I live alone, just past the outback of beyond. Almost like a hermit, but without the antisocial strings attached. No children around, unless the old dog counts as a child, and at 17 she is almost an adult.
It is not so much that guns seem to have taken over, it's more like the home has grown around the guns. The house is an arsenal gone domestic. Guns, and ammo, holsters and gunbelts, hoppe's, gun oil, books, and slings, targets, target holders, and snap caps. It is gunny from the threshold to Jeff Cooper's Art of the Rifle sitting on top of the toilet tank. It makes me smile every time I walk in the door.
Just so no one thinks I'm a one trick pony, I like my Jeeps too. That is why there is a new Shrockworks bumper leaning against the wall, 125' of winch cable curled up by the door sitting next to a new Warn winch, not to mention snatch straps, D rings, and 15' of logging chain.
The house is clean, but the decor is early supply dump.
During the cold weather I like to bake bread. Fresh bread is great, and, if I must say so myself, I am a dang good baker. I also helps heat the house when it's 20 below outside. There is nothing better then putting a couple of loaves up to bake, then taking the dog out for a short romp in the snow. You come back in and the aroma of fresh bread, oiled steel, leather, and Hoppe's just take you to to a better time and place. It is positively Little House on the Prairie. Could make a fortune bottling that smell.