Thoughts on Gun Safety

I was doom scrolling my Facebook feed here a day or two ago when I landed on a post by an acquaintance I "met" here in blogger land who used to have a blog of her own. She has since taken it private and relegated most of her other musings to Facebook. She leans left of center politically, and her post was a photo of her nightstand upon which a revolver (Taurus snubbie in .38 or .357 by the look of it) was prominently displayed. She proceeded to state that she "hates guns a lot" and wanted "all the gun control". 

I chose not to comment on her post because I had more important tasks on my plate at the time, and I know the person well enough to know that no good would come of me opening that particular can of worms. For reasons that most of you will already guess, that post set my habitually firearm oriented mind spinning like a game of Russian Roulette.

Setting aside (for the moment) the irony of someone who hates guns and wants all the gun control leaving a revolver out unsecured on a nightstand, it got me to thinking about gun safety. Not the liberal left's view of of gun safety, but the actual-for realsies-don't shoot yourself in the face-gun safety. 

So, I thought I would share a little vignette from my deep past to illustrate the point which is guns, by themselves left to their onesome, cannot hurt a sole. For crying out loud, someone found a Winchester leaning against a tree in the woods after 130 years. The silly thing was rusted to Hell and gone, but it was sitting there for 130 years right where the original owner left it bothering nary a soul. 

Back to our story. Once upon a time in the early 1990s, I was a young lad getting back into the shooting sports after coming of age and having my own money to spend. At that time, semi autos still hadn't made the full transition to being the primary sidearm of choice for pretty much anyone beyond the military. Heck, this was a few short years after taking my driving test with a state trooper who was carrying a huge revolver. So, I was the proud owner of a 6 inch Taurus .357 revolver. This was back in the day when Taurus quality was a crap shoot, and I didn't have the money for a Ruger much less a Smith & Wesson. Colts were already discontinued by that point. So, that wasn't an option either. 

Small digression, I worked in the layaway department at Walmart for a time while in college back when Wally World still sold handguns and cool stuff like Marlin Camp Carbines. I was working the desk one night when one of our sporting goods guys (great guy named Bud who was a WWII/Korea fighter pilot who flew F2G2 Corsairs [the Goodyear version of the Vought F4U]) brought an attractive lady back to put a revolver on layaway. It was a monster 7.5" barreled Ruger Redhawk in .44 Magnum. I asked her what she intended to shoot with it. Her response: "Husbands". Priceless. 

On with the main part of our story here. There's a point in here. I promise. So, during college, I was dating this young woman. She had 3 sisters, the youngest of which had never shot guns before. I offered to take them both out shooting at what was then my grandmother's property. We load up the Taurus, my Remington 870, I think I had the Marlin 60 back then, as much ammo as I could scrounge, targets and set off for the back pasture. 

After a little warm up, I gave the Taurus to my lady friend for her to have a go. She took a couple of shots, and then proceeded to take a pose in which she rested her chin on the hand holding the gun with her other arm supporting the gun hand's elbow with the Taurus sticking out at about the 10 o'clock position WITH HER FINGER ON THE (please enjoy this soothing music while our author vents a spleen in colorful euphemisms using all permutations of the universal adjective) TRIGGER. Now, granted, she was unlikely to receive a .357 caliber Qtip out of the deal since the muzzle was pointed at the stratosphere instead of her dome, but she'd have had the potential to be deaf in one ear for life had I not gently reached over and secured the gun before catastrophe struck. Besides, I don't like cleaning blood spatter of guns; and, contrary to popular belief, stainless steel isn't stainless. Ask Number One Follower about his Colt Mustang II. 

The moral of the story is that gun's are not to be taken lightly. If you don't like them, don't get one. If you don't know what you're doing, get some training. If you like guns and want to keep them, start educating people about how to safely handle them. 

Thus endeth the sermon. 

Advice for M&M's Future Suitors

1) Come to the door.

Go on. Honk the horn from the curb. I dare you.

