I never met my Great Grandfather. But I own his gun. A model 1892 Winchester lever action in .38/40 caliber.....
My Grandfather, his son, was a dairy farmer in central New York State. I can't think of a harder way to make a living - or a man who loved it more. My Grandfather was something of a conundrum. A devout Catholic, but divorced. He single handedly raised my mother and her sister after my Grandmother left the quiet farm for the bright lights of LA. A small man at 5'-7", yet powerful enough to move a thousand pound holstein out of his way so he could clean her stall. The kindest, gentlest man I ever knew, I never heard him swear, and saw him mad only once, yet he would not tolerate a dog who would not hunt. I suspect several of his beagles looked down the barrel of his 12 gauge after proving their inability to run rabbits. When I was 8, and one of his geese bit me, it became Sunday dinner for our family later that day. Ultimately practical, as any dairy farmer must be.
I grew up on the farm, in a way. I spent summers on the farm from the time I was a young boy. I logged many miles riding on his lap on the John Deere Model B spreading manure, chopping alfalfa, and baling hay. I was a fixture in the barn - shoveling manure, trying to help milk cows, and listening to his constant conversation. My Grandfather was a great talker.
I spent most of my time though, fishing in the pond behind the cow barn. Many perch, sunfish and bullhead fell victim to my red "manure pile" worms. In time, after being been given a box of gaudy wet flies and a copy of "You Can Always Tell A Fisherman" by Corey Ford, I decided I wanted to be a fly fisherman. It is with shame that I admit that I began to spend less time on the farm, and more time chasing girls and drinking beer, as teenage boys do. It was not until I was an adult that I began to spend more time with him, and by this time, the years had begun catching up to him.
The only time in my adult life that I told my Grandfather I loved him was in the summer of 2007. By that time, arthritis and Parkins Disease were catching up with him. At the end of one visit early that summer, I told him "I love you gramp". He just smiled, embarrassed, I'm sure, by the display of emotion, and knowing, in the country way, that although the words were not spoken, they were felt most deeply.
My Grandfather had a stroke in July of 2007. I rushed from work to the hospital, where I was shocked to see a man who was never at a loss for words, struggle to speak, obviously frustrated at searching for, and not finding words.
In May of that year, apparently sensing that his sojurn upon this earth was nearly complete, he told my mother "I want Jamie to have my fathers gun. He's the only one of my grandsons who hunt. I shot my first deer, in the Adirondacks, with that gun. Make sure Jamie gets my fathers gun".
My Grandfather died on July 31, 2007.
The gun has rested in my gun cabinet since then. Sighted down and held often, the action worked. Smooth as the day it was made by Yankee hands. It came to me with a box of ancient .38/40 shells, one of which soon will whistle through the air as it was meant to do. As it was intended for me to do......
My Grandfather, his son, was a dairy farmer in central New York State. I can't think of a harder way to make a living - or a man who loved it more. My Grandfather was something of a conundrum. A devout Catholic, but divorced. He single handedly raised my mother and her sister after my Grandmother left the quiet farm for the bright lights of LA. A small man at 5'-7", yet powerful enough to move a thousand pound holstein out of his way so he could clean her stall. The kindest, gentlest man I ever knew, I never heard him swear, and saw him mad only once, yet he would not tolerate a dog who would not hunt. I suspect several of his beagles looked down the barrel of his 12 gauge after proving their inability to run rabbits. When I was 8, and one of his geese bit me, it became Sunday dinner for our family later that day. Ultimately practical, as any dairy farmer must be.
I grew up on the farm, in a way. I spent summers on the farm from the time I was a young boy. I logged many miles riding on his lap on the John Deere Model B spreading manure, chopping alfalfa, and baling hay. I was a fixture in the barn - shoveling manure, trying to help milk cows, and listening to his constant conversation. My Grandfather was a great talker.
I spent most of my time though, fishing in the pond behind the cow barn. Many perch, sunfish and bullhead fell victim to my red "manure pile" worms. In time, after being been given a box of gaudy wet flies and a copy of "You Can Always Tell A Fisherman" by Corey Ford, I decided I wanted to be a fly fisherman. It is with shame that I admit that I began to spend less time on the farm, and more time chasing girls and drinking beer, as teenage boys do. It was not until I was an adult that I began to spend more time with him, and by this time, the years had begun catching up to him.
The only time in my adult life that I told my Grandfather I loved him was in the summer of 2007. By that time, arthritis and Parkins Disease were catching up with him. At the end of one visit early that summer, I told him "I love you gramp". He just smiled, embarrassed, I'm sure, by the display of emotion, and knowing, in the country way, that although the words were not spoken, they were felt most deeply.
My Grandfather had a stroke in July of 2007. I rushed from work to the hospital, where I was shocked to see a man who was never at a loss for words, struggle to speak, obviously frustrated at searching for, and not finding words.
In May of that year, apparently sensing that his sojurn upon this earth was nearly complete, he told my mother "I want Jamie to have my fathers gun. He's the only one of my grandsons who hunt. I shot my first deer, in the Adirondacks, with that gun. Make sure Jamie gets my fathers gun".
My Grandfather died on July 31, 2007.
The gun has rested in my gun cabinet since then. Sighted down and held often, the action worked. Smooth as the day it was made by Yankee hands. It came to me with a box of ancient .38/40 shells, one of which soon will whistle through the air as it was meant to do. As it was intended for me to do......
