The Second Half of Shooting

Clean your gun!  Good grief!

I just bought a used .22 and I could tell as I was looking at it in the store that it hadn’t been cleaned in a while.  The saleslady said, “I bought it from a guy who hardly shot it and sold it because he needed the money.”  The grime in and around the receiver told me he might have waved a toothbrush at it once.  “Hardly shot it” didn’t sound right to me.  So home I came with it, and I tore it apart,  and I scrubbed and scraped and picked and swabbed and oiled and smoothed and NOW I have a clean gun.

Same thing happened a few years ago with a Remington 552 Speedmaster (.22) that I bought from a local pawn shop.  It was FILTHY.  Thick black gunk fell out of it when I pulled it apart.  I’ve never seen a gun that dirty.  Who in their right mind never cleans a gun?  It’s pretty easy to do.  Does it take time?  Sure.  Is it fun?  Well—that depends on how you define “fun.”  Is it satisfying?  Absolutely.

It also helps you figure out how the gun works.  I always poke around a little bit to see what’s what.  It’s nice to know what goes on when you load a weapon and pull the trigger.

And it’s a great way to teach your kids patience and the value of a job done well. 

Happy Valentine's Day, Honey. Here's your Ruger.

Recently, my wife bought a pillow.  A day later I bought a gun.  And we were talking about them. . . .

My wife: “If you had bought this pillow for me on Valentine’s Day I would have hugged you.”

Me: “If you had bought this [here I point at the rifle] on Valentine’s Day I would have hugged you.”

My wife laughs at this.

Me: “Seriously.”

My wife: “I would never buy you a gun.”

Me: “But what if I told you which gun to buy?”

My wife: “That would take the fun out of it.”

Me: “Yeah.”

And I think to myself: Yeah, I should probably buy my own guns.

My wife is awesome.

You have a GUN in the house???

The other day a teenager told me she didn’t know you could own a gun in America.  She had just learned about the 2nd Amendment.  At first I got wound up for political reasons, but then I thought, you know,  she’s a girl, so that’s one strike against her as far as having someone teach her about guns (I know—sad, but true).  Next I thought: well, she probably has a dad who isn’t a gun guy.  Maybe his dad wasn’t a gun guy.  Now, I’m sure there is a War for Independence veteran somewhere way back up the family tree, but unfortunately he's not around anymore to teach anyone about all the reasons we need to own guns.  Finally I felt sadness—sadness because that little girl grew up in a home without a gun. 

Can you imagine living in a home without a gun?  That sounds awful. Think of all the fun you’ve had with firearms throughout your life (maybe you’re a newcomer—but there’s a reason you’re here, right?).  Now imagine a home where everyone sits around and smiles pleasantly and unimaginatively at each other, where no little kids run willy-nilly through the living room yelling “Pow!  Pow!  Pow!  I got you!”  Imagine a home where boys don’t make guns out of My Little Ponies.  Or imagine a little boy or a little girl—your kid's friend—who comes to your house and hears you talking about a gun.  Imagine the look of wonder that would come over his or her face, the look of attraction to the mysterious forbidden treasure.  Imagine what would happen if your kid needed to defend himself, and had access to a gun, but didn’t know how to load or shoot it.  Ugh.  Lord have mercy.

Kids should grow up with a gun in one hand and a book in the other.  I’m dead serious.

Punching Holes. Making Memories.

When our family was living in Colorado Springs, we heard about (not sure how) Dragonman’s, a place just east of town.  It was a gun store, a shooting range, a military museum, and generally a place with a LOT of masculinity and gunpowder.  We went out to shoot and had a great time.  In fact, I think it is the first my wife and I went shooting together (when she saw me surfing around Dragonman's site this afternoon she said, "Hey, look!  We were there!").   

It was a surreal place.  When you turn off the highway and onto the property, you are treated to some smile-inducing sights: there is a full-sized devil next to a “Warning!  This spot might be for you!” and there are cars riddled with bullet holes.  There is a wrecked car next a sign which reads: “Caught stealing from Dragonman.  Shot Feb 1 1992.  Didn’t get far. . .they’re still in the car!”  And yes, there are bloody mannequins in the car. . . .  It really is an experience—even an attraction.  In fact, it has a page dedicated to it in a Colorado Springs Tourist Guide.   

I don't know about you, but there's nothing like going shooting and having it turn into an experience.  I have a group of friends who like to shoot, and there is (usually) lunch or supper afterwards.  That leads to more conversation than you typically get at a shooting range (“What???” Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! “Whadja say?”), so it’s nice to sit around and see where the conversation goes.  It's easy to recommend a place like Dragonman’s for more than a trip to a range.  It makes for great memories, especially for kids.  I want my kids to remember times like that, places like that.  Those times, those places--they stick, and as life rolls on they will be awesome mile markers in our relationships.  I don't know about you, but I want to make memories like that.     

