The human mind is a strange thing. Not even the psychology people understand how it works, or why we do some of the things we do. I think I read someplace that the brain never forgets anything, but it locks stuff away under new data so that we only think we forgot about it. Maybe thats why some people can recall things under hypnosis that there's no way we could recall it on our own. But it has always amazed me how a smell can trigger a memory from long, long ago.
Like Hoppes number 9, and the smell of .22 powder smoke.
Being retired, I get to go to the range twice a week, and I've always been nuts for the humble .22. I used to have more guns of higher caliber, but I have'nt hunted in over 30 years now, and I don't have any fantacies of ninja activities at my age. Nor do I live in a nieghborhood where I have to worry about home invasion. And the other guns don't smell the same. Did you ever notice that the .22 has a slight sweet smell to it? Like a sweet but acrid smell that is like no other firearm. And when I get home and clean them with the old Hoppes number 9 it brings back memories.
My eariest gun memories are of my father teaching me to shoot his old Winchester 69 and his Colt woodsman. I can't recall how old I was, but I do know my age was single digget. It was a sharp clear memory of a crisp fall day, and dad was wearing that old checkered wool shirt that he loved to use as a light jacket. I felt very honored to be able to hold the slim woodsman, and it was the first handgun I ever shot. Looking back down the tunnel of years, it was a magical experiance. It cut a groove in my heart for the .22, and so many decades later I still love it over any other gun. It was also my dad's only gun. Day hikes in the woods, camping trips, traveling on vacation, I remember dad always having the woodsman around, if not on his person tucked in his waist under a jacket. Only once did he ever have to pull it out in my memory, and it changed the situation for the better.
The only other gun dad had in my memory was the Winchester 69A with peep sights. That was the gun he gave me to compete with on the rifle team the church sponcered hand in hand with the scout troop. It was a gun from the late 1930's, and some of the other kids had new Mossberg target rifles, but the old Winchester held its own against the more modern guns. When I smell .22 powder smoke I can't help but to think of Mr. Van, and his strict coaching of us on campouts to Gun Farm. Dad may have tought me the basics, but I own Mr. Van for the honing and polishing those to a sharp edge.
I smell the Hoppes solvent and I remember the newpaper covering the kitchen table, and dad gently stripping down the woodsman to clean it. A small screwdriver would take off the walnut grips, and he'd take off the slide, then swab out the barrel from the chamber end. Sometimes he'd use his little Case peanut to trim a patch from an old t-shirt, or other clean cotten rag. An old toothbrush would clean the breach face. Like the woodsman, that little Case was his only pocket knife. Somehow he got through 73 years of life with just the .22 woodsman and a Case peanut as his outdoor tools. I guess dad was a practicing minimalist, I wish I could be.
These days I'm down to just two .22 handguns and two .22 rifles. With fewer guns to shoot, I think I'm shooting better than in a long time. Considering my eyes are not what they used to be, that surprises me. Over the last year it seems that the K22 has become an extension of my hand, as has the Marlin 39 with a zillion rounds through it.
I guess one can go along way with a good .22 and a soddie or peanut in the pocket.
Maybe there's truth in the old saying that "Life has to be lived forward, but can only be fully understood looking back."
Like Hoppes number 9, and the smell of .22 powder smoke.
Being retired, I get to go to the range twice a week, and I've always been nuts for the humble .22. I used to have more guns of higher caliber, but I have'nt hunted in over 30 years now, and I don't have any fantacies of ninja activities at my age. Nor do I live in a nieghborhood where I have to worry about home invasion. And the other guns don't smell the same. Did you ever notice that the .22 has a slight sweet smell to it? Like a sweet but acrid smell that is like no other firearm. And when I get home and clean them with the old Hoppes number 9 it brings back memories.
My eariest gun memories are of my father teaching me to shoot his old Winchester 69 and his Colt woodsman. I can't recall how old I was, but I do know my age was single digget. It was a sharp clear memory of a crisp fall day, and dad was wearing that old checkered wool shirt that he loved to use as a light jacket. I felt very honored to be able to hold the slim woodsman, and it was the first handgun I ever shot. Looking back down the tunnel of years, it was a magical experiance. It cut a groove in my heart for the .22, and so many decades later I still love it over any other gun. It was also my dad's only gun. Day hikes in the woods, camping trips, traveling on vacation, I remember dad always having the woodsman around, if not on his person tucked in his waist under a jacket. Only once did he ever have to pull it out in my memory, and it changed the situation for the better.
The only other gun dad had in my memory was the Winchester 69A with peep sights. That was the gun he gave me to compete with on the rifle team the church sponcered hand in hand with the scout troop. It was a gun from the late 1930's, and some of the other kids had new Mossberg target rifles, but the old Winchester held its own against the more modern guns. When I smell .22 powder smoke I can't help but to think of Mr. Van, and his strict coaching of us on campouts to Gun Farm. Dad may have tought me the basics, but I own Mr. Van for the honing and polishing those to a sharp edge.
I smell the Hoppes solvent and I remember the newpaper covering the kitchen table, and dad gently stripping down the woodsman to clean it. A small screwdriver would take off the walnut grips, and he'd take off the slide, then swab out the barrel from the chamber end. Sometimes he'd use his little Case peanut to trim a patch from an old t-shirt, or other clean cotten rag. An old toothbrush would clean the breach face. Like the woodsman, that little Case was his only pocket knife. Somehow he got through 73 years of life with just the .22 woodsman and a Case peanut as his outdoor tools. I guess dad was a practicing minimalist, I wish I could be.
These days I'm down to just two .22 handguns and two .22 rifles. With fewer guns to shoot, I think I'm shooting better than in a long time. Considering my eyes are not what they used to be, that surprises me. Over the last year it seems that the K22 has become an extension of my hand, as has the Marlin 39 with a zillion rounds through it.
I guess one can go along way with a good .22 and a soddie or peanut in the pocket.
Maybe there's truth in the old saying that "Life has to be lived forward, but can only be fully understood looking back."
I don't have much experience with firearms like most of you guys, but my college roommate does and he is going to take me out and teach me the basics. He even said that the first couple thousand rounds are his treat!
Great .22'S no better made today
