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.
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.
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