It was the equivelent of the Model 12 shotgun, but it was the little brother, 22, take down.
He had that rifle in his closet, and I was not invited. My father had left firearms behind a long time ago, when a 'buddy' swung through him just to shoot a goose. That was the last time my old man ever hunted; he took his shotgun, himself, and wordlessly strode away from the field of his friends. Young, high school friends. The kind that are supposed to last forever and rarely do.
I didn't even know that .22 existed. I saw it and forgot it many times, as I thought of the things young men thought about.
"We'll go shooting," my buddy told me, "I'll show you how."
Sure enough, by the Colorado river we shot his .22. I guess his father was not as reluctant as my own. I remember we drifted down that river with bottles of wine strapped to our ankles; so we would never seperate from the good stuff. Next time, like always, my best friend wanted more, he thought we should bring my Dad's .22
I said no but that did not last long amidst his means and urging a wild time. A good time. In the 60's, the what and here and now we begged for. The kind my old man would not understand. So I took it from his closet. We fired the old man's .22 I remember sand dunes and wondering how the heck we'd tell if we hit more than a mound, and who cared?
I put it back. How would he know? And he didnt' for a year. One day he picked up his good .22 and saw it had been fired. There were 3 children in that house, but the suspect was one.
"It looks to me," He said, "like someone took the rifle out and shot it, and did not clean it afterwards." He looked hard at his son. "It is ruined."
He used to be able to pluck a Squirrel's eye with that rifle, and had done so in the Great Depression when folks were hungry.
When my Father had grown up in that time of the Depression, caustic primers and powder ruined a firearm if not cleaned soon after shooting. Dad figured that .22 was a goner. I hated that old Man. Quality Assurance Engineer; he left my oldest brother alone, and his own young daugher, the joy in his eye; the spite seemed to be reserved for me. What's funny, is that same madness, the anger, later became the reason he and I spoke. The rest left; but that good old guy and his wild son eventualy became friends.
As a 17 year old I watched the cats piss on that .22; and saw with satifaction the man who knew everything was in for a surprise. The rifle rusted.
College happened. Years after one day when I was above 30 my old man pulled his .22 rifle out and gave it to me. All that rust was mine now- cat piss.
I laughed to myself, and loved my father. I laughed because my own anger and pride had scarred what he would give me later.
Learned something.
But it is not steel or cat piss or rust... that keeps me calling the old man on the phone; it is the good stuff.
I'll keep the rusted old rifle. My father's love I'll keep a lot longer. I wouldn't trade that rusty rifle for anything.
Many years later, I told my Dad that the barrel was not ruined. I knew more about firearms than he; primers were non caustic materials. But I never changed what I did not know when I was 17.
My Dad understood that, and he forgave me the rifle, which was the least of it.
(if I told this story earlier my apologies...)
I love that Old Man.
munk
He had that rifle in his closet, and I was not invited. My father had left firearms behind a long time ago, when a 'buddy' swung through him just to shoot a goose. That was the last time my old man ever hunted; he took his shotgun, himself, and wordlessly strode away from the field of his friends. Young, high school friends. The kind that are supposed to last forever and rarely do.
I didn't even know that .22 existed. I saw it and forgot it many times, as I thought of the things young men thought about.
"We'll go shooting," my buddy told me, "I'll show you how."
Sure enough, by the Colorado river we shot his .22. I guess his father was not as reluctant as my own. I remember we drifted down that river with bottles of wine strapped to our ankles; so we would never seperate from the good stuff. Next time, like always, my best friend wanted more, he thought we should bring my Dad's .22
I said no but that did not last long amidst his means and urging a wild time. A good time. In the 60's, the what and here and now we begged for. The kind my old man would not understand. So I took it from his closet. We fired the old man's .22 I remember sand dunes and wondering how the heck we'd tell if we hit more than a mound, and who cared?
I put it back. How would he know? And he didnt' for a year. One day he picked up his good .22 and saw it had been fired. There were 3 children in that house, but the suspect was one.
"It looks to me," He said, "like someone took the rifle out and shot it, and did not clean it afterwards." He looked hard at his son. "It is ruined."
He used to be able to pluck a Squirrel's eye with that rifle, and had done so in the Great Depression when folks were hungry.
When my Father had grown up in that time of the Depression, caustic primers and powder ruined a firearm if not cleaned soon after shooting. Dad figured that .22 was a goner. I hated that old Man. Quality Assurance Engineer; he left my oldest brother alone, and his own young daugher, the joy in his eye; the spite seemed to be reserved for me. What's funny, is that same madness, the anger, later became the reason he and I spoke. The rest left; but that good old guy and his wild son eventualy became friends.
As a 17 year old I watched the cats piss on that .22; and saw with satifaction the man who knew everything was in for a surprise. The rifle rusted.
College happened. Years after one day when I was above 30 my old man pulled his .22 rifle out and gave it to me. All that rust was mine now- cat piss.
I laughed to myself, and loved my father. I laughed because my own anger and pride had scarred what he would give me later.
Learned something.
But it is not steel or cat piss or rust... that keeps me calling the old man on the phone; it is the good stuff.
I'll keep the rusted old rifle. My father's love I'll keep a lot longer. I wouldn't trade that rusty rifle for anything.
Many years later, I told my Dad that the barrel was not ruined. I knew more about firearms than he; primers were non caustic materials. But I never changed what I did not know when I was 17.
My Dad understood that, and he forgave me the rifle, which was the least of it.
(if I told this story earlier my apologies...)
I love that Old Man.
munk
