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.