2) Dress nicely.

If I see your underwear, I will pull it up over your head and tie it off to your shoelaces.

3) Show respect.

Both for M&M and for The Queen and me. DISrespect will be dealt with...harshly.

4) Speak clearly and use proper English.

Proper pronunciation and enunciation is your friend. Everything you say can and will be used against you. Gutter slang, Ebonics, mumbling and foul language will not be tolerated.

5) You will be background checked. Deal with it.

6) If I see you in the news, it had better be for saving kittens or something equally worthy.

If the article or story mentions you and the words "perpetrator" or "suspect" in the same sentence, walk away now while you still can.

Some Thoughts for M&M's Future Suitors

Though I am loathe to admit it, one day, in the not too distant future (the further the better), my little M&M will look upon a boy with a gleam in her eye and captivate the poor, unsuspecting youth thereby earning a level of scrutiny usually only reserved for sub atomic particles and IRS audits. Dear lad, here are some things for you to think about as you enjoy the relaxing sounds of latex gloves being pulled on and shotgun shells being chambered.

1) Don't run...you'll only die tired.

While this has been the motto of the United States Marine Corps Snipers, there is much truth here for you to consider. Note, the slowest bullet I shoot flys at a leisurely (and subsonic) 850ish feet per second.

You don't.

2) No smoking...unless you enjoy being on fire.

3) Old age and treachery trumps youth and ability.

I was your age once. I know what you're thinking. I know what you're going to do before you do it. You, however, lack the breadth of my experience. You have no idea what I am capable of. By the way...your shoe laces are untied.

4) Life isn't fair...neither am I.

You are assumed to be on notice of the rules and expectations. If you are unclear on what those rules or expectations are, you'd best ask questions ahead of time.

5) Freedom of choice exists...freedom from consequences does not.

Go ahead...try and violate the law of gravity. See how that works out for you. Same concept applies with me and my daughter.

Have a nice day.

Training Review: Two Hour Handgun 101

This post was originally posted on The Gundivas earlier today under the same title.

If you have read my bio, you know that I claim no formal firearms training as part of my background. As my involvement in the shooting sports has increased, my desire to change that circumstance has increased as well. Towards the end of August, I was perusing my daily Groupon email when I noticed a deal for a two hour handgun 101 class. One hour of classroom followed by one hour of range time with range fee, gun rental and ammo included for two people for the obscenely low price of $39.

Cha-Ching! Where do we sign up?

Yes, I said we. In my excitement at getting such a deal and my desire to share my hobby with my long suffering wife, The Queen, I signed us both up for this educational experience. Then, I told her I had a surprise for her. The Queen is no stranger to firearms, but she is not obsessed with them like I am. Once upon a time, I took her on a date during which go karts were raced and a select fire 9mm H&K MP5 was rented and fired. The Queen claimed she had a great time at said date. So, this surprise date was going to be well received too. Right?

Yeah, not so much. More on that later. Maybe.

Word of advise to husbands reading this: don't bill a date involving your hobby as a surprise to your wife who is stressed from caring for three children under the age of five and dealing your sorry hide day in and day out.

Word of advise to wives reading this: when you present your husband with the receipts from your massage/spa day/shopping spree/shooting spree, gently remind him that you didn't kill him for getting your hopes up for something romantic.

Any fail, back to our story.

Notice I am not naming names here. There are two reasons for this: 1) there is no need to publicly shame this business across the Internet for those located somewhere other than the Dallas/Fort Worth area (those in DFW can email me for names if you so desire), and 2) I don't want to discourage other businesses from offering similar opportunities via Groupon.

The Groupon portion of the experience was awesome. Paid online. Scheduled online. Printed voucher. Done. No fuss.

The classroom portion of the event was not bad. It was not great either. The classroom was long and narrow with the tables setup facing the centerline of the room instead of the front of the room. This made watching the video portions of the instruction difficult. There were about 22 to 25 people in the class with 1 instructor. Remember these numbers, they will come back to haunt us soon.

