July 11, 2007
Originally published April 14, 2003
I have to attend a two-day training seminar starting tomorrow, so I finished my state taxes, figured out how to utilize the new printer/copier/scanner I bought two weeks ago and made copies of everything. I made more copies than I needed just because I think my printer is really neat. THAT'S a cool piece of office equipment for $100.
I have all my tax shit in one sock so that I can drop it off at the post office tomorrow morning on the way to class. I really don't like to wait to the last minute in most things I do, but paying my taxes is different. I would just as soon not do it at all. I owe the Feds $40, but I'm getting $360 back from the state (I always underwithold from those thieves. They can't be trusted.) That's more than enough to pay for the derringer I'm buying tomorrow. In fact, I think I'm going to see if Mack has a nice target pistol to go along with it, or I might ask for something very few people will understand.
I want a single-shot, bolt-action .22 rifle, just for nostalgia's sake. That's the first kind of gun my daddy ever let me shoot, and when I became proficient with it, and could handle it safely, he let me go off into the woods with it all by myself.
If you've never gone down to the riverbank with a single-shot .22 and pocketsfull of bullets, then searched through the trash people threw down there to select light bulbs, Miller pony bottles and Barbie-Doll heads, then set those targets up on a fallen oak-trunk and picked 'em off one at a time, you haven't lived. Especially after you had to operate the bolt and stick another bullet in the breech after every shot.
And if you never turned around and plugged fiddler crabs in the marsh mud after that, you damn sure weren't a Southern boy. At least not from South Georgia. Fiddler crabs were small targets and they MOVED! You had to be a good shot to hit them, one shot at a time. That one shot at a time thing wouldn't be a bad idea for Quinton right now.
That stuff teaches you the discipline to make every shot count. It slows life down enough that father and son can communicate better. I want a single-shot, bolt-action .22. I want it because it was a part of my youth, and I want it because my son doesn't need sixteen rounds in a rifle. If I leave him alone with that Marlin, he'll be shooting from the hip as fast as he can pull the trigger like some character on a video game and hiting nothing because he won't know how to aim.
I want a young BOY'S GUN. I want it for for me, but for MY BOY, too. If Mack doesn't have one, he can order it for me. But I remember seeing TWO old ones when I picked out the derringer. I'll bet that he hasn't sold them both.
I'll bring one home tomorrow.
All content © Rob Smith