Gunpowder, Pendleton and Poop.
I sat hunched over the reloading bench meticulously seating Circle Fly wads into brass loaded with canon grade powder and .45 magnum pistol primers. Reloading is to me what I assume knitting is for the crafty: relaxing. My mind is freed from the swirling cyclone of troubling current events and day to day fodder that clutters the human existence.
A repetitive, uninterrupted motion of my left hand sweeps the casing from the holding brick to the drill – the slot-machine action of my right hand seats the wad. I am lulled by the slight crunching sound of compressing powder. The waft of spent gunpowder and Hoppers #9 are aromatherapy to my senses.
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