Now, here is a little pet peeve. A training class advertised to start at 7:00 should...you know...start at 7:00. Not 6:50. When we walked into the classroom at 6:55, the instructor had already started a power point presentation and was showing a video clip of Clint Smith talking about something or other, I honestly can't remember at this point.

Before moving on, let me describe our instructor for the evening. Short, overweight and wearing a Springfield XD 9mm in a Miami classic shoulder holster rig. I found it amusing that he continually muzzled the whole class with his loaded XD every time he turned around while demonstrating "proper" muzzle discipline with a revolver and a semi auto.

Back to the classroom material. I don't have a problem with an instructor inserting video clips to enhance a presentation. I've done that myself professionally. However, over reliance on video clips from others more qualified than you just highlights your own lack of qualification. Also, I don't really feel the need to pay good money to watch clips of Clint Smith or Todd Jarrett that I can see (and have seen in some cases) on YouTube for free.

The instructor did do a good job of demonstrating a solid two handed grip as well as the rationale for same. He demonstrated the Isosceles stance. I would have liked to have seen other stances covered as well, but that would have meant cutting out one of the Clint Smith video clips.

Positive take aways from the classroom portion: 1) Mag Out / Round Out for proper clearing of semi autos so that you do not inadvertently reload the chamber from the magazine, 2) you use the pad of your index finger to engage the trigger as using the first joint causes the meat of the finger to interfere with proper operation of the trigger, and 3) Todd Jarrett / Clint Smith are worth whatever money they are getting paid since our instructor felt the need to use their material instead of his own.

Now, on to the range portion. The range where the class was held is a relatively new facility with 7 pistol bays. Remember the number of students in class? Do you see where this train is about to crash? To add insult to stupidity, the range was not closed to outside shooters for the class. Those 7 bays were thus reduced to a mere 5 bays available for the shooting portion of the class. So, 1 instructor is going to run 25 students, some of whom have never touched s firearm, through a minimum of 20 rounds of ammo on 5 pistol bays in under an hour. Oh, and give quality one on one coaching in the process.

Yeah, not so much.

To add a additional level of stupid, one of the lanes rented to a non-class member was a guy trying to impress not one but two girls by shooting his .40 gangsta style. I really wanted a few quiet moments with that bonehead, but such was not to be. For what it's worth, one of the girls was a better shot than he was.

Heck, The Queen is a better shot than he was. But I digress.

The rental guns were supposed to be Smith & Wesson M&P .22s. I was really kinda interested in shooting them to see what all the hubbub with the triggers is about. Alas, when I got my chance to shoot, the lane I landed on had a Sig Mosquito for use. Apparently, one of the M&Ps was taken down by a squib round that left a bullet lodged in the barrel that need to be hammered out, and the Mosquito was pulled in as a substitute.

A word or two about the Sig: I don't like the long DA/SA trigger. I've never liked the DA/SA trigger system. Didn't like it on the Beretta. Didn't like it on the S&W 4506 that my brother in law had. Didn't like it on the Mosquito.  Personal preference. Your mileage may vary. The sights were way high. Point of impact at five yards was about three inches low. Once I figured that out, I turned the number 8 on a standard Texas DPS silhouette target into one ragged hole which is what I expect of myself at that distance.

Watching some of the others in the class, there were clearly some newbies. One guy in front of me had the shakes so bad, I thought he was going to drop the gun. He really needed some one on one attention. Unfortunately, he didn't get it that I saw.

Range commands, though discussed in class, were non-existent on the range. I didn't notice any glaring safety issues, but that could have just been luck given the experience level in the class.

So, bottom line: when it comes to Groupon firearms events, buyer beware.

