Life is full of “Firsts”: first step, first date, and first love…we all share these events. The list goes on and on, and may include your first beer, your “first time” and for some even your first spouse! Because I have always liked mechanical things my list also includes: first camera, first car, first airplane, and or course the first gun I shot.
My Grandfather started me on this journey with a BB gun, but in 1963 at the age of 6, I shot my first “real” gun. Stepping up to a firearm that burns real gun powder, complete with a satisfying amount of smoke, recoil and noise is a moment I will never forget.
Countless tin cans and bottles met their fate at the end of that gun, however that first shot is etched in my memory. I was very young, but with a new found sense of independence and responsibility.
I was taught basic gun safety although I never heard of the NRA or the “Big Three” rules of gun safety. I practiced muzzle control, identifying my target and understanding what lies behind it. From that day on I treated every gun as if it was loaded.
Over a half century later my Grandfather has long since passed and the family that used to live so close is now scattered across the country. Today we only see each other at weddings and funerals.
Last week we gathered to remember my Uncle Raymond. Standing in his kitchen discussing some of our youthful antics (which often included guns) I asked my cousins if perhaps they remembered that old pump 22 of Grandpa’s we shot? I always remembered that gun, that first shot and the hours I spent with it. Did they remember which model it was or what happened to it?
Mark walked me over to the coat closet and there it was leaning in the corner looking just like I remembered. It had a few new dings in the stock, and a well-worn finish from decades of young boys and old men enjoying ventilating pesky tin cans or knocking squirrels out of trees.
Such a treat to hold and pull to my shoulder, the sights looked clean and sharp even through my old eyes with the aid of bi-focals. A 1937 Remington Model 121 Fieldmaster, with a very satisfying click when you cycled the action. After a few minutes of stories and describing how appreciative I was to see the gun again I placed it back in the closet corner and closed the door.
It was like seeing your first car pass in front you while waiting for a stop light, a mixture of joy and remembrance followed by regret for allowing it leave your possession. I returned to the living room and enjoyed talking to a wonderful family of young men and women that were only 2 feet tall the last time I saw them if they were born at all.
About an hour later my two cousins Mark and Mike called me into the bedroom and presented me with the rifle. They had seen how much it meant to me, the memories it held and wanted me to have it. To them it was just another rifle and they had guns with their own memories of time spent with their Father learning to shoot.
As they say “there wasn’t a dry eye in the house”. We hugged and felt a bond representing 3 generations, we remembered our Grandfather and their Father whom we were honoring that day.
With the passing of my Uncle, I am now the oldest male in our bloodline and when my Grandsons come to visit this summer I will introduce them to a 78 year old friend of a rifle full of memories.