We're in the high 60s and low 70s here in Atlanta. I wouldn't mind living somewhere a little further north one bit. Deb, on the other hand, doesn't want to go much further north than this. She likes it warm. The best I can hope for here is to see one decent snowfall (and by that I mean more than 1/2") once a year and that we don't have any ice storms that are too severe (and by that I mean that the weight of the ice takes down tree limbs all over the place, knocking out power lines and leaving us all without electricity for more than a couple of days).

You may be under the impression that Atlanta is always balmy, the way the South should be, but we get the ice. The temps hover around freezing, and it rains when it's above freezing, and then the temp drops and it freezes some more, then it rains some more, and freezes some more, and then oak trees and pines start coming down in the roads and on people's houses.

I always hope for a teensy bit of snow every winter. Maybe enough for all the businesses and schools to say "don't come in today"�"enough" being 3/4 of an inch accumulation. It's pretty, and I know I won't have to drive anywhere. We have a fireplace that works, and I can hang around inside where it's toasty and look out the windows all day, or take the dog outside and laugh at her reaction to the snow. We don't usually get enough snow to make snowballs without making ugly ruts that reveal the brown lawn. So no snowball fights. Or snowmen.

So wish me some snow this year. Just enough to make me happy, but not so much that it annoys Deb. She still has to go to work when it snows. No matter how bad it gets, people are always willing to get in the car to go buy liquor.

One of Grouse's entries a week or so ago brought back some childhood memories for me. Memories that are fond for me. Memories of time spent with my father.

Seven times out of ten, one-on-one time spent with my father (or three-on-one if my sisters were there, too), meant time spent on a shooting range of one kind or another. Pistol, rifle, skeet, indoor, outdoor, 10 meters to 1,000 yards.

I was raised with firearms and firearm safety. That was essential because my Dad was an avid target shooter, and there was just no de-gunning or child proofing our house. So we were drilled in the rules of gun safety from the time we could crawl probably.

I began earning my NRA marksmanship badges when I was five. That meant I was shooting a .22 target rifle at that age in the positions of prone, sitting, and kneeling (I don't think I shot target rifle standing until I was a little older). I can't think of where my dad found a shooting jacket small enough for me, but he did. A shooting jacket is canvas or leather, comes about halfway down your ass, has big rubber pads on both elbows, and a big leather pad on whichever shoulder you put the butt of the rifle stock into, which depends of if you shoot righty or lefty. You choose your shooting side by which of your eyes is dominant. I could shoot either way as a kid, but turned right-eyed as I got older and switched to pistol shooting.

Dad gave me a brick (500 rounds) of .22 ammo for Christmas when I was six. Can you imagine anyone doing that now? But even at that age, I had a well-educated adult's respect for firearms, and my Dad was confident in that. Deb once heard a news report about some crazed gunman holed up in an apartment. When they'd captured the guy and explored the property, news anchors reported that they had found 800 rounds of ammo in the apartment. Deb exclaimed about what a nutjob he must be. I explained to her that we had more ammo than that in our own house, but probably not as big caliber as the gunman's rounds.

I took the official Hunter's Safety course along with my sisters when I was nine. The course was taught by a close friend of my family, Scotty. When Scotty got worried that I wasn't paying enough attention in class or on the range, where I was often distracted by these cute little mini-frogs that were there, he informed my Dad that if I failed, I was going to fail. It didn't matter whose daughter I was. Dad heartily agreed with that.

I was just bored because I already knew most of the material. I was also pretty good at doing more than one thing at a time in those days. I made a 98 out of 100 on the test. My sisters scored a 99 and a 100. But they were 15 and 16 at the time. And they hadn't caught any frogs at all.