ZeSpectre
Member
I posted this a few places in 2010 when my Father passed away. To honor his memory on the two year anniversary I respectfully present this repost.
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Well, that's it, dad's gone.
It was all I could think as I sat there looking at the old (c1968)
Remington 552 Speedmaster sitting on my workbench. It was dad's favorite
"rabbit" gun and the one that was never going to leave his possession
while he was on this earth. It was also the first real firearm I was
ever allowed to handle, the one I learned all the basics on, the one
that made me the terror of the rats out by the feed bins.
Sadly, when dad's emphysema really took hold I think the rifle was also
a reminder of his younger and more vigorous "outdoor" days. Wistful
recollections turned from bittersweet to simply bitter as his body
failed him and he stuffed the wood and steel yardstick of his prime
years into the back of a closet and did his best to forget it.
When we uncovered it during the cleanup we pulled it from the closet to
find that time hadn't been any nicer to dad's guns than it had been to
him. The rifle looked bad enough at first sight, but now that I was
home, the clinical and unforgiving lighting in my workshop revealed all.
The rifle was bone dry and coated with dust and cobwebs. Wiping off the
surface grime revealed a diseased looking finish with a peppering of
rust spots all over the metal. The wood had also sprouted a dusting of
mold. Still, a patch run through the bore revealed a bright shine so, I
thought, maybe there was hope.
The cleanup was tedious and frustrating. Every part disassembled
revealed more rust spots and a ton of rock-hard, dried up, lube and old
powder fouling but I could hear dad's voice saying "well you started the
job, you need to finish it". A lot of time was spent with patches,
brushes, solvents, oil, and steel wool until the ugly warts of rust had
been reduced to mere surface blemishes. The wood was oiled and rubbed
until the manufacturer would have been proud.
Re-assembly was as satisfying as the dis-assembly had been frustrating
with the parts clicking together precisely and the mechanical actions
working smoothly. I stood up to un-kink my back, crabbed by the hours
bent over the workbench, and appreciated the results of my labor. The
metal had a deep glow interspersed with a mottling that gave the gun a
pleasing appearance of honest use. The wood caught the light with a
warm-honey glow, and the smell of clean metal and gunoil were still in
the air. I think dad and I were both smiling at a job well done.
The next morning was clear and very cold as I tramped into the woods
with the restored Remington and a box of .22LR shells. As I "broke
trail" through the deeper snow I could see my dad, all those years ago,
dressed in his red and black hunting jacket and the fur cap with the ear
flaps tied up. He was stepping carefully, his big boots creating a
nearly heel-to-toe trail through the snow that my 10 year old feet could
easily follow. I'd been given the awesome responsibility of actually
carrying the gun (not just the box of shells) and he spent the walk
constantly reminding me to keep the gun pointed in a safe direction and
issuing sharp warnings that "I'd better keep the barrel out of the
damned snow or he'd tan my hide". I smiled as I visualized what my
serious little-child face must have looked like as I labored mightily to
simultaneously keep up the pace and carry the weight of responsibility
along with the weight of the gun.
Finally I arrived at the chosen location and set up a swinging target.
Then I backed up a fair distance, loaded the gun, and prepared to fire.
Suddenly my trigger finger was paralyzed by a flood of internal doubt.
Thoughts clashed in my head "What if shooting this gun wasn't as cool as
I remembered?", "What if the gun was really a worn out piece of scrap
metal?" Did I want to risk shattering the beautiful childhood memories
now clustering all around me?
After another breath to steady myself, I pulled the trigger.
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
I was laughing...with relief? with joy? Yes all that and more as the
little metal spinner twirled. The old Remington was still "cool", it was
still accurate, and after it's long slumber it was ready to play.
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... OOPS, a miss. And there was dad's ghost, beaming but trying
to look serious as he gently chided me on "wasting ammo" and once again
walked me through the steps of breathing and trigger control until I'd
settled back down.
150 rounds later I walked out of the woods side by side with the spirit
of my father. When I got to my parked Jeep I looked back and in my mind
I could see him older, but still healthy, still dressed in that ratty
old hunting jacket, heavy canvas pants and huge rubber boots sniffing
the clean forest air and smiling. It was like he was saying "You go on
boy, I'm gonna walk in the woods for a while".
So I pulled out, me heading my way, him heading his, but I could almost
hear his gruff last words "you make sure you clean that damned gun good
or I'll tan your hide!"