In hindsight, I should have called the provider and asked some basic questions. My self assessed experience level is higher than a basic, intro class. I wanted to take the class for the sole purpose of starting with the basics to make sure I was not reinforcing ay bad habits left over from my grandfather and also to give The Queen and I a good basis for future firearms activities. A mentioned above, I did get something's out of the class. However, I was left feeling like I should have gotten more out of it.

For the price, I can't complain too much more than I already have.

Safe & Sound

As most of you know already, there was some fairly severe weather in the Dallas/Fort Worth area yesterday including several tornadoes and large hail. Rest assured, The Queen, M&M and I are all in one piece. Castle Erickson weathered the storm with nary a dropped tree branch or lifted roof shingle (as far as I could tell when I finally got home late last night).

The Queen and M&M were not home when the storms arrived and were never in danger. I was at the office about 20 or 30 miles as the crow flies from where the tornadoes were touching down. We had a couple of warnings to go to the center of the building which made for a wholly unproductive day; but, to be truthful, the wind and rain never even got worrisome where we were.

It was interesting to watch the weather radar though. Lots and lots of red extending from around Hamilton (a ways southwest of Fort Worth) all the way up through Wichita Falls. At one point, I watched as the radar showed Castle Erickson situated in an oasis of clear skies surrounded by a sea of red severe weather. That was when all the tornadoes were touching down in Arlington and Lancaster along I-20. The Castle sits roughly midway between Lancaster and Arlington just south of I-20 for those who are interested. Needless to say, I had visions of coming home to no home.

You would think we would have learned by now. For the last several years, the I-20 corridor from Fort Worth to southeast Dallas and into the southeastern suburbs and rural towns has been a magnet for tornado activity. In fact, one of yesterday’s tornadoes touched down within a mile of the former Castle Erickson located just south of I-20 on Hwy. 287. Nothing like seeing the old neighborhood narrowly miss obliteration to make you thankful that you moved. I also have a fond memory of driving home from work to the former castle along I-20 one fine, stormy day to see a funnel cloud forming over my exit. Nice.

I think I’ll be taking this as a sign that the Royal Family needs to seek shelter further north.

While I’m thinking about it, yesterday’s events remind me of story.

Once upon a time when The Queen and I were still dating and yet to be betrothed to one another, we were sitting at the former Castle Erickson (which, at the time, was your humble Shepherd’s bachelor pad/den of iniquity…yeah, right…like that ever happened) whereupon The Lady Who Would Become The Queen announced that she desired that we (meaning us) should go jogging for healthful benefits and general getting out of the house activity. I (he who despises jogging and owns firearms for the sole purpose of avoiding the necessity of running for ones life…ever), hoping to sound as if I were the voice of reason, suggested that the weather was not conducive to jogging seeing as how it was, at that particular time, lightening and thundering overhead.

The Queen accused me of not wanting to get wet. I informed her that such was not the case, and that I merely had no desire to be struck by lightning while engaged in my least favorite activity on the planet (I’d rather argue with the IRS than go jogging). After much strident discussion on the subject, I suggested we travel to a nearby park to see just how lovely the conditions were for pounding one’s feet into oblivion on hard concrete. The strident conversation about my desires or lack thereof continued on the drive over to the park. Once parked in the park’s parking lot, the discussion continued a pace for a good 30 minutes or more (did I mention The Queen is a redhead…it’s a warning sign that really should not be ignored) until God Himself decided to settle the subject once and for all.

As we were in the midst of our discussions having not yet exited the vehicle due to the lightning and thunder and torrential downpour, the winds picked up. That, or someone parked a 747 directly behind my truck as a strong breeze lifted the back of my pickup off the ground probably a foot or so before it fell back to earth with a bounce.

I announced that the discussion was over, and that we were returning to the house. The Queen wisely chose not to contest that state of affairs.

Upon returning to the house, we discovered that downtown Fort Worth had been hit hard by a tornado(es) while other twisters had hopscotched their way down the I-20 corridor leaving destruction and mayhem in their wake. Unbeknownst to us, The Queen and I had been sideswiped by the very edge of a tornado.

