My family has always valued weapons, and guns in particular. Guns and other weapons have always been given a special respect - and place in my family.
Me and my sister was trained to operate a gun, and a bow, and to appreciate the value of a good knife, as early in my life as I can remember.
When my sister and I turned six years old, we both were presented with a single shot 410 shotguns, with a shortened stock to accommodate a smaller person or child. I still have the one that I was given, and I have no knowledge of what happened to my sisters gun after her death.
I was presented with a bow on, what I believe, was my 10th birthday. I still have that bow today.
But in my family guns weren’t seen as mere objects. Each weapon carried with it, a part of the credit of each kill that was made with that particular weapon. The history of each bow and gun and knife too, was passed on and retold each time someone used that weapon. They were mostly “remember when” type stories, Like “remember when Kelly shot that turkey that was coming up the trail there in Hamilton, that was the gun she used“. Or the “I remember when Mike shot that “whatever” with that gun, there at that “place“’.
All this sounds rather like “Quest for fire” but it’s not like that at all. The retelling of the history of a gun, bow or knife was in part praise of the quality of that weapon, or the praise of someone‘s skill at using it. Or how easily it was used, and partly the story of a particular hunt or kill. And I know what your thinking, a bunch of “cave men“, or “frontiersmen” huddled around a campfire spinning yarns about stalking a dangerous animal. Far from the truth. Remember that my parents were medical professionals, and we lived a fairly average upper middle class lifestyle.
These stories were usually told before a hunt or during the preparation for an extended camping hunt. Mostly at my paternal grandmother’s house, and usually during the holidays. Occasionally during the holidays at my mother’s grandparents house.
We made a traditions of hunting as a part of the holiday celebration. Thanksgiving was usually bird hunting, dove, quail, or turkey, sometimes duck. Christmas was bird or Deer. Easter was small game Squirrel or Rabbit.
Extended hunting trips were planned hunts for larger game, Pig or Deer, Elk, sometimes Turkey, and occasionally Dove, once even Bear. Rarely did I hunt with family members other than my father or sister, occasionally with my mother‘s brother or Grandfather (my great grandfather).
My father’s favorite hunting partner for these kinds of hunts were usually a family friend from Ft. Worth, and occasionally some of his other close acquaintances. (I don’t have their permission to publish their names, so, family friends will have to do for now.)
I own a large number of guns, even for my family. I have quite an arsenal of weapons and ammo. I inherited about half of what I own from my father. And even though I was not able to secure all of his weapons before his estate was looted, I do have the bulk of his weapons. Most he gave to me for safe-keeping, long before his death.
In the late 1990‘s, he became paranoid about his weapons, not about owning them but about keeping them safe. He suffered a burglary a few years before his death, where a fair number of his guns were stolen. I owned and still own, a gun safe large enough for his remaining weapons, so I became the keeper of the arms. He only kept his personal weapons with him, as he did always. Pop usually carried a gun on him, or in his car.
Each weapon that I own is very special to me, because my father is gone now, each one of these weapons now carries the memory of him. And I could never part with any of the guns, bows, or knives that I now own, simply because of the memories of my father using each one of them, but partly out of family tradition. My father’s philosophy was that the acquisition of a particular weapon was very hard and expensive, therefore a weapon should never be sold.
He occasionally traded one, for something better, but that was very - very rare. And only if he thought the weapon had some kind of flaw, or he simply disliked the weapon for what ever reason.
Now that I’m older and most of my family are gone, I’m no longer able to get out and hunt like I once did. 9/11 changed things considerably. And my health usually doesn’t permit long walks in the woods with a weapon much anymore. Something I lament often, but especially during the holidays.
Me and my sister was trained to operate a gun, and a bow, and to appreciate the value of a good knife, as early in my life as I can remember.
When my sister and I turned six years old, we both were presented with a single shot 410 shotguns, with a shortened stock to accommodate a smaller person or child. I still have the one that I was given, and I have no knowledge of what happened to my sisters gun after her death.
I was presented with a bow on, what I believe, was my 10th birthday. I still have that bow today.
But in my family guns weren’t seen as mere objects. Each weapon carried with it, a part of the credit of each kill that was made with that particular weapon. The history of each bow and gun and knife too, was passed on and retold each time someone used that weapon. They were mostly “remember when” type stories, Like “remember when Kelly shot that turkey that was coming up the trail there in Hamilton, that was the gun she used“. Or the “I remember when Mike shot that “whatever” with that gun, there at that “place“’.
All this sounds rather like “Quest for fire” but it’s not like that at all. The retelling of the history of a gun, bow or knife was in part praise of the quality of that weapon, or the praise of someone‘s skill at using it. Or how easily it was used, and partly the story of a particular hunt or kill. And I know what your thinking, a bunch of “cave men“, or “frontiersmen” huddled around a campfire spinning yarns about stalking a dangerous animal. Far from the truth. Remember that my parents were medical professionals, and we lived a fairly average upper middle class lifestyle.
These stories were usually told before a hunt or during the preparation for an extended camping hunt. Mostly at my paternal grandmother’s house, and usually during the holidays. Occasionally during the holidays at my mother’s grandparents house.
We made a traditions of hunting as a part of the holiday celebration. Thanksgiving was usually bird hunting, dove, quail, or turkey, sometimes duck. Christmas was bird or Deer. Easter was small game Squirrel or Rabbit.
Extended hunting trips were planned hunts for larger game, Pig or Deer, Elk, sometimes Turkey, and occasionally Dove, once even Bear. Rarely did I hunt with family members other than my father or sister, occasionally with my mother‘s brother or Grandfather (my great grandfather).
My father’s favorite hunting partner for these kinds of hunts were usually a family friend from Ft. Worth, and occasionally some of his other close acquaintances. (I don’t have their permission to publish their names, so, family friends will have to do for now.)
I own a large number of guns, even for my family. I have quite an arsenal of weapons and ammo. I inherited about half of what I own from my father. And even though I was not able to secure all of his weapons before his estate was looted, I do have the bulk of his weapons. Most he gave to me for safe-keeping, long before his death.
In the late 1990‘s, he became paranoid about his weapons, not about owning them but about keeping them safe. He suffered a burglary a few years before his death, where a fair number of his guns were stolen. I owned and still own, a gun safe large enough for his remaining weapons, so I became the keeper of the arms. He only kept his personal weapons with him, as he did always. Pop usually carried a gun on him, or in his car.
Each weapon that I own is very special to me, because my father is gone now, each one of these weapons now carries the memory of him. And I could never part with any of the guns, bows, or knives that I now own, simply because of the memories of my father using each one of them, but partly out of family tradition. My father’s philosophy was that the acquisition of a particular weapon was very hard and expensive, therefore a weapon should never be sold.
He occasionally traded one, for something better, but that was very - very rare. And only if he thought the weapon had some kind of flaw, or he simply disliked the weapon for what ever reason.
Now that I’m older and most of my family are gone, I’m no longer able to get out and hunt like I once did. 9/11 changed things considerably. And my health usually doesn’t permit long walks in the woods with a weapon much anymore. Something I lament often, but especially during the holidays.
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