on the right path, even as whole trees had fallen over trails I used to take.

From above a hawk dove down, rending the sky like faded blue cloth, its tattered remnants flung behind as he swooped down in search of something he needed to sustain. I’d not have seen him had I not remained totally still; his dive a brief blur, a mote from God’s eye falling from heaven.

The old deer blind was still there and secure, so I began the journey back, looking carefully to make sure I was on the right path to light and safety. From a distance, I could see the warm glow of the house. From the trees, I heard the gentle huff of a buck—a greeting, a warning, his breath clouding the air in anticipation of that which he knows he wants. I caught only a glimpse of a rack - its width indicating he had survived numerous hunts. He watched me, a Trojan with time and patience and the occasional Browning 20-gauge on her side.

On this day, though, the deer had nothing to fear from me—the dance between man and nature, the slow waltz of blood and need, stilling within me for now. That day, he and I were simply part of this same forest, one with the land. Though by my intellect and God’s grace, I had dominion over him, I would tender my stewardship carefully and leave him in peace. The recognition of freedom, the desire for life—full, rich, and red—was as conscious in me as in him, and is always there even when my higher nature slumbers. It courses through this earth and each of us, a deep red vein awaiting the divining rod of recognition.

He turned with a flick of a white tail and disappeared into the shadows, deeper into hundred-year-old woods. I wished I’d had a camera to capture that, to capture all that I can’t see and can’t remember later; so much here beyond the grasp of anything born or invented. Perhaps I could find words for it, if only silently; the apotheosis of our need voicing a thousand avatars. - Brigid

Christian Friedrich Schonbein (Oct. 18, 1799 - Aug 29, 1868) was a German/Swiss chemist who is well known for inventing the fuel cell in 1837, but it is another of his discoveries, done by accident, that impacted firearm design and led, in part, to the invention and production of a seemingly simple little pistol that lives in the gun-safe at the Range.
The story is as follows. Although his wife forbade him to do so, Schonbein liked to experiment in the kitchen (and NOT with flour, sugar, and salt).  It is said that on a day back in 1845, he spilled a mixture of nitric acid and sulfuric acid.  Using his wife's cotton apron to clean up the evidence, he hung her apron over the stove to dry, only to find that the cloth spontaneously ignited and burned so quickly it was as if it had vanished. (Honestly honey, I don't know WHAT happened to your apron). What he had done was convert the cellulose of the apron with the nitro groups (from the nitric acid) serving as an internal source of oxygen. When heated the cellulose was completely and suddenly oxidized.
Though it was by accident, the discovery of a method of production of guncotton (nitrocellulose) had occurred.  A crude version of nitrocellulose had been discovered in 1838 by Theophile Pelouze, but he apparently failed to follow up on his initial observations so Schonbein is credited for the discovery. No fool, Schonbein recognized the possibilities here  At the time, the black gunpowder which had been around for hundreds of years, exploded producing thick black smoke. This has disadvantages beyond giving away the gunner's position and obscuring their view of the battlefield. It also produced by-products which essentially "clogged up" the firearm just as it fouled canons.

Nitrocellulose was perceived as a possible "smokeless powder" and a propellant for artillery shells, and apparently, the name "guncotton" stuck.

Schonbein patented his process, giving the manufacturing rights to John Hall & Sons in Faversham. Unfortunately, guncotton was inherently chemically unstable, burned readily, and exploded easily (much like today's modern redhead) so attempts to manufacture it for military use resulted in several factory explosions, dozens of deaths. and general mayhem.
It wasn't until after the death of Shonebein that French chemist Paul Vielle found a way to stabilize guncotton into successful smokeless gunpowder. He called his invention "poudre blanche" or white powder. It burned much faster than black powder and produced comparatively little smoke, hence the "smokeless" moniker.

(Note: in 1891, James Dewar and Frederick Augustus Abel also were able to transform gelatinized guncotton into a relatively safe mixture, called cordite.  The name came about as it could be extruded into long thing cords before being dried.)

How does this little history lesson tie into the Browning 1900?
Several attempts to create a self-loading (automatic) weapon were made before smokeless powder arrived on the scene.  None of the efforts were truly viable because of the heavy residue of black powder which obviously impacted mechanical function, and not in a good way.

