William The Coroner’s Forensic Files

Monday, 18, April, 2011

A Sight For Sore Eyes

Filed under: Boomstick — williamthecoroner @ 20:53

The last time I got some range time with my primary weapon, the front sight came off.  Now, I know it’s only held in the slide with a little tenon, and it IS replaceable.  The part costs $5.00 from Brownell’s.  But I have neither the tools nor the know-how to put one on.  Without a front sight, I have no idea where the bullet will eventually go.  This is considered to be a bad state of affairs.

My gunsmith does know how to put one on, and he’s had my 1911 for the past 4 months.  Evidently he’s been back-logged.  And the man only works at that job one day a week.   However, he did get it finished, and now any failure to hit the target is due to my poor technique and lack of practice.  I should probably do something about that.

Paul Revere’s Ride

Filed under: History,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 09:01

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street

Wanders and watches, with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,–

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay,–

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse’s side,

Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer’s dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadow brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read

How the British Regulars fired and fled,—

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;=

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,—

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo for evermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere

Sunday, 17, April, 2011


Filed under: Cleveland,Natural History — williamthecoroner @ 17:40

You can tell it is getting on for spring in NE Ohio, for the daffodils are sticking their heads up above the ground and bursting forth.  First the little, yellow ones come out, which I have been getting from Giant Eagle at $1.25 a pot and planting them all over.  They came back with enthusiasm, and now the bigger bulbs are coming up.  I have yellow ones with single bells, yellow ones with double bells, white ones with pink bells, white ones with yellow bells, and all sorts of varieties.  I love the fact that these bulbs will naturalize, and fill in areas.  I keep planting them, and they keep dividing, and together we keep ahead of the local squirrels.

Saturday, 16, April, 2011

I Dunno

Filed under: Circle Game,Forensics — williamthecoroner @ 15:25

There are many ways to dispose of human remains.  You can go full-frontal Egyptian and go for three coffins made of wood and gold (the perfect thing for mummy dearest) or you can have ashed put in ceramic container (if you think she’s earned that).  But the folks in the Channel Islands have printed, fiberboard coffins.  So, you can have anything you want of your coffin.  They are made of recycled materials, will burn, and are “green”.

Of course, they don’t do diddlly to keep your rotting flesh from the cold, cold, ground, but you can’t have everything, now can you?  I’m not sure I want to be put, even temporarily, in a box that has a leopard-skin print.  Or a box of chocolates.  Though, you gotta admit, the “Rest in Peas” one, is good for one last pun.

Friday, 15, April, 2011

Vicious Circle

Filed under: Blogania — williamthecoroner @ 22:17

After lots of farting around, I finally managed to join up with Alan, Breda, Old NFO, the Atomic Nerds, We’erd, AEpilotJim, and other assorted riff-raff (I think I got them all) on Vicious Circle.


Filed under: Boomstick — williamthecoroner @ 20:48

To-day was Buy A Gun Day, and I also managed to really, really confuse the departmental administrator.  I got supplies for my class, eye and ear protection, and a Glock 36.  I used to start my students off with a .22, but lately we’ve been cutting to the chase.  We go straight to the .45s, the 8 x 57, and the 12 ga.

And the good thing, they all are non-reimbursed business expenses. W00t!

Sappy Cat Blogging

Filed under: Cat Blogging — williamthecoroner @ 01:17

Noodle asleep

Tuesday, 12, April, 2011

Yuri Gagarin First Man in Space

Filed under: Circle Game,History,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 15:31

On 12 April 1961, Yuri Gagarin blasted off the launch pad in Baikonur at 9:08 AM local time. His call-sign for the flight was “Cedar.” Sergei Korolev, the Program’s Chief Designer, would call from the ground, “‘Dawn’ calling ‘Cedar.’” Gagarin made his historic 108 minute flight (orbiting around the whole Earth once) and parachute landed near his Vostok 1 capsule in the plains of Russia. This flight made him the first human to orbit the Earth and an international hero. Yuri was only 27 years old..

The Cosmonaut program is rich with traditions that honor Yuri’s first flight. It is customary to visit the Gagarin Memorial before your mission, to sign the log book in Yuri’s unchanged office, and to urinate on the tire of the bus that brings you to the launch pad (mostly because Yuri had to himself right before his flight). We hope the world will celebrate 12 April together and create new traditions of space and unity.

From yurisnight.net

12 April

Filed under: In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 06:37

Happy birthday, Nana.

Monday, 11, April, 2011

Differently Clued

Filed under: Circle Game,Cleveland,Self mockery — williamthecoroner @ 17:05

So, Dr. Z  are you going to the reunion events in May?

Dr. Z  There’s a reunion in May?

Oh, yeah.  It HAS been 25 years, hasn’t it.  Makes me wonder if Facebook isn’t taking the steam out of the reunion industry, I can stalk my old flames, erm, cough, keep up with old friends, yeah, keep up with old friends, that’s it without much effort

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