Thank you Lord for thinking about us. We’re alive and doing fine. [with apologies to the band Tesla for paraphrasing their cover of the song Signs].

Entertainment Weekly

As The Queen will attest were she to take an interest in this blog after encouraging this outlet for my creativity, I am the last person you would ever want to ask about anything related to the entertainment industry. I could not care less which celebrity is being arrested for molesting doorknobs while driving under the influence of Chihuahua flatulence this week. I stepped off the "I give a flying flip at a rolling donut" pop culture bus sometime in the '90s and haven't really missed it. 

Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy watching television and movies. I can normally identify major actors and their significant filmography without too much stuttering and "What's his name again?" I'm just not emotionally invested in the people or the goings on of Hollywood beyond the characters they portray. To borrow a phrase from another blogger (Jennifer...I think), just shut up and dance monkey.

So, for me to actually feel like something from the entertainment world is important enough to waste time and pixels to comment on should say something. The reason for this detour into gossip columnist territory is the Discovery show Sons of Guns. 

SOG ended last season with a cliff hanger.  The show's comic relief and heir apparent to the title of chief monkey, Kris Ford, was seen asking permission to date the boss' daughter, Stephanie. Without getting into the dynamic of fishing off the company pier for a moment or the attractiveness of Ms. Stephanie, let's examine the a) lack of gray matter between Kris' ears, or b) the size and composition of his family jewels. He asked his BOSS, a retired MARINE and maker of some serious WEAPONRY with access to untold acres of SWAMPLAND in which to HIDE a body, if he can date the BOSSman's daughter who is a gun nut in her own right. Either there is a "for rent" sign occupying the space inside Kris's skull or he has titanium armored, depleted uranium core cajones living in his boxers. 

After having watched all episodes of the show so far, I would have to say that Mr. Ford is not stupid. He may be insane and/or be a love sick puppy, but he has too many cool ideas to be a world class moron. That leaves....

At the end of last season, the bossman, Will Hayden, gave Kris a choice: the job or the girl. I have to admit that I've been waiting for the answer for several months now, and last night was the pay off. Kris, in what I think was an excellent display of respect and humility towards his boss/father of the girl, chose the girl. I don't care who you are, it takes guts to be ready and willing to walk out on a dream job in this economy. To do it for someone you care about, should tell that person and anyone else volumes about your priorities in life. 

I hope she appreciates it, and I wish them the best of luck dealing with the pressures of dating in the company pond and the fish bowl of national TV. I'll be watching.

Special Advertising Section: Dallas vs. Houston

A friend of The Queen's and mine sent us a somewhat cryptic email this morning with "Houston vs. Dallas" in the subject line. He lives in Houston and is currently in thrall with a young lady in the Dallas area whom The Queen and I have known from church for many a year.  I assumed from his email that he was seeking advice on which city is better. So, of course, I had to give him my opinion which I offer up to you, my readership, now as a public service and special advertisement:

Now then, I assume from the subject line that you are referring to the age old argument of which city is better (for whatever purpose); and, naturally, you seek out the honest opinion of someone who has lived in both cities. I'm happy to oblige.

First, my qualifications. I was born in Dallas, raised in the greater DFW area, educated in the greater DFW area, and the majority of my family still lives in the greater DFW area. DFW is and always will be home for me no matter where I go. My father lived in Houston for about 10 years ( from '89 to '98) giving me reason to visit often, I've spent at least one day a month in Houston my entire 15 year career in handling claims, and I lived in Houston for 3 years. Houston (along with Austin) is a second home for me.

Now, let's look at some important issues and compare the respective venues.

Traffic:

Houston and Dallas people always argue about which city has the worst traffic. Houston says Dallas is worse and vice versa. Based on my personal experience commuting in both cities, Houston has worse traffic. Regardless of which city you're in, traffic is a fact of life to be dealt with. I prefer to avoid it altogether.

