2 February 2020

First Gun

Some of the nearest things to person’s hearts are their firsts. I’m no different. My first gun was a torrid affair. We are still together although we are both a little more worn beat up and less attractive than we used to be. I’ve mentioned the story before of how we met. I followed a trusting relative to a building deep in south west…Pennsylvania. I had three hundred dollars of hard-earned cash in my jeans. The building had a cross and service bulletin in the front window. I walked in through the pews and into a barber shop. There, I met a barber with a black suit and white collar who introduced himself as “Pastor”. I braced myself because before that whenever I met a Priest outside of church it was to teach me how to box or lift. But instead of boxing my Uncle whispered some secret code word to him and the good man nodded. The next thing I knew I was following them both down a long hallway and into another dark room. When the lights flickered on in a musty den; my eyes were greeted by hundreds of guns on the walls. The Pastor made a grand gesture at the walls and said, “Choose wisely, my son.” Times have changed, no one buys guns like that anymore, Priests don’t have to run a barber shop nowadays and I’m not sure I can even choose wisely.

So, I did. I pulled all different types of guns off the walls while having no idea what I liked, being a first and all. I handled a really pretty one but it didn’t fit in my hands right and I’d probably have to clean it when I’d rather be playing football with my friends. I grabbed a nice dark sexy one but my cheek didn’t quite fit it well. Some were too heavy, others too skinny. Some too pretty, others too ugly others too fancy and others too plain. I went through gun after gun and was starting to worry that I would have to settle. Then one caught my eye. I asked the Pastor to hand it down but he hesitated and looked at my uncle. My trusted advisors then shook their heads saying, “You don’t want that one kid…it’s a pump”. I stood my ground though, “I may like it; hand it down, please.” From the moment I laid hands on that Remington 760 I knew it was the one for me. It was smooth, it fit right comfortable to me like we were born together and it seemed ready for any adventure I’d take it on. It was pretty but had a tough streak it was fancy but didn’t have to work at it. “Yep, this one. I’ll take it.” I said while putting my green dead president pictures on the counter.

So, it was then and so it still is. The gun still fits me right. When choosing from the cabinet I still have to pick it up. Even if I’m looking for a shotgun for a bird hunt and don’t need a 30.06. We have been on many an adventure together and enjoyed a lot of hard times and successes. The rifle has sat with me through blizzards, ice storms, driving rains and baking heat. It travelled the country with me without one complaint. There were long periods I kept it put away, only occasionally to bring it out for a cleaning. It hasn’t all been roses. I fell with it many times, usually managing to get my body between the gun its scope and harm but one time I couldn’t protect it and the crown got a nick in it. I let another guy take it elk hunting and without me there to protect it; it came back with a scratched receiver.

Through all of it the Remy has been true, putting bullets dead center in tight groups as long as I took proper care of it. Through wear and tear last year, I thought, perhaps, it had finally let me down. I missed a buck with it. It wasn’t an easy shot and I thought it may have been me. It was me and it wasn’t as it turns out. When I went out to zero the rifle in the off season it became apparent that the scope was off. Another sign of wear. Then as I began to zero it; the gun stopped firing all together. I was sick at the sound of an empty click and no shot from my old, trusted, friend.

Taking it back to my shop and carefully but completely tearing it down I found that I had neglected to get into the gun where grime had built up over the long thirty-six years. I took out each part and carefully cleaned them and replaced one small part. When I got the gun back together once again, it fired like it did in its youth. The gun zeroed right back into the bullseye with ease.

The real test came last hunting season, for Pennsylvania rifle. A great buck happened through the forest at a fair distance off at a slow run. Like we’d done so many times before; I found an open spot and set the cross hairs on the target, squeezing the trigger. It crossed my mind for a second, ‘Was she still with me; could I trust her?’ This time, like old times, the big buck dropped as the shot echoed back from the valley. Bullets never lie but the cause of the truth can be a mystery.

If you’ve got an old gun and it seems to be failing you. Don’t give it away don’t ignore it either. Take it out, look it over, give it more care than you gave it before. There’s a good chance it has more life in it than you’d think.

See you along the stream