With smokeless powder - that changed and several people began working on designs for self-loading firearms, including Mannlicher, Bergmann, and Mauser.  The early models had limited sales and were mostly intended for military use.

Along comes John Moses Browning - a man who learned to repair guns in his father's shop before he learned to read and write.  He filed his first firearm patent at an age when most of us were still in college, and through the next decade followed it with another dozen or so patents on various self-loading weapons, both recoil and gas-operated.  In 1896 he signed a contract giving Colt's the right to manufacture several of his automatic pistol designs for distribution in the US and Canada.  At the time, it was widely believed that Colt was simply acquiring the right to protect sales of their revolvers, for the established market for self-load pistols was not yet established in the United States.
That would soon change.

One of Browning's patents was U.S. patent 621,747, covering the final design for what would be the single action1899/1900 FN Browning. I believe it is the first production handgun to use a slide.

The design was said to have been presented to arms manufacturer FN  Herstal (Fabrique Nationale de Herstal) in 1898 with production in their Belgium facility shortly following under the designation Modele 1899. The FN engineers who produced this firearm based on Browning's design were astounded by the reliability of the piece when it fired round after hundreds of rounds without a single failure to feed or eject, remarkable in the day. The contract Browning signed with them was said to forbid the sale of the firearm in North America, where Colt already had the right to sell Browning's design.  It is perhaps for this reason that there are not a lot of these guns in the US today as in other parts of the world. 
In 1900, an improved design with a shorter barrel and wider grips was produced as the M1900. These designations were applied retroactively after FN started to manufacture other Browning pistol designs, so initially, the M1900 was marketed simply as the "Pistolet Browning".  The gun was manufactured for over 10 years, with some 720,000 + units produced.

Its owners included President Theodore Roosevelt, who is said to have kept a pearl-handled 1900 in the drawer next to his bed.  It quickly earned a reputation for ruggedness and reliability and was soon adopted by Belgium as its service sidearm.  The Belgium Military had requested that their gun have a frame reinforced more than the model 1899.  Therefore, the reinforced portion of the 1900 frame above the trigger guard extends ALL the way around to the rear of the trigger guard, and all the way to the ejection port on the right side, this area being made several thousands of an inch thicker than the 1899.  If you compare it closely to the 1899 it also has slightly larger, thicker grip plates.

Over the years it saw employment by the military in a number of countries, including Austria-Hungary, Greece, Russia, France, and Germany.

In appearance, it lacks the streamlined shape of its follow-up, the Model 1910 but it has numerous features that contributed to its popularity.  Reliability was one of them. The recoil spring is enclosed in a channel above the barrel and also functions as the firing pin spring.  This design will set off even the most stubborn primer.

It also has a separate breech-lock that attaches to the slide by means of a couple of large-headed screws (unlike subsequent semi-auto's that hit the market.) The safety is a small lever located on the left side of the frame.  Labeled "FEU" (fire" and "SUR" (safe) it's easy to flick to the preferred position (though you could get markings in German and English by special order for sale in other countries.
Gunsights are about as basic as you get with a non-adjustable rear notch and rounded blade front The rear sight is unique in that there is a rounded pin that will rise up to block the notch when the trigger is pulled on an empty chamber letting the shooting know the pistol is unloaded, as unlike many firearms the gun's slide does NOT remain open after the last shot

It's surprisingly easy to field strip and clean, having a minimum of parts.

Assembled, at 6 and 3/8 inches long with a weight of just 22 ounces, the 1900 is easily concealed. The frames are hand-ground by machinists and may vary sight in shape or length. Drawing from concealed is aided with round contours that make it easy to draw from a pocket or holster without it catching on anything. It didn't achieve great popularity in the States, perhaps due to the popularity of the 1903 Colt, but it was well regarded elsewhere, with copies even made in the Middle East and China, where the pistol was held in particularly high esteem.
So, the Range Browning 1900 is neither complex, nor rare, but I'm glad it is part of the collection.  It's not going to win me any awards with one-inch groupings but it's a reliable and well-built little piece of history to hold on to and to pass on to the next generation.

I watched a neighborhood kid out on his bicycle yesterday, his mom walking behind him. The child had on a jacket, gloves, a helmet, and knee pads. It was about 62 degrees. Put my brother and me on such a bike all those years ago and we’d have been bareheaded, barehanded, and probably in our shirtsleeves, Mom at home knowing we’d come back when we got hungry.