Sometimes it is not the best idea to let an old man near a spade.  There is no telling what they might dig, or how deeply,  if they ever get together.  At least, so says the Rebecca,  after seeing what had happened to her view from the porch this morning.  Here is what all the fuss is about:

A measly little slot in the ground 60 yards away, where a fella can have some hope of catching his ballista bolts without having them shatter all over the place.  Fortunately  I’d just completed Dear Wife’s, bear proof (we hope) composter, and there are brownie points to squander.

My salvation.  The twin, turbo composting pickle barrels in action.

But seriously,  having a gentle backstop is going to be vital for the next stage of accuracy testing.  I plan on making  a simple wooden  frame and hanging a big sheet of cardboard from it to use as a target.  The relatively fragile fins should pass on through the cardboard unharmed, and then the bolt will have a nice soft earth berm to burrow into afterwards.  Sounds perfectly lovely, doesn’t it?

The price of “progress” always seems to involve punching holes in the view.    If they ever get around to lining up the usual suspects for this crime,  I am told that old men and their hardware will top the list.

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