“Big” is a funny word; its a comparative word, although its cousins “Bigger” and “Biggest” are most known for their comparison. Nevertheless you can't have “Big” on its own because without some thing small to compare it to it'll go unknown. You'll forgive me, then, if I say we had a “Big” weekend at the Ranch, for our “Big” might very well be “Small” or “Moderate” or even “Normal”.

The Drive

The big drive down to The Ranch was blessedly shorter than our usual trip to California, but only by about an hour. It took us nine hours to drive from our house to The Ranch, a driving distance of about 430 miles. Traffic was actually light most of the way, and we didn't get into any construction until we got onto Highway 101 (I guess it was jealous that I-5 was getting all the construction attention). We split the driving duties, but not by choice, per se.

Before we left I got quite the sour stomach, so much so that I doubted I could make it to the first rest stop without incident. Because of this we left late, and since we had two stops to make before we left we didn't leave Salem until 11 AM. Holly drove all the way down to Grants Pass while I tried to rest and feel better, which didn't quite work; I didn't feel any worse when we stopped for lunch in Grants pass, but I didn't feel much better either. I had to abstain from dinner that evening.

The Picnic

Having spent Saturday in the car, and not feeling well, Sunday arrived with both promise and worry. Thankfully the worry that I might not feel any better dissipated when I found I was feeling quite fine. Sunday was filled with “Big” things, but not like anyone would have expected. The picnic/Ice Cream Social/auction was scheduled for Noon and we arrived early, all of us except for my father-in-law. He wasn't feeling none to well, still fighting off a bug of some sort for a week now, and was looking forward to staying back at the house and resting.

The Ice Cream Social is actually a big social deal for the community, and people come from miles around. It's a picnic/potluck with homemade ice cream, followed by an auction of community things, the proceeds of which go to a scholarship fund which locals can use for furthering their education. It's actually quite neat that a small little community has established a scholarship fund so the kids of the area can have some financial aid for college.

The food was all pretty good, nothing fancy but nothing to sneer at either. Of course the highlight for many people was the homemade ice cream. While we were all waiting for the picnic part to start four hand-crank ice cream makers were brought out. I had swift memories of the 4th of July where I cranked ice cream, and then was a little surprised to see all the kids were eager to turn the crank; they were so eager to do it my mother-in-law couldn't even take a turn.

While we were eating Pastor Rick came over to our table and ate with us. Pastor Rick is a friendly and kind fellow who evidences a love for the people of the area, and it's always a treat to visit with him. I was surprised that he remembered me, and even greeted me by name, but then Holly tells me he probably doesn't get a chance to marry too many people so I would naturally stand out. Pastor Rick didn't come alone though, he brought with him a missionary to Argentina who spoke at the church that very morning. My highlight of that picnic was getting to sit there and chat away with this missionary. It's not that we said anything profound, nor would I say we struck up an immediate and abiding friendship, but it was a joy to converse with a fellow servant of the Lord, and one who serves in such a sacrificial way as to leave his home and live among strangers.

I fear there was a “Big” moment during the picnic, and I still shake my head about it. My mother-in-law had mentioned something of a well-endowed woman who in the past has come and has been indecently clothed in her opinion, and then would let little grade school boys sit on her lap. I saw no such person there at the picnic for quite some time, though a few might be more “gifted” than most, and chalked it up to a slight exaggeration. I was wrong. One of the later couples to arrive made a big impression on the women in our little party. No one was indecently clothed, in fact most people were covered to protect from the sun, however I will have to admit there was no exaggeration to be accounted to my mother-in-law regarding the generosity of the endowment. They were in fact likened to the bowling balls (in size and shape mind you) which were later auctioned off. I'll end with this, she is a nice lady with a sweet voice and a genuine smile, so I pity her for not once during the rest of the day could anyone say anything about her that wasn't related to her anatomy.

