Yellow shells

In the beginning there were reds, greens, blacks, blues and even an occasional purple. Whatever was in the box, and often whatever was cheapest.

There was one gun in the closet, a 12 gauge, and it served its purpose well. Anything with wings got the business end of it. The pump action never jammed and I lugged it through fields and swamps and woods and prairies through all seasons. We were inseparable.

And then came the lure of two barrels. Too many magazine articles, too many pictures of a man and his dog and his gun and that gun wasn't a pump action 12 gauge. For some reason I just had to have one, couldn't possibly be complete without one.

So pennies got socked away until a decent Browning came into the picture, a lighter gun than the 12 which seemed like a fringe benefit at the time. Part by chance and part by design this smaller gun took only one color.

Over a period of years it became the gun that gets the call on nearly every outing. It was lighter, easier to tote all day, and when a shooting slump came along it emerged as the franchise player. Ducks and turkeys, on the rare occasions they are the main event, still demand the bigger stick. But for all else the pockets are filled with those yellow shells.

And now we are, for the most part, inseparable, although I've heard that once you try a 28 you'll never be the same.

Touching the past

About ten years ago I opened a Christmas gift from my parents that I thought was a picture frame. Actually it was a picture frame made of old gray barn wood with shotshell brass pressed into the four corners, holding a black and white photo of some bearded guy clutching a hammer gun and a dog in his lap, one of those theme photos that come with the frame.

And then came the head fake - it wasn't the frame that was the present, it was the picture. This stoic gentleman is my great, great grandfather, William Richard Coleman II, and for the curious we look nothing alike. I don't know much more about him other than he had seven children and died short of his 38th birthday, neither of which was abnormal for the times and both of which seem downright tragic today.  He lived in rural eastern North Carolina near the Virginia border, at least a good day's ride to Raleigh by horse. I have no idea what he chased with that gun and dog. Probably whatever could be cleaned and eaten.

Every time I looked at the picture over the years the one thing I agonized over was the fate of that gun. How cool it would have been if it survived the generations. Furniture and cufflinks are fine heirlooms, but guns are beyond sentimental to a sportsman. They're far more than a possession being passed down. In reality, I knew this particular gun was probably sold, and sold cheap, soon after his death to feed or clothe those seven kids.

My dad has been on a family genealogy kick during his retirement and he's filled in quite a few branches on the family tree. On 9/11 he and my mom were in the air over Utah when the shit hit the fan and, grounded in Salt Lake City, he spent the next three days making lemonade so to speak at the Family History Library, access point to the Mormon geneological database. Such is his commitment to getting it all on paper.

Back in the spring he was visiting a distant cousin just north of where he and mom live, taking pictures at family graveyards and filling in a few more blanks. In the course of the conversation the cousin reaches above a door and pulls down the gun, THE gun. Dad called that night to give me the news and the emotion was similar to finding a $20 bill in your pocket, x70.

Last month when I picked up the kids from their visit with Gran and Pop I made sure we scheduled a trip to see this piece of my past. The gun is in remarkably good condition considering its age and journey; a double barrel, black powder gun, lacking any distinguishing labels outside of a gold inlaid "Fine Steel Barrels" inscription on the rib.

Curious about the maker and any other relevant details, I contacted Gregg Elliott at Dogs and Doubles to see if we could put a name with the face. We hit a bit of a dead end. Gregg said it looks like a British or Belgian percussion gun, a workhorse in its day because of low cost and reliability. Thousands of these guns were made by craftsmen subcontracted by "makers", what today would be considered private labels, in Birmingham and Leige, the centers of this trade. Makes me smile to think that this gun could have come to life in anonymity overseas, between sips of scotch or ale, in someone's basement workshop.

Likely the only way I'll ever know more about this piece is through someone who owns an identical model and knows its story, so I'll toss it out there that if anyone reading this can add to Gregg's ID, by all means speak up.

