…not to do what I have done.
I snuck off and spent a quiet hour alone in the reloading shack this morning…
Really just stocking up on practice ammo since the gun I need to be practicing with is still in two pieces in a pistol rug.
Still, empty ammo boxes make Uncle Joel sad.
…and while I worked, I contemplated the penalties of poor economic choices.
I mean, we’re well into the third year of the latest Great Ammo Panic and I imagine that for a lot of people things have pretty much returned to normal, if probably at higher prices than completely desirable. Even out here 9mm is available, 5.56 is available. 12 gauge is available in bird, buck and slug. But revolver ammo is not to be found at any price. And .44 Special, my particular flavor, was becoming a unicorn caliber years before the panic. It might never come back.
I’m literally down to depending entirely on reloads for my everyday pistol, having completely expended my once-admirable stash of commercial ammo. Didn’t see that coming.
Would it have killed me to buy some sort of 9mm, back when I was in a position to buy guns? Just for a rainy day? Huh? Would it? But no. I never even considered it.
You can bet I’ve still got a shot-out wreck of a .45 1911, though. Because somewhere along the line I became a dinosaur.
Speaking of the reloading shack…
I’m in a battle of wits with at least one mouse with nothing better to do than crap all over my stuff. Meant to buy some new traps when I was in town last week, and they’re definitely on the list for Monday. He can steal the bait from my one remaining trap – and almost as an insult he stole yesterday’s pepperoni and then left it uneaten on the bench. If he could hold a pen I imagine he’d have left a taunting note.