Some folks like a read, some don't. Those that do, toss another log on the fire, will you? Put your feet up. Beer's in the fridge. Coffee's about ready. Those that don't, God bless you with a happy and prosperous new year. Thanks for stopping by. Peace out.
Seems I’m becoming something of a collector of Rugers. Where will it stop?
Well, who knows, but I'm enjoying the ride. I hope I never forget the wonder and awe of those early years of handling firearms. It is still sheer enjoyment today, but like the mountain or canyon or magnificent city skyline we pass every day, it’s good to sometimes remind ourselves to pause and appreciate the sheer majesty and wonder all around us.
***
"Three-fifty-seven magnum..." I breathed, wide eyed. In the broad, sunlit field behind our faded red bard, Dad eased the big gun into my young fingers, firmly reminding me of the several safety rules I'd heard now so many times. I nodded soberly, clinging to each word and turned my attention to the target. An immature watermelon picked from our garden, rested on a thick post, not five of my father’s sweeping, leggy strides away.
He had instilled into me more than a mere set of statutes; rather, a way of thinking and a way of seeing. I must never shoot at an animal with my Red Ryder because the weapon lacked the power to kill for certain and might wound, leaving the poor creature to suffer and that was a cruel thing. I must learn to shoot straight and with patience. The good Lord provided the animals for our table and we are to be thankful and merciful, as He is merciful to us.
"It'll kick a little now..." he was saying. But I was ready, eyes narrowed with serious intent.
Up until this day, Dad had taken us boys out to shoot. Even sister, not to be left out, had had her turn. Smallbore stuff, mostly. A shot or two from the big rifle in the closet, leaving a sore shoulder to brag about. But the pistols were somehow different. And Dad's new Ruger Security Six was the most coveted prize of all. It was the machine to master. This was an Initiation. I could feel the mantle of manhood settling its comforting weight about my shoulders.
The watermelon bounced, then settled itself atop the front sight. With barely a twitch of my small finger, the gun bellowed, spat flame and lead, jerking violently in my double-fisted grip. But I held on. A pinkish spray of meat and fragments of dark green husk erupted in sharp contrast from the post and flopped harmlessly to the ground.
Carefully lowering the muzzle, my cheeks bulged with a grin as I craned my neck around. I looked back to see Dad smiling back at me in delight and pride.
***
Dad’s since gone Home, I’m all growed up, and the satin black revolver is mine now. Its deep patina, darkly rubbed wood and reckless hair trigger remains to play its super-8 movies of days gone by through my mind. Those who don’t understand may ask, Why do you love this old Ruger?
Well, because I loved my dad. And what he taught me.
-S
Seems I’m becoming something of a collector of Rugers. Where will it stop?
Well, who knows, but I'm enjoying the ride. I hope I never forget the wonder and awe of those early years of handling firearms. It is still sheer enjoyment today, but like the mountain or canyon or magnificent city skyline we pass every day, it’s good to sometimes remind ourselves to pause and appreciate the sheer majesty and wonder all around us.
***
"Three-fifty-seven magnum..." I breathed, wide eyed. In the broad, sunlit field behind our faded red bard, Dad eased the big gun into my young fingers, firmly reminding me of the several safety rules I'd heard now so many times. I nodded soberly, clinging to each word and turned my attention to the target. An immature watermelon picked from our garden, rested on a thick post, not five of my father’s sweeping, leggy strides away.
He had instilled into me more than a mere set of statutes; rather, a way of thinking and a way of seeing. I must never shoot at an animal with my Red Ryder because the weapon lacked the power to kill for certain and might wound, leaving the poor creature to suffer and that was a cruel thing. I must learn to shoot straight and with patience. The good Lord provided the animals for our table and we are to be thankful and merciful, as He is merciful to us.
"It'll kick a little now..." he was saying. But I was ready, eyes narrowed with serious intent.
Up until this day, Dad had taken us boys out to shoot. Even sister, not to be left out, had had her turn. Smallbore stuff, mostly. A shot or two from the big rifle in the closet, leaving a sore shoulder to brag about. But the pistols were somehow different. And Dad's new Ruger Security Six was the most coveted prize of all. It was the machine to master. This was an Initiation. I could feel the mantle of manhood settling its comforting weight about my shoulders.
The watermelon bounced, then settled itself atop the front sight. With barely a twitch of my small finger, the gun bellowed, spat flame and lead, jerking violently in my double-fisted grip. But I held on. A pinkish spray of meat and fragments of dark green husk erupted in sharp contrast from the post and flopped harmlessly to the ground.
Carefully lowering the muzzle, my cheeks bulged with a grin as I craned my neck around. I looked back to see Dad smiling back at me in delight and pride.
***
Dad’s since gone Home, I’m all growed up, and the satin black revolver is mine now. Its deep patina, darkly rubbed wood and reckless hair trigger remains to play its super-8 movies of days gone by through my mind. Those who don’t understand may ask, Why do you love this old Ruger?
Well, because I loved my dad. And what he taught me.
-S