What gun? THIS gun!

I found IMDB a few years ago. . . .  It’s the Internet Movie Database, and it provides all sorts of movie info.  The thing for which I’ve used it the most is to identify the name of Actor Such and Such in Movie X.  In the years since the website has expanded significantly.  It’s a good clearinghouse for all sorts of movie info.  Imagine my surprise and delight when, a year or so ago, I found the IFMDB, which is the Internet Firearms Movie Database.  Want to know what rifle Tom Selleck used in Quigley Down Under?  The IFMDB reveals it’s the Shiloh Sharps 1874 Long Range Rifle.  The website provides a picture of the weapon, and a screen capture from the movie, and then tells us about it, noting the following:

“[This is the] Uberti Sharps 1874 Long Range with 34" barrel, fitted with Vernier sight. The film credits the actual rifle used as being manufactured by Shiloh Rifle Mfg., Big Timber, MT. Differences between that and the Uberti can be seen in the photo - The tang sight windage adjustment is at the base on the Uberti while it is on the slider of the Shiloh's sight. The Shiloh has a patch box in the stock which the Uberti does not, and the Shiloh has the curved military butt plate compared to the Uberti's straighter shotgun butt.”

It’s a great website, and it has helped me find out all sorts of info.  Want to know what guns Tom Selleck used in Magnum, P.I.?  (Who wouldn’t?)  Click here to find out!

Anyway, go surf around on the site.  It’s pretty cool.

A Rebel With a Mauser

Han's blaster

When I was a kid I wanted a blaster like the one Han Solo carried in Star Wars.  I was watching the original movie the other day and it was interesting that, for me, the whole story picked up when Han entered the picture.  Then I realized it got exciting because Han was an outlaw and a renegade, and he carried a cool gun.  Luke didn’t show up in the movie with a weapon, so he was a bit of a pansy (I call ‘em like I see ‘em).  Han, however, wore that blaster like it was a part of him, and man oh man didn’t I want to be Han Solo!  Of course, I also wanted to be Luke Skywalker (I liked the Jedi Mind Trick thing), but the renegade with a pistol on his hip was too good to be true.  All my friends wanted to be Han Solo, too, and one kid even had the gun.  Which we all borrowed.  A lot.

Mauser C96

Luke’s weapons were boring.  He borrowed them—heisting a gun from a stormtrooper he’d just pounded, picking one up, etc, etc. . . .  Han’s blaster was unique.  In fact, according to the Internet Movie Firearms Database (more on that this weekend), the blaster was modeled after a Mauser C96 and was “the best known duplicate of a real gun [in Star Wars].”  I always liked the “broomhandle” grip and the box-ish sort of look.  It stood out—no one had a gun like that.  

So who would you rather be: (1) boring Luke from boring Tatooine with his boring blaster, or (2) Han Solo, a cool outlaw who carried a cool weapon and knew how to use it?    

Seriously?  It’s no contest.  Han—hands down.

Louis L'Amour, Anyone?

I need to get a hold of some of those books—especially the Sackett series.  I remember reading them and thinking how incredibly cool the Sackett boys were.  Here are a couple favorite LL moments, stories I still tell:

1. I remember a story in which the bad guy feels something punch him and when he looks down at his stomach he notices a shirt button is missing.  Then he hears the distant report of a rifle and realizes he’s been shot.  The hero (one of the Sacketts, I suppose) has made the button disappear by driving it into him in a spectacular example of marksmanship.  I still remember how I reacted when I read that scene: what a great shot, and what a great shooter!  Cool as a cucumber.  Why can't I be a cowboy?

2.  I remember another story in which the main character is sitting by the fire at night, but he won’t look into the flames.  Naturally, all the city slickers would—because we're dopes.  Our Western Hero won't look into or even at the fire because he wants his eyes to adjust to the darkness quickly, if need be.  Adjusting your eyesight from the brightness of the flame to the darkness outside the firelight would be difficult, and a shooter who waste those precious moments could find himself dead on the ground next to his precious campfire.  That’s another “western tip” I remember.  Of course, it’s one I’ll probably never use.  But I know it if I need it, and G.I. Joe says that knowing is half the battle.

Today’s directive: get acquainted with Louis L’Amour.

Gun Guys, Other Gun Guys, and Cold, Mean Beauty

About a month ago I was trying to sell my Marlin 30-30 so I could buy a Henry Lever-Action .22.  I stopped by Gander Mountain to see what they’d offer me.  While I was waiting my turn I struck up a conversation with two guys standing near the counter.  They needed help, too.  They had some high-powered bolt-action rifle that needed a fancy scope so they could shoot chipmunks from 600 miles away in a driving rainstorm during an earthquake.    At least that’s the scope the salesman wanted them to buy.  I think it was $400.  As he handed it across the counter to the guys with the rifle, Guy #1 said, “It figures you’d hand me the most expensive one.”

