2009. In with a bang. Many bangs.
The new year commenced with a bang. Many, many bangs, thanks to my neighbors.
If one has witnessed something annually for more than 20 years, it must be safe to call it a tradition. The tradition in rural New Mexico is to step outside at 11:59 on the evening of Dec. 31 and unload all of your weapons into the air. Pistols, shotguns, rifles, black powder weapons -- once you get over it sounding like a war zone, it is sort of a fun game to identify all of the different calibers and guns. That sounds like a 9mm, 17 in the clip. There's an old double-barrel shotgun, sounds like a 12-gauge, double-roaring, then, after a reload, double-roaring again. There's a .22, sounding rather like a cap-gun by comparison, ripping through a clip of 20.
(One odd thing this year -- out of the background noise I kept hearing 5 barking shots, 1-2-3-4-5, then a hesitation for reload, then 1-2-3-4-5 again. What uses a 5-round clip? An old strip-clip military weapon, like a Garand?)
Of course, while listening to all of this I am safely under cover, since what goes up inevitably comes down somewhere, and yes I know there is a lot of open space around here and yes I know the odds against getting hit are favorable but there is a lot of lead failing to reach escape velocity and I have only to look at the bullet-pock on the side of the house from New Year's Eve 2000 to be reminded that statistics are not the only consideration in life.
I must admit, I have been tempted to add to the sonic mess, shooting not recklessly into the air but safely into a pile of dirt but since the whole point seems to be recklessness I feel it would be an empty gesture. I will not be a would-be wanton; when I am wanton I do it right.
After years of being exposed to this annual barrage, I have come to believe that it is the result of superstition. Apparently my neighbors, and their counterparts across the area, believe that if you have any ammo left unused on Jan. 1 you won't get any more in the coming year.
(Note to sociologists: when there is a regularly-observed practiced you cannot decipher, chalk it up to superstition.)
Last night's barrage was especially memorable. Amid the booming and banging of ordnance were leftover July fireworks, adding to the battlefield illuminations. Too, party noisemakers could be heard, tooting and screeching. (And, where commercial noisemakers were not at hand, several people voicing vigorously through duck calls.)
But rising above it all, soaring, was the sound that made me burst out laughing, the clarion call that I have taken to heart and now hold as my sonic theme for the coming year:
The clear, proud, defiant call of a rooster, knowing that it is his job to crow up the sun.
If one has witnessed something annually for more than 20 years, it must be safe to call it a tradition. The tradition in rural New Mexico is to step outside at 11:59 on the evening of Dec. 31 and unload all of your weapons into the air. Pistols, shotguns, rifles, black powder weapons -- once you get over it sounding like a war zone, it is sort of a fun game to identify all of the different calibers and guns. That sounds like a 9mm, 17 in the clip. There's an old double-barrel shotgun, sounds like a 12-gauge, double-roaring, then, after a reload, double-roaring again. There's a .22, sounding rather like a cap-gun by comparison, ripping through a clip of 20.
(One odd thing this year -- out of the background noise I kept hearing 5 barking shots, 1-2-3-4-5, then a hesitation for reload, then 1-2-3-4-5 again. What uses a 5-round clip? An old strip-clip military weapon, like a Garand?)
Of course, while listening to all of this I am safely under cover, since what goes up inevitably comes down somewhere, and yes I know there is a lot of open space around here and yes I know the odds against getting hit are favorable but there is a lot of lead failing to reach escape velocity and I have only to look at the bullet-pock on the side of the house from New Year's Eve 2000 to be reminded that statistics are not the only consideration in life.
I must admit, I have been tempted to add to the sonic mess, shooting not recklessly into the air but safely into a pile of dirt but since the whole point seems to be recklessness I feel it would be an empty gesture. I will not be a would-be wanton; when I am wanton I do it right.
After years of being exposed to this annual barrage, I have come to believe that it is the result of superstition. Apparently my neighbors, and their counterparts across the area, believe that if you have any ammo left unused on Jan. 1 you won't get any more in the coming year.
(Note to sociologists: when there is a regularly-observed practiced you cannot decipher, chalk it up to superstition.)
Last night's barrage was especially memorable. Amid the booming and banging of ordnance were leftover July fireworks, adding to the battlefield illuminations. Too, party noisemakers could be heard, tooting and screeching. (And, where commercial noisemakers were not at hand, several people voicing vigorously through duck calls.)
But rising above it all, soaring, was the sound that made me burst out laughing, the clarion call that I have taken to heart and now hold as my sonic theme for the coming year:
The clear, proud, defiant call of a rooster, knowing that it is his job to crow up the sun.
posted by InsightStraight @ 7:41 PM
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