My Cast Iron Assault Weapon—Armed to the Teeth

My Cast Iron Assault Weapon—Armed to the Teeth

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With all the uproar in the news about individual rights and freedoms, I would be remiss if I didn’t chime in, ring a bell or two. Definitions seem to change with shifting political sands. Today’s “individual rights and freedoms” seem to dictate that it be my patriotic pleasure, my civic duty, indeed, my birth right, to own, cherish and caress an assault weapon.

I’m not adverse to guns. Once I owned a sweet little Winchester .30-30 saddle carbine. Those were good times. My husband and I would saddle up, slide our rifles into the scabbards, and head out back of the coulee in search of a fat dry doe to get us through the winter. Now and then I visit pawn shops in nostalgic search for that rifle.

Later years I lived in Cascade and worked in Great Falls. Hap, my boss, talked me into the necessity of owning “protection”. I found a nice little .38 police special that felt balanced in my hand. Hap taught me to shoot it and advised me to keep the gun with me, loaded, when I traveled. I had no illusions what the gun was intended to do, however, I could not imagine a situation in which I would use it. After a month of worrisome lugging that gun with me everywhere I went, I buried it, unloaded, on the top shelf of the closet. I was scared I’d drop it and shoot my foot. A couple years later I traded that pistol to a young man for a vacuum cleaner, a more suitable weapon in my hands.

The other morning at coffee, Richard told the story about his short romance with an automatic weapon. “There was a big sale on this super-dooper-blast-them-all-to-smithereens “varmint” shooter that unloaded a full clip in five seconds. So I bought one and took it out into the hills, set up a target and shot a clip through it. Hey, it was kinda fun. So I loaded the other clip and ratcheted through that one. Then I was out of ammo. I looked at the pile of brass at my feet. It would take me two days of serious reloading before I could go back to the hills for ten minutes of excitement.” Now he owns a couple ancient rifles that were handed down in the family. He’ll pass them on to his son.

What kind of fantasy world do people live in who think that if our country is invaded by “foreign devils”, civilians will instantly man up a la John Wayne, a well-ordered militia crouched behind sagebrush, picking off the enemy. If we were attacked by a modern military force, we’d be toast as fast as Richard ran through two clips of ammo. Get a grip, honey. It’s a different world out there.

If I were to worry, it would be about those deluded souls who think they can turn their brothers and sisters into Swiss cheese and once the show is over, all the players will get up, brush off the dust and get ready for the next episode, heroes. I don’t care if you own guns. I hope you know what you are doing with them. Life is not a game.

My son-in-law keeps a walking stick by the door. If someone were to break into his house he says he wouldn’t have time to go get a gun. He’d just grab the stick. I tell him he wouldn’t have to worry. The bad guy would have to pick his way through every conceivable plastic toy known to girl-child. He’d be on the floor with three ankle-biter dogs licking his face. Out of self-defense, he’d have no choice but to pick up a Polly Pocket and play dolls with Toni, my granddaughter.

Personally, I’d reach for my cast iron frying pan. My friends know that I’m a wicked hand with a skillet. If I didn’t whop him over the head, I’d feed him.

I like to keep it simple. I’d slice well-aged back-strap into half inch dollops and dredge them thoroughly with flour, salt, and pepper. I’d drop each slice into hot bacon grease sizzling in the skillet. For full flavor, I’m careful to not overcook the meat, a couple minutes on each side should do. It doesn’t matter what you serve with the venison, but for me, mashed potatoes with gravy made from the same bacon grease is hard to beat.

If we’d treat one another with the same care we treat our stomachs, there would be little need to arm ourselves, little need to fear our neighbors, whether they be next door, across town or across the oceans. But I keep the skillet handy, just in case folks drop in unexpectedly. “Howdy, neighbor. Come on in and sit a spell and I’ll whip up a bite to eat.” Make dinner, not war.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 24, 2013
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Stalking the Wild

Stalking the Wild
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Ah, the thrill of the chase. The anticipation of pursuit. Stalking the quarry, sneaking through the brush, the grasses, the thistles, the wild rose, warily parting the fronds and peering with expectation. My delight at spotting my prey.

Something of the pioneer courses through my blood when I venture forth to bring home the bacon, so to speak. It is hard to describe my satisfaction upon my return with larder for the pantry. I feel like a mighty hunter who evaded the wooly mammoth, outwitted the saber-toothed tiger and brought home the wild asparagus.

A couple weeks ago, while sipping a cup of coffee at the bakery in Chinook, I eavesdropped on men at the next table. They were telling tales of gathering asparagus along the river. I had had every intention of going for asparagus this year, but each day that I was available to go, the weather conspired to defeat me. It was getting late in the season. I was glad to hear that there might be some left.

When I was a child, I discovered a small stand of asparagus that grew on the bank of the Milk River near our house. I sat in the sand and ate the tender spears. Not one stalk made it to the kitchen. I was hooked.

Fresh out of high school and newly married, I moved to Dodson. Mary Tribby took me under wing. She lived in a small cottage across the road from the creek. To me, she was a wise woman, a crone of inestimable knowledge. She initiated me into the esoteric rites of asparagus stalking. She taught me how to see the above-ground clues to the close-to-the-ground bounty. While the dew still sparkled on the grass, Mary and I gathered a basket full of spears, blanched them, and bagged them for my freezer.

So I told my guests from out of state, “Today is the last possible day we might pick wild asparagus. I know a special place. Would you like to go on a hunt? But there is no guarantee we’ll find fresh game.” Within minutes we were on the road to Dodson. We parked along a side street. I led my guests to the wide banks of Dodson Creek.

“Here’s what we look for,” I said. I showed them the dried fronds from last years crop, parted the grasses beneath the old stalks, and noted where others before us had snapped off fresh spears. One dark green stalk, about two feet high, stood guard. It was much too woody to eat. It would scatter good seed for the future. I continued to rake through the grasses with my fingers and uncovered one lovely stalk, about five inches above ground, barely visible above the duff, light green in color with tight, scale-like leaves.

Once we had snapped off the first three asparagus, we ate them. My friends had never tasted fresh asparagus in the field. That was all the motivation these greenhorns needed. We separated and each of us combed a different section of creek bank. I know many fresh stalks were munched and never made it into the bag. Yet our end-of-the-season hunt yielded two huge messes of this lily-like vegetable. We left, satisfied with our haul. As a bonus, I took home two wool socks studded with cockleburs.

Back at the house we enjoyed a simple meal of steamed asparagus, lightly buttered with salt and pepper. My friends began planning next year’s hunt while I plucked cockleburs from my socks. They intend to return for opening day and bring appropriate field gear.

We who live in north central Montana have missed a vital commercial opportunity. Think about it. Annually outlanders come to hike our trails, shoot our elk, photograph our wolves, and toss dry flies at trout. So why not institute a designated “season” to stalk the wild asparagus. I can see it now. An entire new industry is born. The state issues licenses. Guides take the innocent hunters to the second best sites (saving favored stream banks for family). Towns vie to be named “Wild Asparagus Capital of the World”. Tournaments. Trophies. Hunting gear. Clothing. Caps. Tools. Art. Kitsch. Souvenirs. Toys. Recipe books. Maps. Brochures. Museums. Parades. Celebrations. Roadside stands. The possibilities are endless.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 24, 2010
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