Anyway, we all stood around and chewed the fat for a while.  They took turns admiring the Marlin while I exclaimed over their rifle (the lacquer on that stock must have been 2 inches thick).  While we waited for the salesguy to finish showing a revolver to someone who we all knew wasn’t going to buy anything, we talked about a lot of things, including the stupendously-awesome girlfriend who bought the rifle as a gift for Guy #1.  We discussed the fact that you really can’t put a $50 scope on a $700 rifle (even though that’s what I’d do because I’m cheap). We talked about shooting coyotes, and rabbits, and about how I used to shoot monkeys in Africa (Guy #1: “Hey, dude—this guy used to hunt monkeys.”  Guy #2: “No way.  Really?”  Me: “Yep.”  Guy #2: “Whoa!”). 

Eventually the whole thing settled down to this: they wanted to squint across the store through several different scopes (they were buying, not just browsing), and I simply needed a price.  So they let me step in front of them and take their spot.  Which I gratefully did, because I was running late.  And as I left I gave them a hat-brim tap and said, “thanks, guys.”  To which they replied, “No problem.  Take it easy.”

Yes—take it easy.  Take it easy, indeed.

Why do we do those things for each other?  Because we’re gun guys.   Because we share a bond, one forged long before moments like that one in Gander Mountain.  As I think back on that evening and on the feeling of camaraderie, I realize I truly enjoy the time we shared.  That may sound cheesy, or stupid, but I really don't care.  If you were there you'd know.  If you’re a gun guy you know. 

And the fact that they let me have their spot in line on a busy Thursday night?  It was an acknowledgement of the unspoken rule: gun guys like deferring to other gun guys.  I’ve seen it at Fin Feather Fur, too.  For another gun guy you find yourself willing to step back and wave the guy in, to browse for longer than you would have otherwise.  You find yourself willing to dink around, to inspect the weird pattern in the carpet, or to stare in contented boredom at the ceiling while the other gun guy takes care of business.  Moments like that happen because of a shared passion—a passion for the way you pull the rifle in close, a love of the smell of oil and gunpowder, and an appreciation of the cold, mean beauty of a firearm. 

On that night, in that place, three gun guys came together because we are partial to the smell of, and the look of, and the feel of a gun.  We came together because each one of us can happily say: I love guns. 

And why not?  They’re easy to love.

(This Will Be) My Daughter's First Rifle

I imagine it will be, anyway.  It’s a Davey Crickett Single-Shot .22, and it's what she wants. . . .  She first saw it a year or so ago at a gun show and decided she wanted it—probably because it's pink.  Man oh man—those gun companies are full of geniuses! 

She still asks about that rifle.  The other day she said to me, “Daddy, do you think that pink gun is still there or did someone buy it?”  How can you not want to buy your girl a gun when she asks a question like that? 

Of course, the fact that it's pink presents a bit of a problem, because her little brother can’t shoot it.  It’ll probably have to wait for her younger sister.  He'll have to get his own—maybe the rifle with the orange synthetic stock, in honor of the Browns.  Then I could paint a nice white and brown stripe right down the top of the stock.  Is that sacrilege?  In the list of “things not to do to a gun,” embellishing a synthetic stock on a Davey Crickett seems pretty low.  Now, if it was a nice wooden stock on a cool "Daddy Rifle"—well, that would be out of bounds.

So: pink rifle?  Yeah, I think so.  Few things are better than a little lady throwing lead downrange, so why not pink? 

Just don’t give it to the boy.

(Actually, this may have been) My First Gun

It might have been this one, not the Stevens I wrote about a couple days ago. Dad might know.  Anyway, as I said previously, I was raised in Africa, and like me most of the kids at the boarding school I attended had bb guns.  Mine was a Crosman Pumpmaster 760.  In fact, most of the kids owned Crosmans.  I don’t remember any other brand.  One kid had a one-pump rifle that had a pretty long range, but the one pump meant you didn’t have any power variance.  Mine, which was supposed to be pumped up to 10 times (for max—recommended—power), had a variance which I used to my advantage.  Though you weren’t supposed to pump it less than 3 times, I did.  And of course, even though you weren’t supposed to pump it more than 10 times, I did.  And though you CERTAINLY weren’t supposed to shoot more than one bb at a time, I did—a lot.  It felt as if I was shooting buckshot.  Which, to some degree, I was.  These loads were for “serious” game, such as squirrels and large rodents, and for hawks and other large birds.  The standard (one bb) load was for everything else. 

