First Love

Every man who matters has a first love…or two. One of the most precious is our first gun. I still remember the day that I purchased my first firearm and, of course, I still have that gun. I had been using a bow and sporadically using a gun that had been my Dad’s, a Springfield, single shot, full choke, 12 gauge shotgun. That gun put a whole new meaning to: “Take careful aim”. I remember the day I bought that beauty like it was yesterday. I called my Uncle and told him I had three hundred dollars burning in my pocket: it was time to buy a “real” gun, a deer rifle. He told me he knew the best guy around to set me up. Shortly after, we got together and he drove me to Pittsburgh.

As we drove down the dark alley, I didn’t see a gun store or pawn shop. The only commercial establishment I noted was the combination bar, post office, barbershop and church ministry, neatly tucked into a corner of a dingy block in Pittsburgh. When we got out and started walking I was still looking for a gun store and my Uncle walked up to an old timer cleaning up something on the sidewalk and pitching trash into the bucket. When he looked up, he flashed recognition and after cursory greetings, Rich said, “Father, we’re looking for a gun for the lad.” The old fellow’s eye brows raised and he said, “Oh, good come with me” and we walked into the combination store. We didn’t call them that then but I had met my first “Right Wing Terrorist”.

The old preacher walked through the bar without incident, then the barber shop picking up some towels on the way, then through the next door in the back, which looked like a closet and opened into a long narrow room with a line of guns hung on the wall behind the counter. “If you want something with a grenade launcher, just let me know”, the old monk cracked through a chuckle.

I didn’t even know where to start. I just started asking for guns. I still remember the hollow creak and knocking of the dusty wood floor as we worked our way down the room. The high and low points were given as each gun was handed to me and I’d hoist them aloft and knock down imaginary running bucks on the ceiling, to get a feel. One really stood out but I put it back marked its location and kept going down the row, just to make sure, all the while keeping an eye on the one gun that fit. When I exhausted testing the gun supply, I went right back to it; A Remington 7600, in 30.06. Unknown to me then it was the most popular hunting rifle in Pennsylvania (unfortunately, with its shorter barrel and quick detach magazine it was also dubbed the “road master” by those in the know).

Through the years, I have taken almost as many real bucks as the day I imagined knocking down trophies on the ceiling of that gun store, err bar-ber shop/chapel. I still have her. This year, I’m going to hunt with her again. She’s been rejuvenated by a good barrel cleaning and scrubbing and I sat down with the boy, Nick, to load some bullets for her. He needs to work on his reading, so I figured there’s no better way than to have him separate the shells by reading the bases out for me and separating the cases. We don’t want the good stuff like my Franklin Arms match cases getting mixed up with the standard Springfield’s. Of course, match ammo had thin necks so just as importantly as reading words, he had to learn to read “brass” and when and how to gently trim the necks. After explaining each step of loading, we checked out the old rifle. We’ve discussed how to use sights and the importance of gun safety. This is the beginning of many new learning experiences for little Nick, all with the help of that 30.06. He’s learning to read, care for things, precision and safety and responsibility. Ironically, my first love is kind of like Nick’s second mother. I can’t wait to meet our “grand-guns”.

Have a thoughtful and meaningful Veteran’s Day.