Why didn't you get the grandfathered license, so you could keep it?
When I was 40 (I'm 67 now) I grabbed a pretty girl who was about to be gored by a bull during the Running of the Bulls in San Miguel, and pulled her behind me and told her to not friggin' move. The bull stared at me as I stared back into it's dead, unexpressionless eyes, and then turned and ran horns first at a group of boys with capes playing matador in the street. Bulls attack movement, and she had been doing a lot of hand-wringing as the bull came towards her. Now she was safe enough. She was also the Guess Jeans Girl of the moment: 1998. And she had just turned 18. This started a two-year topsy-turvy relationship that I ended myself just before her 20th birthday. I still think of her fondly, and when I do, I smile. Although our last parting was tearful, I think she understood because any of the limited communication between us since has been friendly, if not inviting. Our "song" had always been
Wild World by Cat Stevens, although in the end it was me that broke it off.
Friends who knew us at the time often still ask: "Why did you leave her? Were you just nuts?" My only answer has always been: "Have you ever been 41, going out with a 19-year-old with her whole life ahead of her, realizing that you struggle every day to just keep up and it's only going to get worse?" I guess I grew up.
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. A corny saying someone once told me about. I would paraphrase that as:
If you love something, but it or you having it is holding your life back, let it go as kindly as you can and get on with it.
The Cat and I on her 19th Birthday in Puerto Valharta, just after her first parachute ride. I went up first to make sure it would be a safe ride, and then after all that they landed her in the surf. But she was fine. And another shot of her and the Batmobile while we explore Mexican Ghost Towns in the mountains of Guanajuato.
I had seen the Cat in my Ice Cream Store several times already that year, followed around by her entourage of prospective suitors. Running into her alone, during the Running of the Bulls -- which in the 1990's was a dangerous 'rite of passage' for young people in San Miguel that was impossible to ignore if you like the action and the women, just like in Pamplona Spain -- happened perhaps only a half hour after this photo was taken. I went with the "black shirt team" (of course, I would be the leader of the "Black Shirts") while friends of ours went as the "white shirt team". Here the leader of the white shirts and I wish each other luck before the action starts. His team had that hot chick on it, damn, I was on the wrong team (or so I thought until I met the Cat).
The Thompson is a gun. The one I had was a real classic, the absolute "one you want" in my opinion. By leaving it in that Museum, other people can see it but I am free of it's shackles. Letting go of it -- and some of the other pieces I had that I could not sell first -- by placing it in a safe place allowed me to get out into the world and see and do the things I wanted to see and do. And I am still doing them, with my wife whom I would never had met if I had stayed in what I felt was a doomed relationship with the Cat.
Sometimes you gotta know when to let stuff go and get on with it. It's not about keeping other people happy, or living up to the expectations of others, it's about keeping
you happy and living up to
your expectations. Owning a gun I am not allowed to take shooting -- to me -- is not
owning the gun. It's just being a caretaker. Better to leave the gun where other people can enjoy it and do the caretaking. Hopefully, this answer explains my reasoning as to why I chose to divest myself of my complete firearms collection back in 1990 and move to Mexico rather than becoming some custodian for a Canadian Government that had obviously gone down a different path than I was interested in following.
To get back onto the firearms track, I have done a bit of investigating I never did before since I had actually owned the gun so why would I investigate? It seems that many of the Savage contract guns made specifically to fill the English contract order were stamped "Tommy Gun" along the receiver behind the cocking bolt but just ahead of the Lyman adjustable sight. Also, as seen on some of the photos of mine, they were heat-treated at the chamber area of the receiver, but not any further back thus causing a two-tone effect on the parkerizing. So if you encounter a 1928 that is stamped "Tommy Gun" it might be worth the time to look for the English Crown acceptance proofmarks that would indicate it as being one of the 110,000 or so English Contract Thompsons such as mine was.
Just before placing the 1928 and the M1/A1 into a Museum, I took this final photo of the Tommy Gun with a collection of crap laying on the basement floor that detailed the life of adventure and action I had hoped to find by divesting myself of the ball-and-chain my firearms collection had become, and leaving Canada to head to Bananaland. I had just returned from a 3-month action-packed adventure in Central America (which was suffering a revolutionary war at the time which we all thought was Capitalism vs. Communism but was really a struggle to secure the landing zones in Nicauragua for Pablo's cocaine shipments flying up to the U.S. -- but what did
we know, we were just war-zone tourists?). I knew that this was the life I wanted, not some life chasing monetary gain with a nicely groomed front lawn and a fattening wife who had more rights than I had. I chose well, actually, when I think about it. This photo clearly shows the heat-treating line on the parkerizing just behind the chamber area. It does not (stupid, stupid of me) show the "Tommy Gun" engraving just a bit further back. We didn't have digital cameras at the time. There weren't even Cell Phones really, just more like big walkie talkies.
I carried that boot knife all over Central America. Thankfully, I never had to use it, but it gave me cold comfort that I at least had something to use and would go down fighting before they would decapitate me and cut my hands off as they were doing to so many of the "war-zone tourists" at that time before DNA testing could provide positive results as to exactly who's body this or that was. It was a sort of "cringy" time and place, now that I think about it, but it was sure beautiful as well.