The Guns

I was told we'd all go out and do some shooting after the picnic, and in truth I was looking forward to that. Guns don't bother me and having a chance to drive around the ranch is always a fun thing. I did not, however, expect to be shooting the guns which were brought. When I think of shooting I think of shooting .22 rifles and pistols. We did have a .22 pistol that I got to shoot, but I also shot a .38 rifle, a semi-automatic riffle which shoots the same rounds as an M16, a .40 caliber Glock handgun, and much to my surprise a .44 calibre hand cannon and a 12 gauge shotgun.

I was fine shooting the smaller stuff, as I could handle the recoil without fear of injury, and they were fun. However, when the 44 was brought and a dozen ear shattering explosions were generated I was working on a way of declining without losing face. I didn't think fast enough. My mother-in-law shot one round, staggering back at the recoil and nearly falling over, and eagerly gave the gun back. Holly was offered a turn and she considered it for a moment then declined; I was out of time and the offer fell to me. There were five rounds left, and I wondered if I would get through even one without making a fool of myself.

Next time I think I'll use the gun in a single-action configuration rather than taking advantage of the double-action trigger. It took more effort to pull the trigger than I have done before, and the first round was well off target. The recoils wasn't bad at all, and after squeezing off all five rounds I had managed to hit my target at least twice, and boy did that gun make a hole.

Later the 12 gauge shotgun was brought out. By this time my shoulder was beginning to feel fatigued from all the rifles I had been shooting; at this point I think I had done 30 rounds. The shotgun was already loaded so cousin Guy happily unloaded it by way of pulling the trigger. I should stop and note that this shotgun is loaded and carried in case any wild animals (say coyote or bear) are encountered while out in the fields. The magazine holds six shells and it was initially loaded with buckshot and slugs one after the other in an alternating pattern.

The first shot proved to be a buckshot round, and Guy didn't hesitate while he chambered the next round. Now I knew it kicked back; I saw the gun move as it fired, but Guy was solid, quite used to it. I had heard the 12 gauge shotgun has a bit of a reputation for battering your shoulder into submission, and when I saw the second shot I immediately knew why. With the loud report of the gun Guy took one step back with his right leg; the gun kicked so fierce he had to change his stance. The next four shots went all the same.

By this time I'm again looking for a good way to get out of it, until Guy's 15 year old son fires off a few rounds. No man is going to let a boy show him up, and even though I didn't want to feel like a man I was told the butt was padded and like the son I would be shooting the same rounds they use for clay pigeons which I was told have much less kick than buckshot. I was handed 6 shells which I was instructed how to load, then it was time to shoot.

Maybe I played too much Doom II as a kid but there was something satisfying about pumping a round into the chamber. Hollywood doesn't have the sound too far off; it's a powerful sound, a meaningful sound, a sound of potential energy readied. The shotgun kicked more than any of the other rifles I shot that day, and I don't know if I hit my target due to the spread of the shot but I managed to put six rounds into the side of a hill.

Shooting large guns doesn't make you man. It's not all that meaningful to me, not even a milestone, but now I can say I have shot two of the guns I have heard the most bravado about. Of course, now that I've shot them I won't have a reasonable excuse not to shoot them next time, and there will be a next time. That's fine though, because as I said I don't have a problem with guns and now I'm not sure I have a problem with recoil.

The Illness

The final big thing to happen on our weekend was undiscovered by me until Monday morning. My father-in-law had a fever Sunday night and after having been on antibiotics for five days this was not a good sign. Nobody was rushed around to get to the doctor, but we did clean up the ranch house, pack up, and head further south so he could make a 5 o'clock doctor's appointment. As it turns out he's probably got pneumonia. We're still waiting for the final word on that diagnosis but until then we are all operating under that assumption.

The vacation part is nearly half over already with another day of driving looming on the horizon. So far so good; we've managed to avoid any calamities on our part (knock on wood) so it's full steam ahead on the Vacation Express, which right now means kicking back and doing some reading.