The gun is at least 140 years old and likely saw its last load long before I was born. I was disappointed when I couldn't find a way to break open a breech and drop in a shell. Blackpowder spooks me. Blackpowder in 140 year old guns terrifies me. When Dad told me the gun was still in the family I imagined - queue the dream sequence - dropping a double on a covey rise while my companions marveled at the proficiency of both shooter and weapon.

Given the value I place on my eyes and the rest of my head this scene will remain in the fiction file, but I did make my intentions known regarding the future of this firearm. Hopefully it survives at least a few more generations in the family.

Ritual

Everyone has a mental milestone for clicking off the years.  Some keep track of birthdays, some check off holidays, kids mostly count the summers.  They're really just checkmarks in your brain, 15 seconds worth of  "Yep, I made it through another one."    As the old saying goes, every birthday is a good one.

Mine seem to roll over when I sit down at the end of the season to clean my guns.  They get a good scrubbin' and oilin' sometime in March, the 870 might get a bonus round if I pull the trigger during turkey season.  I guess some folks consider it a chore, at least from the looks of their guns.  I can't imagine it.  A gun will last several lifetimes if you just take a little care of it.  It will talk to the next generation.

There's the argument that a gun is not meant to sit on a rack and look pretty, it's meant to dispatch prey, and yeah, I guess it is.  As long as you can get new shells in and old shells out with relative ease the rest is irrelevant.  I suppose.  But it sorta becomes disposable under that train of thought.  Scratches and dings from hard use are fine, the untold stories that guns carry from generation to generation.  Rust from neglect isn't.

Okay, back on track....

Swimming in the vapors of Hoppe's No. 9 I noted that I'd put another one in the books.  It wasn't exactly one for the ages but in any number of ways it could've been worse.  If anything it served to jolt me into the reality of my priorities, slave that I am to some of them.  The year I owned my first bird dog I hunted every single weekend of the season, several holidays, and threw in a few weekdays for gravy.  Of course at that point in time I had no mortgage, no girlfriend, definitely no kids, a job that I just assumed would always be there, and retirement was a word for old people.  We found a lot of birds that year.

That bird dog is gone.  The shotgun is still with me and I've added one to the roster.  I've owned two houses, held three jobs, found a good wife, spawned two kids, discovered the first gray hair, learned a few hard things about retirement, started thinking about college again (not for me, although I did enjoy Old School), and had aches and pains too numerous to list.  But in the end I'm still here, cleaning these guns one more time.

Free Boone & Crockett membership

The folks at the Boone & Crockett Club in partnership with Hornady ammunition are working hard to spread the word about current attempts to ban all lead in hunting and fishing.  While there are readily available alternatives in both sports the
uncomfortable fact is that they are more expensive, in some cases ridiculously so.  If such a ban were implemented I'd have to take out a loan to go dove hunting.

The animal rights activists masquerading as environmentalists have their work cut out for them given that there is no scientific evidence to support a blanket ban on lead in any activities where it is not currently prohibited (waterfowling).  That hasn't stopped them from lobbing lawsuits at every government agency in arm's reach, however, the latest target being the EPA.  Imagine that.  What goes around comes around, I guess. 




What you as a wingshooter can do is contact your representatives in Washington and voice your support for S.838, the Hunting, Fishing, and Recreational Shooting Protection Act. You can read a summary or the full text of the legislation here.  The short version is that the Act clarifies the EPA's jurisdiction over certain sporting goods, conveniently excluding lead ammunition and fishing tackle from their authority.

In appreciation for your support and for taking the time to learn more about the issues at stake, B & C and Hornady are offering one lucky reader a free Boone & Crockett Club Associate Membership.  Leave a comment below and you're automatically entered.  Wit and wisdom are always appreciated but given that this will be a random drawing these won't earn you any favors with the selection panel, which incidentally is composed of my four year old and my six year old, neither of whom has any idea how to rig a drawing anyway.  Drawing will be held just prior to bedtime on Monday, October 24th.