Dedicated to the memory of Frank George Hawley 1940-2010
---------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that's it, dad's gone.
It was all I could think as I sat there looking at the old (c1968)
Remington 552 Speedmaster sitting on my workbench. It was dad's favorite
"rabbit" gun and the one that was never going to leave his possession
while he was on this earth. It was also the first real firearm I was
ever allowed to handle, the one I learned all the basics on, the one
that made me the terror of the rats out by the feed bins.
Sadly, when dad's emphysema really took hold I think the rifle was also
a reminder of his younger and more vigorous "outdoor" days. Wistful
recollections turned from bittersweet to simply bitter as his body
failed him and he stuffed the wood and steel yardstick of his prime
years into the back of a closet and did his best to forget it.
When we uncovered it during the cleanup we pulled it from the closet to
find that time hadn't been any nicer to dad's guns than it had been to
him. The rifle looked bad enough at first sight, but now that I was
home, the clinical and unforgiving lighting in my workshop revealed all.
The rifle was bone dry and coated with dust and cobwebs. Wiping off the
surface grime revealed a diseased looking finish with a peppering of
rust spots all over the metal. The wood had also sprouted a dusting of
mold. Still, a patch run through the bore revealed a bright shine so, I
thought, maybe there was hope.
The cleanup was tedious and frustrating. Every part disassembled
revealed more rust spots and a ton of rock-hard, dried up, lube and old
powder fouling but I could hear dad's voice saying "well you started the
job, you need to finish it". A lot of time was spent with patches,
brushes, solvents, oil, and steel wool until the ugly warts of rust had
been reduced to mere surface blemishes. The wood was oiled and rubbed
until the manufacturer would have been proud.
Re-assembly was as satisfying as the dis-assembly had been frustrating
with the parts clicking together precisely and the mechanical actions
working smoothly. I stood up to un-kink my back, crabbed by the hours
bent over the workbench, and appreciated the results of my labor. The
metal had a deep glow interspersed with a mottling that gave the gun a
pleasing appearance of honest use. The wood caught the light with a
warm-honey glow, and the smell of clean metal and gunoil were still in
the air. I think dad and I were both smiling at a job well done.
The next morning was clear and very cold as I tramped into the woods
with the restored Remington and a box of .22LR shells. As I "broke
trail" through the deeper snow I could see my dad, all those years ago,
dressed in his red and black hunting jacket and the fur cap with the ear
flaps tied up. He was stepping carefully, his big boots creating a
nearly heel-to-toe trail through the snow that my 10 year old feet could
easily follow. I'd been given the awesome responsibility of actually
carrying the gun (not just the box of shells) and he spent the walk
constantly reminding me to keep the gun pointed in a safe direction and
issuing sharp warnings that "I'd better keep the barrel out of the
damned snow or he'd tan my hide". I smiled as I visualized what my
serious little-child face must have looked like as I labored mightily to
simultaneously keep up the pace and carry the weight of responsibility
along with the weight of the gun.
Finally I arrived at the chosen location and set up a swinging target.
Then I backed up a fair distance, loaded the gun, and prepared to fire.
Suddenly my trigger finger was paralyzed by a flood of internal doubt.
Thoughts clashed in my head "What if shooting this gun wasn't as cool as
I remembered?", "What if the gun was really a worn out piece of scrap
metal?" Did I want to risk shattering the beautiful childhood memories
now clustering all around me?
After another breath to steady myself, I pulled the trigger.
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
I was laughing...with relief? with joy? Yes all that and more as the
little metal spinner twirled. The old Remington was still "cool", it was
still accurate, and after it's long slumber it was ready to play.
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... /"TING"/
CRACK!...... OOPS, a miss. And there was dad's ghost, beaming but trying
to look serious as he gently chided me on "wasting ammo" and once again
walked me through the steps of breathing and trigger control until I'd
settled back down.
150 rounds later I walked out of the woods side by side with the spirit
of my father. When I got to my parked Jeep I looked back and in my mind
I could see him older, but still healthy, still dressed in that ratty
old hunting jacket, heavy canvas pants and huge rubber boots sniffing
the clean forest air and smiling. It was like he was saying "You go on
boy, I'm gonna walk in the woods for a while".
So I pulled out, me heading my way, him heading his, but I could almost
hear his gruff last words "you make sure you clean that damned gun good
or I'll tan your hide!"
Dedicated to the memory of Frank George Hawley 1940-2010
