I saw my Dad use a .22 for the first time when I was five, just home from kindergarden. He shot a gopher that moved into our unlandscaped front yard. I was amazed at this tool he used that flipped that poor little bugger out of the hole and made it lay so still. I've never been the same.
Even a year before that, we stayed at my Grandparents house while Dad built the house. His No1 MKIII leaned up against the woodbox all the time. I would sit across from it and marvel at the numbers on the sight and how the wood was made to fit the metal so tight. It is like I was there yesterday, even tho it is over 27 years ago. Grampa was in the war and saw too much of what they could do, boy I got a tongue lashing for just looking at it! Then there were the Cooey's I would stare at while witrh Grampa in his little workshop. They were stashed behind a work bench but I could see them and dreamt of how they worked and what they had been used for.
Grampa would tell me about Gramma's brother, who was responsible for putting food on the table, even as a very young boy. He was sent out to the bush with 3 .22 cartridges and boy he had better come back with either three things to eat or unspent "shells" or there would be consequences. He went on to say how Leif was a crackshot and told me how he would line up the iron sights before they were even on his quarry, and squeeze off the round an instant before the sights crossed the bullseye, that way there was no shaking trying to hold steady. He also shared some about basic training at Camp Borden in Ontario before Grampa went to France.
A little boy cannot listen to much of that sort of stuff without being impacted in a big way. In a positive way I mean too. As much as Grampa hated guns from the war and did his best to avoid me having anything to do with it, well I found a couple .22 longs in his house and eventually found Dad's hiding place for his Anshutz. After kindergarden I took it out and very carefully loaded it and shot a big tree. I knew I had to be careful because this gun could topple a cow or so Grampa had told me!
That tree dies with one well placed shot and back to the house I went a changed boy. Mom of course heard the shot but felt it better for Dad to do the talking when he got home from work. It was a gentle but very serious conversation. The gun was hidden as was any ammo at either household and a Daisy Red Ryder showed up with a Norwegian Elk Hound for Christmas that year.
That dog and little boy wreaked havoc on a half section of property from that day foreward. I never spent much time with my folks growing up so I chose hunting as much as it chose me. The Good Lord knows I get my priorities mixed up more often than not when it comes to family and my hunting. It has always been my safe haven, a solstice if you will when I need to get away. I know of nothing that can take the place of what I've known for so long.
Well, the kids are screaming upstairs and so is Mommy, speaking of priorities, they are calling now........
