Captain's Corner

My dad taught me everything I know about how to handle a firearm. He taught me how to shoot on an old .22 LR revolver that resembled some old-west shooting iron out of a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood film. He taught me the destructive power of firearms, taught me to respect them and treat them as if they are loaded, even when you’ve double and triple checked the action… There’s not a habit I have when I handle a fire arm that doesn’t stem from time I spent with my dad as a kid… But after the instruction something happened… I sorta lost interest during high school (I mean, there were girls there man!) and I didn’t shoot anything other than rubber bands or water balloons out of a sling shot for many a year… Then I turned 21 and I decided that I needed a handgun in the house, so I bought one off of my brother-in-law, who loved to shoot and owned (at the time) a plethora of handguns and long guns. We spent many a chilly morning at the range, blasting away a small fortune in ammo in nearly every caliber handguns have been chambered in. Occasionally my dad would come along, but usually it was just my brother and me. In fact, I hadn’t been out shooting with my dad for over a decade and a half…

… Until this past Saturday. On a whim after the Media Christmas party, while sitting there unwinding in the living room, I asked my dad if he wanted to head to the range the next morning… He told me he’d see how he felt in the morning. For those of you who don’t know my dad has a terminal illness called Scleroderma. Most people with the disease, which hardens soft tissue, get a localized version which affects only their hands, or face, maybe the esophagus. My father has a progressive and systemic version, sometimes called systemic sclerosis, which affects nearly all of his internal organs. There is no known cure, only treatments that may or may not work, and promise only to lengthen life. But that’s neither here nor there… the point is, sometimes he can’t handle a lot of activity.

So the next day I did what I normally do on Saturday: get up and let the dogs out early so Ann can sleep in, and then try to get caught up on some TV I’ve Tivoed while everyone else sleeps… But this day, everyone got up early. My mom and Ann got up and fixed breakfast for everyone and then my dad asked if we were still planning on going shooting. I said, “Well heck yes!” Dad hopped in the shower and I laid out our toys for the day.

All in all it was fun…  My dad had never shot my Springfield 1911 .45 handgun, and he seemed to enjoy it, noting that it kicks a lot less than one would imagine a .45 ACP would (due in large part to it’s 95 year old design and the fact that it is made of steel and not aluminum), and he enjoyed my Hungarian AK-47, his main comment being that he could see why Ann would like to shoot it (oh and she does!  If you missed it, check out this post on Ann shooting!).

The only disappointment came when we shot the first gun I owned, the one my dad gave me that his dad had given him.  It’s an old British service rifle, an Enfield No. 1 Mk. III made in the Birmingham Small Arms factory in 1918.  Due to it’s date of manufacture it probably never saw action in a World War, as it was made in the last year of WWI, and the No. 1 Mk. III’s were phased out for the more accurate No. 4 Mk. I’s by the time WWII started.  However, it is an amazingly accurate bolt-action rifle (standing and shooting as fast as I can I get 2-3 inch group at 25 yards… at a rest and taking my time @ 100 yards I get the same grouping) and chambered in an amazingly powerful (and hard to find at this point) caliber, the .303 Enfield.  This rifle had been “sporterized” at one point by my grandfather… some of the hardware had been removed, and the wood was cut down so it resembled a normal hunting rifle.  However, I’m a huge military history buff and took the time to restore the Enfield to it’s original-style wood and hardware (keeping the stock my grand-daddy modified, of course).  This was my dad’s first time to shoot the rifle as it would have existed in the British Armory before it came to America… But he couldn’t reach the trigger.  Due to his disease, and the stiffening in his hands, he couldn’t stretch out his finger enough to fire the rifle.  I have more than once considered giving the rifle back to my dad now that I had restored it… but yesterday showed that it was truly mine now in what could only be described as the saddest way possible.

Despite the minor set back we enjoyed the brief time we spent there… I wrapped up the day by practicing with my 1911 (another WWI era designed weapon, though mine was made in 2000).  I shot about 14 rounds in my off-hand (the right) and about 56 in my strong hand (the left for those of you not paying attention).  Turns out if you come in my house at night without my permission… you in big trouble (After all, if I miss you 70 times [I won't], Ann will be there with an AK-47 to take up the slack)!  We packed up, wandered out into the store part of the building, chatted with the old men that always populate gun shops.  The old marine jockeying the register (Semper Fi!) and my dad (himself a sailor during Vietnam) had a good talk about history and whatnot (that they or people they know actually witnessed), and then I paid up and we headed home.

It was such a seemingly innocuous  event… something I do by myself on a fairly regular basis… But this time was different.  This time was special.  This was me getting to share something with my dad that I hadn’t in years.  I had a wonderful time, and I don’t think it really sunk in how special it was until later in the day when I took the time to sit and think about what had happened.  Now I know that I couldn’t have had a better Saturday if I tried.

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