Transportation:

Dallas wins this one hands down in my opinion. Dallas is 10 years ahead of Houston on public transportation. The DART light rail system will take you from the southeast and southwest corners of the city through downtown to the north and northeast. The line heading to Las Colinas in the northwest is due to be finished next year. There is even a connection to take you from Downtown Dallas to DFW airport and downtown Ft. Worth. The bus service is good and spreads through many of the suburbs

Housing:

Depending on where you look and what you want, I'd say Houston and Dallas are about evenly matched with respect to price and selection.

Church:

I have to give the nod to Houston on this one. [The Queen] and I have visited a lot of congregations around the country and met quite a few people in the church from around the world, Houston has the most loving, sincere, open, welcoming, [insert your favorite descriptive adjective here] I've come across. That's not to say that there is anything wrong with the Dallas congregation because I know many good people there as well. [ed. note: These two are a part of the same church group with congregations in both cities.]

Job Market:

I don't know much about the respective job markets outside of my field; however, I can tell you that, in my field, the Dallas job market is growing slowly while the Houston market is dying quickly. L., I know you mentioned you work in IT. The best man at our wedding is an IT guy here in Dallas. If you'd like, I can put the two of you in touch so you can ask someone in the business what he thinks of the job market. C., you mentioned customer service and I talked with you about insurance. There are still workers comp claim jobs in Houston as well as personal auto claim jobs, but the industry as a whole is moving away from Houston as a claims center. However, every insurance agent in the world is looking for good customer service reps, and Houston has its fair share of those.

Environment:

I give the nod to Dallas. Mold is an issue in Houston. Almost every house [The Queen] and I looked at to buy had mold in it. Houston is the heart of the petrochem industry. Air pollution is a fact of life and a cause for concern especially if you have a weak immune system. Ask [The Queen]. Dallas has its issues with air pollution, but not to the same level as Houston. Houston is more humid than Dallas due to its proximity to the coast. Heat levels are about the same. If anything, Dallas gets a little hotter than Houston, but Houston feels hotter because of the humidity.

Schools:

Toss up. I have no experience with public schools in either Houston or Dallas proper. I was educated in a suburb with a highly rated public school system. I can't say I got a bad education, but I didn't apply myself as much as I should have either. Based on news reports I've heard in both cities, stick to home schooling, private schools or suburban school districts if you are blessed with kids. Both cities have multiple public and private university and community college options for furthering ones education as necessary.

Miscellaneous:

Toss up. Houston and DFW are both major metropolitan areas. Houston is the fourth largest city in the US. Dallas is in the top 10. You've got airports in both cities that will take you anywhere in the world. There is major industry and business in both cities. Both cities individually have more choices for entertainment and activities than some small STATES have. Both cities have former presidents in residence (Houston has Daddy Bush, and Dallas has W). It's a one hour flight on Southwest from Dallas to Houston or a four hour drive (plus or minus) on I-45 making family and friends close at hand for regular visits.

You experience may vary. 

How I Met The Queen

Some might ask why I call my bride The Queen. That’s a simple question with a deceptively simple yet subtly complicated answer.

First, the simple part of the answer. I tell young people who are thinking about getting married that, instead of worrying so much about the wedding and being prince/princess for a day, they should be more concerned with whether or not their chosen spouse will treat them like a king/queen for a lifetime.

Now, for the complicated part of the answer. My parents divorced when I was 10 years old. To be perfectly blunt, it was not a pleasant experience for a young child and didn’t get any easier as I grew older. As a result, I have very definite VIEWS about marriage. I think a major cause of the alarmingly high divorce rate in this country are people getting married for the wrong reasons: shotgun weddings, young people with no clue who are in “love”, people who really have nothing in common with the person they’re with, the whole prince/princess for a day thing, etc. Based on my experiences growing up, I told the Queen in no uncertain terms that divorce would never be an option for us. In fact, I told her not to promise “until death do we part” unless she had picked out the spot in the back yard where she was going to bury me as I would never go through nor put another human being through what I experienced as a child.

