The sun was a comfortable friend, and not having anything more pressing, I decided it was a good Sunday afternoon to spend cleaning rifles that had been hidden far too long in the closet. I was more than a little ashamed at the dust and detritus that had accumulated, and out of deference to my bride I opted to take the task outside.
One of the rifles had sent a spring and a pin flying into oblivion a few weeks before, so I was doubly if not trebly careful to install its replacement in the house. The nastier chores, however, went to a spot where there’s just enough sun and just enough shade to make aging bones feel a bit better. It’s a preferred place for several of my dogs and cats, and on things such as comfort I tend to trust their judgement.
The monotony of the actions allowed my mind to wander; it was a lovely day for wandering, and had my various infirmities been more cooperative, I’d likely have whistled up a dog or three and done just that. After all, hunting seasons start soon, and there are furry bags of groceries wandering the woods. If I want to put some in the freezer, I need to figure out what trails the sales are walking this fall.
But I had a wealth of stiffness and pain and a want of ambition, so I contented myself to add the scent of gun oil and powder solvent to the growing smells of dry leaves, pine straw, distant woodsmoke and not too distant swamp. Lauren’s discordant hound snores at my feet were oddly harmonious with the chuckle of the geese and the competing crows of our roosters, punctuated by the occasional songbird, an operatic diva determined to show the birds in the country music moshpit what music is all about.
I ran the bolt two or three times on the old rifle, making sure everything clicked as it should. Enough oil, but not too much, since oil can gather dirt and make things worse than rust. Barrel the same way, just a tiny bit on a postage stamp-piece of a pandemic mask (cheaper than T-shirts). Most of the bluing is long since gone from the rifle; after all, it was completely inundated when my cabinet flooded in Hurricane Matthew, and has been drowned in a half-dozen creeks and swamps over the last 43 years. It has a patina that would cause revulsion in a gun collector, but anyone with an appreciation of experience would see past the scruff and the scars. Still, I do intend to have her restored, just because she deserves it.
Out of habit, I snapped the rifle up to my shoulder and was surprised how the sights fell right back where they did forty-plus years ago when I took off the cheap scope that interfered with my first pair of glasses. My marksmanship improved dramatically thereafter.
Unlike many young hunters, my first .22 was actually my second firearm, the first being a single barrel 12 gauge shotgun. The old .22 is also a semi-automatic, not the traditional single-shot bolt action that has introduced so many hunters and shooters to the joy of a .22. The Marlin Firearms folks machine-carved more than a million squirrels into the grips of a million other pieces of American hardwood like mine, but that particular one was mine. For years, I stressed over the finish and used a Q-tip to keep the carvings clean; now the sharp edges of the wood are long since worn smooth. I still regret a few of the scars and scratches, although most of them were honestly earned.
I don’t know how many times that rifle was used for squirrels, rabbits, coons, foxes, and later, bobcats and coyotes. There were more than a few snakes, too, although that count dropped as I became more tolerant of other predators that were just working for a living. It was there for a few sad times, too, when a beloved pet or an injured animal needed the last gesture of mercy a human can offer.
But most of the memories of that rifle are joyful; that first Christmas morning, right in our backyard in town, I grabbed a can from the trash and violated the town’s ordinance against shooting in the city limits at least 30 times — emptying the magazine twice before Miss Lois called out the back door and said “That’s enough.”
I wanted to argue that our little town sounded like a World War II battlefield, what with the other Christmas guns going off hither and yon, but I knew better.
The men who ran our youth hunter safety club were wise, since the next day they had scheduled a fun day at the range. At least three of us had new Christmas guns, and we got the proper admonitions about safety as well as help adjusting the sights so they were less of a noisemaker and more of a tool. After our sights were set, there was not a can, Dixie cup, drink bottle or paper target that was safe.
The day before my recent philosophical maintenance session, we said goodbye to a friend who was more like a brother. I remembered how our group of friends had gathered at the range one day for a time of fellowship and target shooting, and in the midst of the crackle of high-powered rifles and the crack of handguns one heard the occasional “tink” as a couple of the kids tested a new BB gun on a can.
It didn’t take long before someone found a .22 rifle in the truck, and another magically appeared from the trunk of another vehicle. The boys were gathered and shepherded to the range. Cans were salvaged from a trash can to receive a more honorable death. For a little while, a bunch of middle aged men were having as much fun as the boys they were mentoring.
We laughed, teased each other, and forgot all about the targets downrange, the silhouettes of deer and coyote, precision bullseyes, and other targets, ones designed to improve skills none of us ever want to use. The .22s cracked, and the cans either flew or sat there, the shots accompanied by laughter either way. Things like sick parents and foundering grown children and work and cancer and bills and career decisions were shoved back into the shadows, and we were all little kids again.
My friend who was eulogized the other day had a loud, sharp laugh that resounded when a can absorbed the impact of a tiny bullet and danced in the air. He actually kept the can we all shot to shreds.
He was happy that day, as we all were.
I had a handful of rounds in my pocket while I was cleaning the neglected riles the other day, and while I was loathe to reassemble the cleaning rod and start the process again, I just had to drop a few rounds in the magazine, make sure I had a safe backstop, and send a can flying. After all, I had to make sure it worked right, didn’t I?
It had nothing to do with remembering squirrels in the sunrise, rabbits crisscrossing a frosty cut corn field, celebrating with friends on the day after Christmas, or grown men helping a little kid learn to shoot.
Sure. It was just a function check.
It wasn’t a rimfire flight of fancy on a warm fall day.
