A Gun Experience

I’m not sure what the tipping point was for me to begin my search for a gun. When did I get to the point of decisive action? What was I thinking? Who really knows? I do know however that it began with my move to Oregon and subsequent introduction to James. I remember I once told him that I almost felt bad owning one, that is was practically inconceivable that at some point in my life I would own a gun, a weapon as my mom would refer to it. But I also remember James telling me that there was no reason to feel bad about wanting to go out and buy one, after all, it wasn’t illegal to own a gun and when handled properly and safely a gun could be thought not of as a weapon, but rather a tool for accomplishing a variety of tasks from hunting to sport shooting to just plain good ole’ no point fun. And so, with a little encouragement and the idea firmly cemented in my brain, I set off to pursue this forbidden fruit, without any real knowledge that the pursuit would change my life.

Months went by and finally it was time. When I arrived at the store I already knew what I wanted, a Remington 870, 12 gauge, 26 inch barrel with a laminate stock. The gun that no matter who you talk to is indefinitely the gun that more guys and gals have slung through the nastiest muck, dropped off the tailgate, and failed to clean for months on end, yet was as sure to fire as the sun is to rise. And someday, when that gun is old and worn, there may come a day when that gun doesn’t fire, but that day will come long after we have passed on from this world and far beyond its practical use.

I had called the clerk earlier that day and he confirmed he had one in stock. As soon as I heard the good news James and I were on our way. When I got the store I had a singular focus. I brushed right by the hunting knives, pushed aside the latest hunting apparel, pulled my number from that machine and waited for them to call my number. Strange I thought, here I am, a kid who grew up in a society where guns were not the norm, a kid who only years ago had never given any thought to actually hunting, and here I am about to buy my first gun…strange indeed.

Soon it came, my number was called. I approached the clerk, the same gentleman I had talked to on the phone earlier that day and he stepped into the back and brought out the box. I wasn’t sure how to feel but the second he opened it up I felt more excited than ever. I had gone for the laminate stock because I wanted the wood. The synthetics have their purpose, and there’s no doubting that, but for me, the wood symbolized everything that came to mind about generations past; strong, vibrant, colorful, and tough. I picked it up and eyed it over. Wow, “Am I about to do this?” I thought. Then, before I knew it, the checks were complete and the money exchanged. What I’ll always remember, perhaps more clearly than anything else, was putting that shotgun in the back of James’s old Jeep and heading home. I couldn’t stop looking at the box. I was so excited. My first gun.

That day was a little over a year and a half ago. How much I’ve learned. Before I bought the shotgun, guns were something so incredibly foreign to me. For many out there, and especially here in Oregon, guns are a part of life growing up. For them, it’s almost second nature to own a gun, to carry one in the truck and pick off the occasional coyote on the way home from work. But for me, it was entirely new. It took some time and patience but eventually it became natural. I now head out to bird hunt and after endless nights sitting in my room, shouldering the gun; it’s become second nature. It really all comes together that first time you shoot a bird and watch it drop. You almost don’t even realize that the motion, the feel of the gun, the movement of your head and hands, is now practically instinctual.

Owning a gun is an experience. From the purchase to the field and back home to cleaning, the gun becomes a part of your life. James once told me that he loved the smell of gun oil. I won’t lie I thought he was a little crazy when he told me that but as I look at where I am today, I can see how then and now he was right on the mark. After you return home from a few days out on a hunt you place towels down on the table, line out your cleaning equipment, and begin the methodical process of wiping away the grit and grim. The pieces aren’t random; they all serve a purpose and deserve attention. As you reassemble the gun you place each part together, trying to avoid getting your prints on the inner pieces. After a quick test fire you admire your handy work and put the gun away in the corner. The smell of oil now soaks your hands and permeates the air around you. “I love the smell of gun oil”, he said. What a peculiar statement. Little did I know then how appropriate and how much that statement truly encompassed.