In light of that background, you might be curious as to how someone with such definite VIEWS on marriage came to find the perfect woman in the first place.

To say that I was not always the best at selecting dating partners prior to meeting the Queen is probably an understatement of such colossal proportions that metaphors or similes to adequately describe my lack of skills in that area simply fail me. I still cringe at the thought of a certain memory from high school involving me bringing a girl home to meet mom for the first time.

The Scene: Typical 1970s era galley kitchen. One painfully thin yet very tall 17 year old young man with longish hair (okay, okay…it was a mullet…don’t laugh, you know you liked them) quietly stirring the spaghetti sauce at the stove. Mom leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyeing the young thing with intentions towards her son. One tallish, 17 year old female of the species wearing tight jeans, boots and big hair (yeah, you know you liked the big hair, too), sitting on the counter next to the sink looking mostly innocent.

Mom to girl: So, tell me a little about yourself.

Girl to mom: Well, I’m a recovering drug addict, and I go to Alcoholics Anonymous.

(5 seconds of stunned silence interrupted only by the “blop” sound of a large sauce bubble popping while my brain locks up after trying desperately to become invisible)

Mom to no one in particular: Oh, that’s nice. I think I’ll go set the table.

I still, to this day, have no clue as to why this particular girl decided to withhold such vital information from me until the all important parental introduction; however, I can only assume it was a perverse test of some kind. Now, I know some people might be thinking that I had some prior knowledge of this little tidbit of information or that the girl was making it up to get a reaction, but you would be wrong on both counts. I went to a suburban high school of approximately 3500 to 4000 students. It’s not like everyone knew each other from birth. I had only known her a short time when this event took place, and at no time during our brief acquaintance prior to that moment did the subject of her adventures in recreational pharmaceutical use or self medication come up. Perhaps she just assumed that I knew these things since her best friend’s locker was next to mine. Perhaps the mullet gave her the false presumption of shared habits. I will never know. To Mom’s credit, all she said to me after dinner was “be careful.” Oh, yeah. You think?

So, the story of how I met the Queen should come as no surprise to anyone. The fact that she turned out to be a genuinely decent person who later, for reasons that still escape me, agreed to marry me is nothing short of a miracle.

It was a gloriously sunny but not unbearably hot day in early June 1997. I decided it was a perfect day to go rollerblading at the park. Some friends of mine had just recently introduced me to rollerblading as a form of exercise, and I was probably out there trying to get some exercise and improve my rollerblading skills. That, or I was “sightseeing”. I mean I was a hot blooded, American male with a pulse after all.

As I’m rolling along, I happen to overtake a breathtaking red head rollerblading with, shall we say, a woman with more life experience. Courtesy demands that a person overtaking and passing another give them a warning. I said, “Passing on the left.” The red head immediately responded with, “Well, passing on the right.” Passees don’t normally respond to passers. At least, not in my experience. So, naturally, the future Queen made an immediate impression beyond her obvious physical attributes.

Well, I continued on my merry, solo way until I ran into a friend at the parking area. He and I chatted about nothing in particular for a bit until, lo and behold, the red head and her partner turned up as well. I’ll be honest; I was rude to my friend as my attention was immediately drawn to the conversation between the red head and her partner as they were parked within earshot of where we were standing.

By shamelessly eavesdropping, I determined the following:

1) The woman of experience with the red head was, in fact, the red head’s mother.
2) The red head was teaching her mother how to rollerblade.
3) The red head’s mother was tired and had decided to go home.
4) The red head was going to stay at the park and continue rollerblading.

Now, some might say I’m a bit shy. Others might say that there are wallpaper patterns more outgoing than I am. Perhaps. I prefer to think of myself as reserved and selective. I mean, really, how do you maintain the aura of the tall, dark, mysterious stranger if everyone knows you? At any rate, I heard myself asking the red head if she wanted some company. Who said that? No, it couldn’t have been me. Well, yes. Yes, actually, it was me. Maybe it was the fact that we had actually already exchanged a few words. Maybe it was God pulling the strings for a lark.