Anyway, here’s a story.  I was hunting with a teacher from the school—he took each of the 5 (or so) middle school boys out on a special night-time spotlight hunt, (up super, super-early, actually, and back after the sun came up).  So we tromped around in the bush for a while, haunted the rice swamps, and trekked over hill and dale (are there hills and dales in Africa?  I guess so).  Anyway, we saw a couple sets of too-distant shining eyes, and probably heard a few unseen animals moving quietly through the elephant grass near us.  Other than that, nothing.  So off we went on the frustrated trudge back up the hill that would bring us out past the schoolhouse, and then home.  As we walked along, I noticed a white flash in a tree close by.  Bird?  Beast?  I couldn’t tell, but it was surely not a monkey, of all things.  A monkey would have been out of that tree and running pell-mell for cover as the sight of two guys walking past the tree.  It stood in open ground, and anything in its branches would have seen us coming.  So, in my innocent junior-high boy way, I squeezed off a shot with my Crosman, hoping to hit whatever (bird?) it was.  Big mistake.  

Out of the tree jumped a Red Patas monkey, and it made off at about 100 miles an hour, scampering for cover.  Sure enough, Greg didn’t have enough time to acquire it and take a shot before it reached the closest treeline.  Needless to say, he wasn’t happy with me.  My argument went along the lines of what I just told you—no self-respecting monkey would wait for us to get that close before it took off.  In that case, then, the white splotch I could see in the tree couldn’t be a monkey.  So it had to be some sort of bird.  My fellow hunter looked at me as if he didn’t believe me.

So there is the story of The One That Got Away, of The Boy With A BB Gun Who Should Have Said Something But Didn’t.  I’m sure the monkey was quite startled and probably irritated by the bb.  Thank goodness he didn’t decide to take it out on me.  More than 25 years later I have the image of that tree and that white splotch stuck in my head.  I can still feel the surprise at what came out of the tree--and I can remember the shame at having said nothing before I pulled the trigger.  But it is what it is, yeah? 

Today’s Lesson: always know what you're shooting at, and always use the right tool for the job.

My Son's Second Gun: The My Little Pony 7+1 9mm

Yep.  His second gun was his sister’s My Little Pony.  She loves her MLPs, and she has a nice assortment.  You can always find one if you need it.  One day he couldn’t  find his revolver, so he grabbed the nearest MLP by its hind legs and ran around the house making shooting noises and exclaiming “I shoot you!” 

How cool is that?  He's already finding multiple uses for household items (crescent wrench as a hammer, anyone?)  He’s an awesome little kid, and he's got a great imagination.  The one thing I forgot to tell him was: "always treat the MLP as if it's loaded!"

My Son's First Gun

So his first gun is the Legends of the Wild West "Rustler" (apparently that's what it's called).  I like it because it takes the 8-shot cap ring, which I couldn't afford when I was a kid--and even then, I lived in Africa.  And Wal-Mart probably wasn't yet a glimmer in Sam Walton's eye. . . . 

I got the Rustler for him because he needs a gun.  That is, he needs a toy gun, since he "owns" a Henry lever-action .22, a 10/22, and a couple others that he can’t use until he’s older.  They’re the “tools.”  This gun is the “toy.”  I keep the tools for now.  He keeps the toy. 

Disclaimer: I’ve played with the Rustler, too.  It’s pretty cool.

He’s liked his “cowboy gun” ever since he unwrapped it.  He’s still too small to pull the trigger, but he’s quite happy to run around the house making shooting noises, and saying “hands up!” and then shooting his now-unarmed assailant.  I can say he didn’t learn that from me. 

Anyway, it’s good to see him with a revolver.  He has two sisters, and the last thing I need is for him to play with dolls and want to dress up.  He’s happy with his gun, and when he can’t find it he’ll make pretty much anything into a gun—a couple weeks ago it was a plastic hanger.  Then it was a toy rolling pin.

 

The next gun for him will be the shotgun version.  A friend of mine has one, and was shooting people with it at his 60th birthday party.  I hope I get to shoot a gun like that at my 60th.

My First Gun

The first gun I remember holding and using is (or was, anyway) my Grandpa's old Stevens 22/410.  I was a missionary kid in Africa, and I fell in love with that gun; I carried it with me on hunting expeditions with Dad.

And here's an attaboy for my Dad: I’d have to ask for the particulars again, but the stock cracked for some reason or another and Dad made a new one.  I remember having mixed feelings.  On the one hand, Dad made this stock, and he did a great job. On the other hand, the broken stock had been Grandpa’s.  I’ll never forget that gun.  It was well-worn, slightly pitted, and it had a sort of a reassuring smoothness to the break action when I had to reload.  I’ll never forget how powerful that gun made me feel.  It was an awesome thing.  Today's lesson: every boy needs a gun.