Regardless, I heard the red head utter the now infamous words, “If you can keep up.” Then she was off like a shot. I can’t recall for sure whether or not I said goodbye to my friend, but I think he got the picture. It took me about 50 yards to catch her again, but I did. I may be quiet and reserved, but I have a competitive streak a mile long. There’s also the fact that I’m about a foot taller than the Queen, and my stride gives me an edge on the rollerblades. She didn’t have a chance.

We spent the next couple of hours rolling around the park. We chatted and joked and had a great time. Or, at least, so I thought. At this point in the story, she usually claims that I asked for her phone number. While there is a distinct possibility that this occurred, I have no firm memory of doing so. So, of course, I deny it. I do recall giving her my business card with my numbers. Which she didn’t bother to use. And here I thought I had made an impression.

What’s a smitten man of means and intelligence to do? Turn stalker, of course. I started hanging out at the park a little more frequently hoping to catch sight of her again. I did manage to catch up with her briefly one more time in June when she was at the park with her best friend. That event was memorable as she slipped at the water fountain and imprinted the back of her white t-shirt with a muddy full moon. Kodak moment missed except in my mind’s eye. I wish I could print that memory.

Still no calls, though. Time for drastic measures. Even though she had never revealed her last name to me, the future queen had made the mistake of letting it slip where she worked. She claims she didn’t know she had told me where she worked. I think it was her way of testing me to see how persistent I would be. I finally worked up the nerve and looked up the phone number to her place of employment in the phone book. I called and asked for the future Queen by her first name and was greeted with the response “Which one” in reply. I asked for the red headed one and was transferred by the receptionist. Apparently, there were two red heads at this company with the same first name as the lady I was connected with had no idea who I was and said something like, “Oh, you must be looking for the other one.”

At this point in the story, I would like to report that I was greeted with an “Oh, hi, it’s nice to hear from you. I was just thinking about you.” Didn’t happen. Unfortunately, the truth is that the future Queen answered the phone in a surprised and incredulous tone with a “How did you find me?” Score one for the stalkers. To her eternal credit, the future Queen regained her civility and composure quickly and informed me that it was her last day at that particular place of employment. Score two for the stalkers. When I asked the Queen to be if she would be interested in going out on a date, she actually accepted my offer since I had shown such persistence and resourcefulness. Score three points and the hat trick for the stalkers.

Not one to let an opportunity to make a better impression go wasted; I made reservations at an awesome restaurant. Reata in downtown Fort Worth. At the time, this restaurant was situated on the top floor of the Bank One building 30 something stories above the streets of downtown (on a side note, they had to move after a tornado struck downtown a couple of years later and caused major structural damage to the building). The view was spectacular at least as far as billiard table topography allows, and the food is phenomenal. It didn't hurt that a business associate had given me a gift certificate which helped cover the check. Don't roll your eyes at me. At least it wasn't a BOGO coupon at Whataburger.

Apparently, I made a good enough impression to warrant further dating. The Queen to be and I dated for 6 and a half years before I proposed to her after dinner in the rooftop dome at Reata’s new location a few streets over from the old location. From the moment she said “Yes”, we planned and held the wedding in under 4 weeks. Mainly because we didn’t spend a lot of time sweating details and delegated a lot of things. We knew each other, and we knew that the wedding was going to be just one day in a lifetime together. We wanted to have fun and did things very spur of the moment. Wedding cake? How about a baker’s dozen of hand decorated cup cakes? The wedding recessional? How about the fanfare from the throne room scene where Hans and Luke get their medals at the end of the original Star Wars movie? I can tell you it was a hoot to walk back down the aisle hearing people laughing and saying, “Hey, that’s from Star Wars isn’t it?”

Yes, yes it was.